About noon thePetit Parisienreaches Bucy. The reading of the communiqué and the dispatches gives us to understand how impossible it is to foresee the end of the war. Six months ... a year.... Such are the hypotheses we once laughed at, though now they appear logical enough. At bottom, we believe there will happen something unexpected and formidable which will bring victory and peace....
Then we begin to discuss matters. Since all six of us are bound by the ties of true friendship,there is nothing upon which we are of one mind: Varlet, a working electrician, who has often found it difficult to make ends meet, considers that everything is not for the best in the best of all societies. Maxence, with a stake in the land, regards Varlet as a dangerous customer. Jacquard, who is in the hosiery business, is a well-balanced individual, very optimistic, who reads between the lines of every dispatch the coming entry of the Russians into Berlin, and the complete exhaustion of Germany. Verrier is a moderate and restrained sort of fellow. He says: "I am just going to sleep a little," or "eat a little," or "wash myself a little." Always "a little." We call him: "not too much," or sometimesVerrierus tristis, the silent. He forms an interesting contrast to the exuberant Reymond.
Mother Achain and her little daughter, their heads enveloped in black kerchiefs and their hands clasped on their knees, smile quietly as they watch us bawl and gesticulate. Father Achain, in the darkest recess of the room, between fireplace and bed, is everlastingly drawing away at a pipe that has gone out. From time to time he walks to the door and stands there for a while. On returning, he says—
"There's some heavy firing going on above the Gué-Brûlé."
Saturday, 12th December.
Bad news from Russia....
At six in the evening we return to the trenches.Whilst marching along, our company crosses some light infantry.
"Hullo!" they say, "here come the foot-soldiers."
And what scorn they would convey by the word "foot-soldiers!"
Well, and what are they themselves, after all?
Sunday, 13th December.
The whole day is spent in the grotto. It rains so heavily that fatigue duty is suppressed. We are all either sitting or sprawling on the ground, engaged in reading, writing, or eating by the light of a few candles. A practical joke, repeated again and again, and of which we never tire, consists in taking aim at some one intently reading a letter or a book, and hurling at his candle a shoe, a loaf, or agamelle. Sometimes a nose is hit instead of the candle. Thereupon huge guffaws ensue. Varlet, who considers that I am in a sad mood this evening, cannot resist the temptation of taking me by the feet and dragging me on my back three times round the room. I laugh heartily. Then we both crawl about on all-fours, look in the chopped straw for my pipe, tobacco-pouch, knife, and the small change that has dropped from my pocket.
Another distraction: we have to carry from the grotto to the first-line trenches great rolls of barbed wire, as wide as a barrel and several yards in length. The things are most difficultto handle. On reaching the outposts, we hoist them over the parapet.
Henriot and Milliard, having fastened up the letters and parcels in bags, place these bags on to a barrow and mount to the trenches. The ascent is steep, and the barrow sticks in the mud. From afar we see our two friends climbing the hill. Some one shouts out—
"Letters!"
Thereupon there is a rush in the direction of the postman. A dozen men are now wheeling the barrow along. Then come the questions—
"Is there a letter for me? Tell me if my parcel has arrived?"
If the answer is in the affirmative—
"Quick, give it to me; hurry up!"
Then the distribution takes place very speedily, for Milliard never gets in a temper. We enter the grotto, and at the foot of one of the great pillars supporting the vault Milliard attends to his business. His silhouette and those of the men around show up black against the background of light formed by the opening of the grotto. A dismal-looking tree, standing on a rising ground, exhibits its leafless branches.
When the weather is fine the distribution takes place outside skirting the wood, whose leaves we have seen first turn yellow and then fall to the ground....
Milliard says—
"Don't crowd around; you shall all be served in turn!"
We group around him.
"Now for the parcels!" Milliard calls out the names.
"Present! Here!"
The parcel flies above our heads in the direction of the answer.
Monday, 14th December.
We are now in the first line, sometimes keeping a watch over the field of beetroots, sometimes, pick or shovel in hand, digging and clearing away.
The entire plain is furrowed with a vast network of fortifications. The Germans construct listening posts eighty yards distant from our own. In a few more weeks the wires will be touching one another.
From our front lines project antennæ or feelers, portions of trench driven as near as possible to the enemy, and connected with the main trench by a deep zigzag branch.
For sheltering purposes we build small huts somewhat resembling those in which the bodies were deposited in the catacombs. Here the men keep themselves dry, at all events. A couple of tent canvasses unfolded in front of the opening are a protection from the cold, and enable one to light a candle without making oneself a target for the enemy.
During the night, over a sector of one kilometre, there are fired on an average a thousand rifle shots which neither kill nor wound a single man. The object of this fusillade is simply toprevent the patrols from moving to and fro between the lines.
Tuesday, 15th December.
For some days past I have been feeling shaky. Really I shall have to go to the hospital. The day sergeant passes through the trenches and calls out—
"Any one ill to-day?"
"Yes, I am."
He writes down my name.
"Is that all? Come, now, there must be some one else. Is any one tired belonging to the 24th?"
He goes from squadron to squadron picking up those who are sick.
Fivepoilusgive themselves up. As a matter of fact, it is not very pleasant to report yourself ill in the first line. You have first to make your way through the branches, then go down to Bucy along a road that is being bombarded, and finally return to where you started unless the major gives his verdict that you are to be "exempt from trench service."
At the top of the village, alongside a small hill, a temporary hospital has been fitted up in a rather fine-looking house, abandoned by its owners at the time of the offensive of von Kluck. The lawns are ornamented with statues.
In the centre of the yard patients await the hour of the doctor's visit. Few serious cases; chiefly the wan expressions and dejected looks of tired men.
Here comes the major. He has just finished breakfast with the colonel, who is staying at the château opposite. He is from the Vosges—young-looking and slim, average height, of ruddy complexion, with a rough voice and dark, piercing eyes. As each man awaits his turn he questions the attendants—
"Is the major in good humour this morning?"
The examination begins. The patients enter in batches of ten. They disrobe in a corner, jostling and being jostled by their neighbours. They run a great risk of never seeing their clothes again, for these latter are deposited along the wall, and speedily become trampled about the floor.
The major sits in front of a table, near the window. He spends half a minute with each man.
Sometimes a man has a variety of ailments. He suffers all over: head and loins, liver and heart and feet.
"Clear out at once!" exclaims the major.
Those who come from rural districts all complain of the stomach, an organ which is just as likely to represent to their minds the bronchi as the intestines. The doctor accordingly asks—
"Which stomach? The one that eats or the one that breathes?"
Every one receives his deserts. The genuine cases are "exempt from trench service"; those who are war-worn and tired out are exempted from some particular duty. As for the rest, the major writes opposite their names on the sergeant's card the words,Visite motivée, a cabalistic formulaimplying that there was no reason whatsoever why they should have come up for examination.
Things are carried on just the same as in barracks; the same tricks are employed. The other day Jules unhesitatingly placed on the stove the thermometer which the attendant had put in his armpit. The mercury rose to 430 Centigrade! The doctor nearly had a fit. Jules is still outside the hospital walls.
At the exit those officially recognized as ill appear with radiant faces; those who have met with a snubbing and are declared to be well have drawn features and generally the air of a man at death's door.
Opposite my name the major has written, "To be kept in hospital." I look as though I had won the first prize in a lottery, and already feel considerably better.
The attendants carry me off to their room, a regular paradise. A 105 shell has fallen right on the staircase, reducing everything to matchwood on its way, but the rest of the place is intact: beds, a large fire, a good table, lamps. We play at cards, smoke, chat, do anything to kill time. Outside, for a change, the rain falls harder than ever.
CHAPTER X
BOMBARDMENTS
Thursday, 17th December.
I leave the hospital and make my way to the Achains' to wait for my five mates, who at nightfall will come down from the trenches with the rest of the company. I lay the cover: heavy plates with pieces broken off, tin forks and spoons, thick glasses. No knives; each man must supply his own.
Here they come at last.... What a state they are in! Mud from head to foot. Quick with their letters, slippers, and something to eat. We stay up late, chatting by the fireside.
Friday, 18th December.
This evening the section is on guard at the Montagne farm, but Reymond, momentarily requisitioned for some design work at the commander's bureau, remains at Bucy; I also stay behind, having just left the hospital.
This Montagne farm is anything but a pleasant spot. Yesterday another light infantryman was carried away with his head shattered by a 150-gun shell.
Our friends start at four. We should be glad to see them back again already.
"Now, be careful. No nonsense, remember!"
Atête-à-têtedinner, a very quiet affair, after which we lie down on our beds.
"How comfortable!"
Yes, indeed, this is the real thing. We might almost imagine ourselves back in civil life!
The low-roofed room, which receives air and light only by way of the door, was evidently white-washed long ago. There are spiders' webs in every corner. The floor consists of beaten earth. The walls are bare except for two chromos—Nicholas II and Félix Faure—just visible beneath fly-stained glasses. The beds take up almost the entire space available. We sleep right through the night and late into the next morning. The hours spent in profound slumber represent so much gained from the war.
Saturday, 19th December.
Yesterday we were right in feeling anxious about our friends. From daybreak onwards the farm has been bombarded over our heads. The shells roar with varying intensity as they pass, according to their size. The little ten-year-old girl, skipping about the yard in hersabots, hums out—
"There! That's a 210 at least, and this one a 105. Oh, that little one's but a 77!"
A loud crash, however, sends her flying into the cellar. When she comes up again she tremblinglyclutches her mother's skirt. Madame Achain gives her a good shaking.
"What's the matter with you, little stupid?"
"Oh, I'm frightened of the shells!"
"A fine tale, indeed! Look at thesemessieurs, are they frightened?"
Thesemessieurs, quietly seated, affect an impassive attitude, to reassure the child.
About three o'clock a lull. We walk over to visit the hospital attendants. A hearty welcome, cups of tea, every one very polite. A couple of armchairs are provided for us by the fireplace. We are treated like lords of a manor.
The Germans are now firing upon Vénizel, some distance farther away. The petrol works seem to be in flames. Our hosts invite us to view the spectacle from the second floor. It is hazy, however, and nothing can be distinguished except a dense cloud of yellowish smoke on the other bank of the Aisne.
"Really, you have no luck at all!" exclaim the attendants; "generally we can make out Vénizel as distinctly as though we were in the town itself."
Soissons also is being violently bombarded.
At night our friends return from the Montagne farm. Varlet affirms—
"We were awfully sorry for you. You missed themarmitesfalling all about your ears."
A couple of projectiles, it seems, had fallen right on to the cattle-shed; a shrapnel had crashed through the dormer-window of the stable wherethe squadron lay stretched on the ground, and riddled the door with bullets. The section had to take refuge in the grotto-like sheep-fold in the midst of the sheep, now bleating louder than ever.
Sunday, 20th December.
The hours pass very slowly. This morning, for a couple of hours, we had to return to the trenches, to clear away the earth and make them deeper, and so counteract the ravages of the rain.
Back in Bucy, each of us settles down in a corner with a book or newspaper. During the past few days we have resumed a liking for printed characters. People may send us books, no matter on what subject, if only they will help to pass the time. Whatever takes the poor soldier out of a purely animal life to some extent is welcome.
Another shower of projectiles on Bucy. The windows shake and the little girl begins to cry. Madame Achain sighs.
"Do the savages want to demolish our house?"
Suddenly there is a lull. Why does a bombardment begin? Why does it stop? A mystery: the designs of gunners are inscrutable.
Girard, a hospital attendant, pays us a return visit. We thank him for his kind intentions.
"Oh, it's nothing at all," he says.
Is Bucy to become a society rendez-vous? Girard, who just misses falling as he seats himself on a tottering chair, remarks cheerfully—
"What nice quarters you have here!"
Madame Achain is flattered; so are we.
The village streets are strewn with sulphur from to-day's shells. A hayrick has been set on fire and a horse killed close to Madame Maillard's.
Varlet takes me to see this Madame Maillard. Arm in arm we pass along the main street. Right and left ruined and disembowelled houses alternate with buildings almost or wholly intact.
Poor village! Last September it was a pretty little market-town, like many another on the banks of the Aisne, where the houses have a style distinctively their own. The white stone doorways and flights of steps, the violet slate roofs of Champagne and the Ile-de-France, match the staircase gables of neighbouring Flanders. Now the bright, cheerful houses are dilapidated and shattered; the tax-collector's house is empty, so is the baker's. Nor has the church been spared; the recent cannonade has added to the former ruin and desolation.
The civilians, too, are away. We talk to those who have stayed, and daily make progress in the dialect of the place. We know thatce ch'tiot ilameans "this little boy," as we have already discovered that parents and grandparents call themselvestayonsandratayons. Brave civilians! No one ever mentions them. Now, this isn't right. Not only have they seen the young ones leave for the front, not only do they live through the horrors of war, but many of them have relations in neighbouring villages occupied by the enemy. Scarcely any are left except women and old men. The latter have passed through 1870; they give theirreasons for their present confidence in the result of the war and tell of the miseries of former days.
On the town hall square are drawn up the carriages of the regimental train. Opposite are two ruined hovels and a farm, the roof of which has fallen in, a yard strewn with debris, now the playground of dogs and cats, ducks and hens. Between two calcined pieces of wall stands Madame Maillard's little house. We knock at the door.
"Come in!"
We now find ourselves in one of the gayest corners of Bucy; a very select place, moreover, to which one can only gain admittance by introduction. Here Milliard the postman is the oracle, along with Henriot, his acolyte. Here lodges thetrain de combat, i.e. the conductors of the regimental carriages. These infantry, who ride on horseback all the same, form a separate corporation. Even their dress is different from that of other soldiers: leather jackets and spurs. Their names are Charlot, Petit-Louis, and Grand-Victor. Their functions take them to Soissons and bring them daily into contact with the rearguard service.
Varlet, as a friend, has requested permission to introduce me. His request has been backed by Milliard and Henriot.
"Bring him along, then," they said.
At any hour of the day one can always find at Madame Maillard's white wine, cards and tobacco. In a corner Henriot is sorting the letters. Milliard,after noting the parcels in a book, encloses them in a big bag.
"Are the letters for Achains' ready?" asks Varlet.
"Yes, here's the packet. We will bring you the parcels shortly."
The first thing we do on our return is to shout out—
"We have each had a pint of white wine at thetrain de combat."
"White wine, impossible! You lucky fellows!"
I have no idea why white wine is so scarce. In war there are hosts of things one cannot understand at all.
Monday, 21st December.
During the night a regiment of territorials have arrived who have not yet seen fire. They make a finedébut, for Bucy is subjected to a heavier bombardment than ever; explosions for three hours without a break. A rain of iron splinters and balls falls upon the roof of our lodging. The tiles come toppling down into the yard. Varlet, who has gone for some of the famous white wine to thetrain de combat, rushes into the room, looking horribly scared as he clasps three bottles to his breast. At the corner of the street he had encountered two shrapnels.
"The first," he said, "went on its way, but I thought the second had got me. It knocked a piece off the doorpost beneath which I had rushed for shelter."
"Oh,youwouldn't have been any great loss, but the bottles——"
The house shakes with the shock of the explosions, which come nearer and nearer.Sabotsare clattering in the yard. The Achains and the women from neighbouring houses hurry to take refuge in the cellar. We should be wise to follow their example. That, however, would mean leaving the lunch, which is simmering on the fire! Besides, there's something attractive in the idea of brazening the thing out.
The explosions continue. By way of the chimney, which serves as an acoustic tube, we hear the dull, distant detonation as the shell leaves the gun, then the hissing sound, which increases in volume, and finally the violent explosion a few yards away.
A projectile crashes through the roof of the house opposite.
"Suppose we go and see how they are getting along in the cellar?" anxiously suggests Jules.
In a corner crouch the Achains and five or six other women. Sighs and lamentations; invocations to Jesus and Mary!
"Is the house demolished?" asks Madame Achain.
"No, not yet."
At this very moment a shell bursts in the yard.
Ten minutes afterwards, Maxence, who prefers to be more at his ease, mutters—
"It's not very pleasant here. I'm going up."
We follow him. The six of us return to thecommon room above. Well, suppose we lunch. We take our places at the table, whilst Jacquard carries a pan full of haricot beans to the refugees in the cellar.
Finally the bombardment ceases. Once more the streets are strewn with sulphur. By a miracle nothing is set on fire. A light infantryman and eight horses are killed. Some more rubbish is scattered about the village, where, by the way, life is soon going on as usual.
At five the company returns to the front line. The engineers have constructed shelters for the squadron, six feet below the surface, stoutly propped up by large pieces of timber. One of these tiny habitations is assigned to us, a tolerably warm and perfectly secure sort of room, where one can come for a nap between two watches, and, a more important matter, speak aloud, smoke, and light candles. The shelters of the previous days, being unsupported, have all been washed away by the rain.
Then comes a violent fusillade, beginning far away to the left, with a sound as of rending cloth; it spreads over the whole line. The lieutenant comes out of his dug-out; he orders Jacquard and myself to start the beacon burning.
We both try to light the great acetylene lantern, opening the tap when it should be closed, and closing it when it should be open. At last, to our great surprise, the flame bursts forth. A corporal leaps on the little fuse-projecting rifle and fires it. The fuses rise into the air and fallto the ground, shedding a strong white light over a radius of three hundred yards.
Sergeant Chaboy gives the command to fire. So we load and fire, until our rifles are burning hot. Each man's hundred and fifty cartridges are all gone in less than an hour. Firing slackens on both sides. A sudden return to a state of dead calm.
Munitions are distributed around. Only one man wounded in the 24th: a corporal, who was with a patrol that went out just before the alarm. He was surprised by the fusillade when on the point of rejoining his men, who had already returned to the trench. Caught between two fires, he crouched behind a small elevation, and instinctively protected his head with his right arm. This arm received six bullets, French and German alike. The sergeant in command of the patrol goes out into the hail of iron to bring back the wounded man, and returns intact, though his clothes are torn to shreds and his hands are all blood-stained. The corporal's arm is reduced to pulp, and his thigh has also received a ball. The hæmorrhage is stopped as well as circumstances permit.
The lieutenant comes round and says—
"Keep your eyes open, the attack will certainly recommence."
Has there really been an attack?
"They do that sort of thing to prevent our falling asleep," growls one man.
The rain has stopped. Each man leans againstthe trench wall and groups form. We converse in low tones, hiding the light of the pipes in the hollow of the hand, and await events.
At midnight a fresh alarm. The fusillade upon Crouy begins again, and in a few seconds is raging along the entire line. The cannon also are firing. The field of beetroots is lit up by fuses. We maintain an uninterrupted fire under the quiet command of Sergeant Chaboy. A few balls ricochet into the trenches and eight men are wounded.
After forty-five minutes of furious firing everything again becomes calm. A few more salvos and a final crackling of themitrailleuses, and it is over. Profound silence throughout the rest of the night. We cannot understand it.
The company has spent thirty thousand cartridges, perhaps without killing a single German.
Tuesday, 22nd December.
Still in the first line, though in a sector farther away from the enemy.
Reymond invites a few friends to inaugurate an exhibition of drawings he has just finished. Into the recesses of the trench walls enormous beetroots are fitted. On the slices of these hard white roots (they resemble in no way the beetroot of the salad-bowl), cut clean through with a chop from a spade, Reymond has sketched, with a violet crayon, some of the heads of the section.
Here, with its prominent skull and nose, wehave the pessimist Mauventre, who at the faintest distant roar of the cannon sighs—
"Here come themarmites! They'll be the death of us all yet, see if they're not!"
Reymond has well caught the anxious, troubled features of this intrepid soldier.
On another slice of beetroot is the droll silhouette of Corporal Davor, his startled face almost hidden between his shoulders and his arms akimbo. Davor goes about, at night-time, to stir up those on sentry duty.
"Keep a watch on the right. Keep a watch on the left."
One source of diversion for us is to assume, whenever he passes, the indifferent air of one who ridicules the German attacks.
We all figure in the collection. Varlet is a striking type, with his badger profile immoderately lengthened out by a pipe in the form of a shell or conch, which appears to be soldered on to his nose.
The beetroot haunts our very dreams. Since we are fated to be tormented with the beetroot for all eternity, we may as well extract what fun we can from it.
CHAPTER XI
CHRISTMAS
Wednesday, 23rd December.
The third day in the front line. The section is on guard at the telephone. There is a goodgourbior hut provided for each half-section. Two hours' sentry duty on the Vregny road, along which a spent ball comes whistling from time to time.
A pleasant diversion; Captain P—— of the Flying Corps arrives from Paris in a motor-car, and sends for Reymond and myself.
We go down to the car, which has come to a halt below the grotto. Muddy and slimy, enveloped in multi-coloured wrappings, rifle and cartridges hanging on to our persons, pipes in mouth and bearded faces, dirty and grimy, we all the same greet the captain with a very martial military salute.
He has brought us an enormous hamper of provisions. What luck! We are now assured of keeping up Christmas-eve. He also brings us letters, and offers to take back any messages from ourselves. In a dreamy maze of wonder we gaze upon this astonishing individual, who will be inParis to-night, and whose surroundings are something else than fields of beetroots.
Whilst engaged in conversation, a 150 shell falls a few yards from the car. It fails to explode.
Captain P—— briefly gives us the news. The war will last longer than people think; perhaps another five or six months. We ourselves, it appears, are in a very quiet sector, neither attacked nor attacking, just mounting guard.
Thursday, 24th December.
A bright sun, fine and cold weather. The company go down to the grotto, where they are to sleep to-night. Consequently we shall celebrate our Christmas-eve "beneath these vaults of stone" as the song goes inDon Carlos.
Here comes the postman. What a heap of parcels! We spend the afternoon in unpacking them; the war is forgotten; our main preoccupation is to prepare a dinner to which the squadron will all contribute. Jules has gone down to Bucy; for once he has received the lieutenant's permission. His errand is to bring back some wine.
Crouching in a corner, with a bayonet-candlestick by my side, I write away. The man next to me becomes irritated by my silence and evident preoccupation.
"What are you writing?" he asks.
"A letter to my servant."
"Well! That's the very last thing I should have expected you to do."
"You fool! I'm giving her instructions to send out my New Year's gifts, telling her to buy boxes of sweets and chocolates, and giving her the addresses to which they are to be sent, with my card."
No sooner have I spoken than a whole string of epithets—snob,poseur, dandy—comes down on my devoted head. I reply in very dignified fashion—
"Oh, indeed! Then you cannot even tolerate ordinary politeness in a man?"
"Politeness! Just look at yourself in a mirror. You would be better employed in giving yourself a scrub down."
At eight o'clock the corner of the grotto containing the first squadron is illuminated with a goodly number of candles.
In the first place, for a successful Christmas-eve celebration we must have some sourcrout—Alsatian, of course. There are five large tins of it, along with a knuckle of ham. Then follow all kinds of sausages, one of which has come from Milan. We speedily dispatch it, at the same time exhorting our "Latin sister" to join in with us. Carried away by an irresistible impulse, the squadron takes by assault severalpâtés de foie gras. The dessert is most varied: pears, oranges, preserves in jars, in tubes and in pails, a pudding which flames up when you apply a match to it, and, last of all, a drink which the cook has most carefully prepared: coffee with the real odour of coffee.
It is past ten o'clock. The bottles are empty. Every one is very gay and lively; no one intoxicated.
So pleasant an evening cannot end without music.
The concert begins with our old marching songs, those we used to sing at drill, or when tramping the dusty roads, to quicken our speed, songs which we run the risk of forgetting in this accursed war where we scarcely stir a foot. The words are not invariably to be recommended, but the familiar swing and rhythm which used to make us forget the weight of our haversacks, this evening make us forget our burdens of worry andennui. Most conscientiously do we brawl out the tunes. The great advantage of the grotto lies in the fact that one can shout as loud as one pleases.
The lieutenant lifts up the tent canvas with which we have barricaded our den.
"Well! This is something like! You are doing it! May I come in?"
"Of course,mon lieutenant!"
We give him a seat on an empty bag, and the concert recommences.
Singers, with some pretence to a voice, try hard to carry off their sentimental or grandiloquent ditties, but it is the motley repertoire of absurdity and ridicule that meets with the success of the evening: the songs of Montmartre, artistes' refrains, fertile in spicy nonsense. We mark time by tapping our empty plates with the back ofthe hand. The noisy merriment is intensified when we come to the chorus.
With frenzied enthusiasm the squadron shouts out the chorus of Hervé'sTurcs—
Nous, nous sommes les soldatsEt nous marchons au pas,Plus souvent au trépas....
And now Charensac comes forward.
"Make way for the Ambassador of Auvergne," barks out Varlet.
"Quite right, I am from Auvergne, and I'm going to dance thebourrée."
He dances it, all alone. Some of the audience, making a humming sound with their hands, the rest whistling or else beating time with cans andgamelles, form an improvised orchestra, half Spanish, half negro. The dancer's big round face, flanked with little tufts of black whiskers, lights up. He is both the Auvergnat and his betrothed—advancing, receding, seeming to escape from himself. When you think he is utterly exhausted, he still finds it possible to shout out in joyous accents—
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, a collection for 'l'artisse.'"
And he mimics in succession a lion-tamer and a lady walking the tight rope. The sous rain down into hisképi.
Thereupon Charensac strikes a lyrical vein. He sings in thepatoisof Auvergne, and, being in an expansive mood, relates the whole of his life,from his birth down to the present day, forgetting nothing, not even his wedding festivities, in the course of which he assures us that he thrashed his mother-in-law.
Charensac's eloquence is made up of hiccoughs and invocations, songs and laughter, but we understand all the same. We gather that this giant of an Auvergnat is a compound of landowner, estate manager, Government official, and representative of his syndicate at theBourse du Travail. I find I have had to come to the front to learn that a keen sense of the rights of property is not incompatible with the spirit of revolutionary claims.
Charensac stops for a moment, exhausted. Thereupon Reymond, who has had his eyes fixed on him for some time, leans on his elbow, and from the corner in which he has been lying, remarks—
"You don't know whom you make me think of, Charensac, always shouting and stuffing like a huge ogre? I'll tell you; you remind me of old Ubu."
"Who's old Ubu?" asks the other.
"Old Ubu——" begins Reymond.
Startled, I burst out—
"You're not going to tell the first squadron who old Ubu was?"
"Don't you interrupt."
And Reymond explains. In profound silence we listen as he relates how Ubu was the first man who recommended that eight bullets should be put into a rifle, because with eight bullets itis possible to kill eight of the enemy, and you have that number the less to account for. The thing that delights the first squadron is Ubu's prophetic description of the modern battle: "... We have the foot-soldiers at the foot of the hill ... the cavalry behind them to burst upon the jumbled mass of combatants, and the artillery round by the windmill here to fire upon them all." The men clap their hands in delight and exclaim knowingly: "Yes, that's it! The very thing!"
Finally Reymond says that Ubu, like Charensac, was a sort of enormous giant, with a voice of thunder and an insatiable appetite.
After this, Charensac is never called anything but old Ubu, and as the sly rascal sees here a new excuse for the satisfaction of his appetites, he accepts the surname with enthusiasm.
Old Ubu will become popular in the 352nd Regiment, and rightly so. In warfare it is necessary to evoke the shade of Jarry as frequently as that of Homer.
Midnight. A procession of magi moves along the galleries. Reymond, a muffler wrapped turban-wise round his head and majestically draped in the folds of a poncho, carries the myrrh in agamelle. The tent pickets serve the purpose of sceptres. Some one walks backwards in front of the kings, with an electric lamp raised above his head. This represents the star.
The star guides us back to ourcrèche, where the candles have just flickered out. Kings andshepherds liepêle-mêleon the ground, and the loud snoring soon proves them to be sound asleep.
Friday, 25th December.
At half-past six the sergeants shout into the grotto—
"Up, 24th, and fully equipped!"
"What's this?... What's the matter?"
"Get up at once; within a quarter of an hour we must be in the fighting line."
Each man, half-awake, puts on his boots and his puttees and fastens on his haversack.
Muster in front of the grotto: a frightful din. From Crouy to Vailly every single battery keeps up an uninterrupted fire on the German trenches. What an awakening we are giving them for their Christmas!
In a few words the lieutenant explains the day's programme—
"Attacks on the left as soon as the bombardment is over. In front of Bucy we are commanded not to move. The 24th must hold the support trenches and keep in readiness 'for any eventuality.'"
The usual thing!
This morning the fighting emplacements are not very dangerous. The company deploys along the path which skirts the ridge on a level with the grotto. This is the first line as it was at the beginning of November; to-day the first line is over five hundred yards forward.
Men belonging to the 23rd relate how theGermans have been singing hymns all night long. They must have been celebrating their triumphs; our artillery will bring them all back to their senses. The shells hammer away at the frozen soil, tearing it up when they explode. Impossible to hear oneself speak in the midst of the uproar. The sky is pale blue, gradually assuming a darker tint. The sun is shining brightly, but it affords no warmth. Each man sends out from his mouth tiny clouds with every breath.
On the road between the loop-holes there are still to be seen some of the branch-constructed shelters in which we lodged a couple of months ago. With the exception of two on sentry duty, we are going to finish here our interrupted Christmas dreams.
In war-time, unless he is sent on guard or given fatigue duty, the foot-soldier makes his bed anywhere and anyhow. In case he has insufficient room he shrinks into as small space as possible, his knees touching his chin. The cartridge cases of the man behind him dig into his ribs, and those of the man in front crush his stomach, the hilt of the bayonet finds a place between two other ribs, whilst the sheath always seems twisted and bent.... Well, it can't be helped. You just settle down as well as you can, and you dream, whether awake or asleep.
From time to time some one will growl out, "Its impossible to sleep with such a noise going on!" and off he falls at once into a deep slumber.
A joyless day seems in store for us. Shall we be attacked? Or are we to attack?
A brief distraction takes the form of a young mouse, which comes out of its hole close to our feet, and is by no means startled by the sight of sixpoilusseated around on the floor. Soon it scampers away, but immediately reappears and fastens its impudent eyes upon us. The roar of the cannon does not seem to disturb its tiny ears. It is neutral. I quietly put out my hand, but evidently the gesture is too familiar, for the mouse re-enters its trench and appears no more.
At two o'clock the 24th are ordered to equip and muster. It appears that we are to relieve the 23rd in the first line.
News arrives: our attack in the direction of Crouy has succeeded only partially. The artillery duel is coming to an end. We appreciate the silence that follows.
We are fixed up in the first line. I spend a couple of hours with Verrier at the listening post, anything but a pleasant spot. The Germans are fifty yards away. By risking an eye at the loop-hole we distinctly make out their wires and the mounds of earth behind which they are. At night we have to keep our ears alive to the faintest sound to prevent ourselves from being taken prisoners or massacred by a patrol party.
An interlude. The Germans are imitating the cries of various animals: cock and dog, calf and pig.
We ask for news of the Kaiser. They reply—
"He's quite well, thanks. We'll see you again shortly in Paris."
A single though expressive word is our retort.
Again they shout to us from the enemy's trenches—
"A merry Christmas! Send us some wine."
Then they sing theMarseillaise!
Saturday, 26th December.
This morning we found the water frozen in our cans.
The cooks, when bringing in the soup, assure us that the Hindus have been sent for to make an attack on Crouy. They describe minutely how they are dressed.
"There is a fellow in thetrain de combat," says "the Fireman," "who has come across them at Soissons."
Thereupon Jacquard cannot contain himself for joy. Being of a most optimistic temperament, he sees the Sikhs and Gurkhas coming down Hill 132 and cutting our invaders' throats. He endeavours to give his foolish face an expression of ferocity, and explains how the Hindus attack.
"The beggars glide about noiselessly in the dark, like serpents. Impossible to hear them coming. Before you are aware they are upon you, cutting your throat with the big knife they hold between their teeth...."
"Bigre!Lucky for us they're on our side."
But where has Jacquard, who has never travelled beyond the neighbourhoods of the Rue de Sentier and Levallois-Perret, obtained such detailed information about the warlike habits of these distant peoples?
Meanwhile there is a dead calm; they forget to relieve us. The section returns to Bucy after forty hours' outpost duty. We quarter in a half-ruined house which contains scarcely enough room to lie down in. We sleep in higgledy-piggledy fashion with our comrades, the feet of one man against the face of another, and vice versa.
Sunday, 27th December.
No means of returning to the Achains', the company being fixed up at the other extremity of the village. I knock at the door of the Ronchards, the brother and sister who showed us hospitality one afternoon last month. They place at our disposal a large well-warmed room, where we can all six sleep on an enormous litter of straw.
Mademoiselle Ronchard has not yet recovered from her disappointment at our not eating her rabbit stew. The stove begins to roar and we come back to life again.
A detail: we find ourselves covered with fleas. An energetic hunt commences. It is not without results.
We hear a voice in the street and rush out. The Montagne farm is a mass of flame, the result of a bombardment which has lasted several hours. The entire hill is illumined; even from this distance we can hear the roar of the fire. Beams fall to the ground and flames of fire rise into the air. Dark silhouettes are seen in the neighbourhood.Without a word we gaze long at the sinister spectacle. Some one simply remarks—
"The pity of it all!"
We return to the Ronchards.
Monday, 28th December.
Thaw and rain, creating mud and all the old troubles over again. We remain indoors at the Ronchards'.
How calm and quiet this evening! There are six of us, feet in slippers, sitting round the table. Some are reading, others writing by the soft light of a lamp. Are we the same persons who, only the day before yesterday, were wallowing in the trench between two walls of mud? Are we really at war, at the front, with the enemy less than a mile away? Our friends and relatives, whose letters betray constant anxiety on our behalf, invariably imagine us in the thick of the fight. If only they could know, this very moment, that we are in such comfortable quarters, that there is such an element of peace in our sad surroundings!
The howling wind makes us appreciate by contrast the joy of being under cover. The distant firing sounds like the noise made by a cart as it jolts along over the pavings.
Tuesday, 29th December.
An hour's drill this morning in the shell-ploughed fields, manual exercise and section school, just to remind us that we are soldiers. Hair review by the lieutenant in the afternoon.The entire company must pass through the barber's hands.
Charensac bursts into our room, shouting out, "Good day. How are you, my young friends?" His voice upsets us completely, and we roughly inquire whether he has not yet learnt the value of silence after five months of warfare. Thereupon he explains in his gibberish—
"Don't get angry. I know some one at Crouy who has received a supply of benedictine and all sorts of good things to eat. I at once thought of you, for I know my generous little mates will pay for me a drink...."
He is absolved. A bottle of benedictine is worth considering at certain moments of one's life, and so Charensac starts for Crouy, supplied with funds, precise instructions, and promises.
In ordinary times the road to Crouy is probably as good as any other road. But these are not ordinary times. Shells are continually falling, and a portion of the village of Crouy itself is in the hands of the enemy. A German machine-gunner, whom we know well, opens fire when any one passes a certain corner. Charensac, however, disdains the very idea of peril; he is very brave. The other day, when he was brawling away as usual, his weary neighbour interrupted him—
"Ah! là, là, you wouldn't make such a noise if we were attacking."
Charensac replied, not without an air of dignity, speaking instinctively of himself in the third person, as though he might have been Cæsar or Napoleon—
"Don't trouble yourself about Charensac. Just keep by his side when there is hot work to be done, then no one will ever be in a position to say that you were afraid."
And, as a matter of fact, Charensac continues to make fine sport of war, even in the midst of danger. Certainly I have never met his like before.
Charensac returns in the course of the evening. We all run to meet him. He tosses off a glass of benedictine, accepts a flannel girdle, two pocket-handkerchiefs, a bar of chocolate, a camphor sachet for killing fleas, and then he retires to sleep, shrieking joyfully.
Wednesday, 30th December.
From noon to four o'clock we clean out the branch trenches, which the rain has transformed into mud puddles.
Thursday, 31st December.
Morning drill during a brief spell of sunshine.
Belin comes to dinner.
The year about to begin will be a year of peace and victory, of our return home.
We do not wait for midnight before going to bed, though we first wish one another a happy 1915.
Friday, 1st January, 1915.
Not everybody has followed our example of sobriety in letting in the new year. This morningsome unsteady walking is visible in the streets of Bucy and Bacchic songs fill the air.
At five the company returns to the grotto.
Saturday, 2nd January.
A fight against mud, which we scrape away from the road. At noon we proceed to the first line; for some time past, relieving forces have been sent out in the daytime. Passing through the branch is a difficult matter, for we wade in mud up to the knee.
Two hours' duty at the listening post. A calm night. Occasional firing.
Sunday, 3rd January.
The cooks bring in the soup at ten o'clock and inform us that we shall be relieved in the evening instead of at noon. Mud and war! Five more hours of this sort of work! This is what we call, like all good Pickwickians, "Adding insult to injury, as the parrot said when being taught to learn English after being taken from his native land."
From four to six, Verrier and I, facing each other as we lean against the trench walls, await the relief without speaking a word, our eyes obstinately fixed on our boots.
The return at night along the branches; the mud is thicker and more plentiful than ever. Frightful oaths and the continual exhortation—
"Gently ahead! We cannot follow you."
Shades glide behind one another, accompaniedby the sound of thegamellechains. The head of the company has already reached the grotto whilst the rear is still waiting in the first line till its turn comes to march away.
The branch opens out on to a very uneven path, scarcely visible through the wood. In the profound darkness we hear the outbursts of rage and the curses of the men. The rifles knock against the branches. There is another path skirting the wood, over exposed ground. A few balls whistle past, chiefly during reliefs. We have to advance in Indian file, carefully planting our feet in the steps of the man in front because of the many holes in the ground. Fifty yards of a steep ascent, slippery as soap. The falls multiply. Wonderful to relate, there are no broken bones; not even a sprained ankle.
At last we reach the grotto. Candles and pipes are lit. Each man removes his equipment and his coat and flings himself on to the straw. After a brief rest we dine, seated round a newspaper which serves for a tablecloth. Our comrades left behind in the grotto have kept the parcels which have arrived whilst we have been in the first line. We manifest a schoolboy's delight in unfastening them.
Monday, 4th January.
In front of the grotto the sections muster in columns of fours. A few stragglers arrive, buckling on their haversacks.
The sergeant welcomes them with the words—
"Don't hurry, I beg of you. I suppose I'm here to wait for you."
The company goes down to Bucy. Within a short time the six of us are installed with the Ronchards.
Another hunt for fleas. A vigorous offensive is necessary to prevent ourselves being devoured alive. The labour required to keep one's body clean becomes something herculean. The mud on coats and puttees refuses to dry. We give up the struggle.
Tuesday, 5th January.
Whilst the rest are away at drill I stay behind, the major having exempted me from duty. I seize the opportunity to do the house work and Jules gives me a helping hand.
It is Jules' dream to become avalet de chambrein Paris. His views on life as lived in the capital are unusual and lacking in precision.
He says to me—
"When peace is proclaimed, won't you take me back with you?"
"Listen to me, Jules, I don't want to hurt you, but I cannot afford more than one servant."
"Nonsense, a man like you!"
"Yes, you see how badly society is built up."
Jules goes over his good points—
"You know me well; I can easily adapt myself to things. With me, you may have your mind at peace, I would take charge of everything, and you would not even need to pay me."
Such disinterestedness sends a shudder through me.
"You agree?" asks Jules.
"But—don't you see, I'm tied down here."
"How stupid you are! Things will not always remain as they are now."
"And what if I am killed?"
"Don't talk like that. It would be a pity!"
He sticks to his idea, for he has chosen me to assist him in the realization of his dreams. Finally he remarks—
"You will leave me free to go out whenever I want, won't you? And every morning I'll go and kill some little birds for you."
In the evening we chat away with quite civilian freedom of mind. We forget both what we are engaged upon, and where we are. Plans for the future are discussed without any one thinking of making the remark that our talk is very silly. We pay attention neither to our odd-looking accoutrements, nor to our unshaven chins. We are not even aware of our tired condition.
We go out into the yard for a quiet smoke. It is very mild; the sky is lit up with stars, as in times of peace. Away towards the north we hear the firing of the sentries. The cannon is booming on our left.
Reymond does not feel sleepy; neither do I.
"Suppose we write an article for theFigaro?"
Agreed. I set to work. After scribbling away for an hour, I hand a few sheets across to Reymond. After reading them, he declares—
"How idiotic!"
I feel hurt.
"Then write the article yourself, since you are so clever."
"It's not my business; I'm a painter. Begin it all over again."
I obey. More sheets and a further reading by Reymond.
"This time it's not quite so bad. Suppose we go over it word for word."
At two in the morning we are still at it. Our aim is to set forth nothing but facts, and at the same time to thrill our readers.
Wednesday, 6th January.
It's all very well to play at being journalists, and to spend the night in writing, but this morning we must all be ready for drill at half-past seven. The two collaborators are snoring away. Varlet wakes us by walking over our bodies.
"Come now, up! you two journalists."
The journalists refuse to budge.
"You'll be marked absent!"
"Don't trouble about that."
At ten o'clock our comrades return. Our absence has passed unnoticed, the very thing upon which our modesty and laziness combined were relying.
At noon—
"Quick! Muster in half an hour. We return to the trenches."
The usual stir and commotion in alarms of this kind.
Afternoon and night are spent very quietly in the grotto.
Thursday, 7th January.
The 24th occupies fresh positions between Bucy and Crouy, still in the first line. The weather is dreadful; it is useless to gaze through the loop-hole, you cannot see a yard in front of you.
A dull, unpleasant day. This evening, seated by Reymond's side in a dug-out, which luckily is waterproof, I recopy by candle-light the article for theFigaro, taking down the words at his dictation, with tongue protruding, like a schoolboy, to make my handwriting more legible. From time to time the rain, oozing through the ceiling, drops a tear-stain on to the copy.
When the sheets of paper are filled, I carefully put them away safe from the wet. They will be in the postman's hands to-morrow.
Four hours' sentry duty now to divert our minds. Those who pass by tell us that the shelters are falling in upon the sleepers. Several times during the night we have to go to the help of our buried comrades.
CHAPTER XII
THE CROUY AFFAIR
Friday, 8th January.
This morning at half-past six, our artillery opens fire over a sector of several kilometres. Fifty guns each fire a hundred and twenty-five shots, a formidable total. The Moroccans carry two lines of trenches above Crouy and, along with the light infantry, obtain a footing on the upland. An important success, it appears. The German counter-attack is ineffectual. Their artillery is directed upon our trenches and upon the ground in the rear.
Are we to attack shortly? The question is asked of the lieutenants, but they cannot answer it.
From noon onwards firing grows more intense; it is a tempest of iron until five o'clock. Storms of German shells beat down upon Bucy, whilst our own 75's crash their projectiles on to the trenches opposite. In the midst of the din we distinctly note the roar of the heavier shells passing overhead with the sound as of a slowly moving train over an iron bridge.
As though the rain were not enough, a hailstorm begins to lash our faces. Thunder-clapsalternate with the roar of cannon. The sky is lit up with lightning flashes. We are in a state of utter stupefaction when the hour of relief arrives.
On reaching our Ali-Baba cave, we learn that a 210 shell fell this afternoon in front of the grotto on a spot which for months we have regarded as absolutely sheltered. Sergeant Martin has been hurled into the air and the cooks flungpêle-mêleon to the ground. Even in the galleries the men have been lifted off their feet by an irresistible shock. It is discovered that no one has received any real harm except Sergeant Martin, whose left leg has been cut off close to the pelvis. Debris of red cloth and of flesh are still strewn around the enormous hollow dug by the projectile.
Saturday, 9th January.
After a delightful and dry night spent in the grotto, we are sent to clean out the branch trenches. Jacquard remains in the grotto busily occupied in arranging in a box our store of chocolate tablets.
Outside, the dance continues: 75's, 77's, 90's, 105's, 155's, and 210's plough their way through the air. With hands crossed on the shovel handle, and one foot on the iron, we watch these latter shells fall around the Montagne farm, and upon Le Moncel and Sainte-Marguerite: first a black cloud, then a red star-like flash and finally a thunderous explosion.
The enemy is trying to find our batteries. Fromtime to time four shots from a 75 follow one another in rapid succession as though to say: "Don't concern yourself." The spectacle is so fascinating that we do not feel at all inclined to work.
Violent fusillade from the direction of Crouy.
Towards evening the rain stops a little; so does the firing. The company is again installed in the first line.
Verrier, Reymond, Maxence and myself are appointed to occupy in turn two loop-holes and a dug-out. This latter is not an attractive place: a cavity of three cubic yards dug in the side of the trench. There is scarcely room to move one's body, and a few inside repairs are quite indispensable.
No sooner have we arrived than the corporal in charge declares—
"There are four of you for this post. Arrange amongst yourselves as regards the hours, but I want always to see two of you at the loop-holes."
"All right."
Two of us then mount guard; a simple matter in the daytime. It consists in walking about the trench, smoking one's pipe. An occasional glance opposite to see that nothing stirs.
Those left in the dug-out are busily occupied. First, there is the cleaning to be done. Our predecessors have left bones and pieces of waste paper lying about, and the sight is sickening.
"Ah, là là!Could they not have removed their own filth themselves?"
Then three tent canvases are opened out upon one another in front of the entrance to the dug-out. This is a delicate operation: no space or chink must be left between this improvised doorway and the walls of earth; first, in order to stop the draughts—it is extraordinary how one fears draughts in the trenches!—and then to keep out any light calculated to make our presence known to the Germans.
A cover on the ground to serve as a carpet. Two small niches in the wall for placing candles. A piece of plank, held up by two tent pickets driven into the wall, forms a shelf: the refuge of pipes,gamelles, and stores. Two bags on the ground to lean upon.
This task ended, one can take breath. It is now the time for letter-writing, the ever-recurring formula: "I am writing to you from the first line of trenches, close to the Germans. All the same, don't be anxious about me, there is little risk...." We read the paper and find that all foot-soldiers are looked upon as heroes. There it is, in print. These things flatter us greatly. After all, it's something to be a foot-soldier!
Generally everything is quiet at this hour; like ourselves, the Germans are preparing dinner and bed.
The time comes for us to sit down to our meal. One man only remains on guard. The other three dine gaily, and at considerable length. When the conversation becomes too noisy, the sentry gives a kick at the tent canvas. Everyten minutes the poor fellow draws aside the screen and asks—
"Aren't you going to relieve me soon? I'm terribly hungry."
We reply—
"All right, there'll be something left for you. Remove that head of yours; you're letting in the cold."
He resigns himself to his lot, well aware that any one under cover is privileged to swear at a wet dog.
From time to time he fires a shot into the dark, just to make him forget his hunger. He puts himselfen liaisonwith the entries right and left of him.
Finally he hears the words—
"Come along, your turn for dinner. One of us will take your place. Just wipe your boots and don't soil the carpet."
He glides into the hole, which exhales a blended odour of stew, tobacco and fighting. A broad smile appears on his face as he says: "That smells nice." And he believes it too. He perceives his portion simmering away on a soldier's chafing-dish. Speedily comes fresh cause for anxiety—
"Where's my coffee? I'll wager you've not kept it warm for me!"
Indignant protests.
"See! There's your coffee. We've even kept a cigar for you. Would you like to begin with a couple of sardines?"
After which, his hosts add, pretending to shiver with cold—
"Careful, all the same, you're wet through. Don't stir, or you'll upset everything in the room."
At eight o'clock' dinner is over. Each man cleans his plate and his knife and fork with a piece of bread.
Preparations for the night. Two are going on watch duty and two to sleep; relieving one another every four hours. The two privileged ones, who are able to digest their meal at leisure, light their pipes, pass the bottle of spirits, and are speedily fast asleep.
The two sentries stand with their back's to the rain. They hide their pipes in the hollow of the hand.
"What weather!"
"Dreadful!"
One man coughs. The other remarks—
"Suppose we move from here; you'll wake the children."
Maxence and myself occupy the dug-out from eight till midnight. We smoke a few pipes. The post has brought newspapers. Our accoutrements hang on nails driven into the timber which props up the shelter. Maxence, who has been somewhat fidgety for some minutes, remarks—