the twentieth regiment now contained a sad and sorry lot of men, weary, discouraged,57 shamefaced, and sullen at their double defeat. but when they heard that the army was to retreat still further, and abandon all this rich, flourishing northern country to the invaders without a blow—why, it was incredible! what was the matter? where were their re?nforcements? only fifteen days ago they had been marching enthusiastically up through the lovely forest of argonne. now they were going to retreat into champagne. but they were too busy with preparations to spend much time sulking. the officers declared that they would lead their men to victory yet. so the retreat commenced to the booming accompaniment of the threatening german artillery.
little did georges know of cool old general joffre and his desperate plans. little did he imagine that the endless falling back, falling back, falling back through champagne was to go down into history as a masterpiece58 of fabian strategy. all he understood of that campaign was—day after day of retreating along the hard white roads, then into the fields and digging trenches; night after night standing ready in those clayey shoulder-deep holes, waiting for an attack, while the first line of the rear guard fought constantly with the enemy. so they did their best to hold back the flood of invaders. so they struggled with the booming cannon ever following them. it was hard, sour work! the men, exhausted with the digging and the marching and the watching, with their few hours’ sleep constantly interrupted by alarms, trudged hopelessly southward, too glum to talk. constantly the officers encouraged them—“just to that hill there, men! come on!” but it took more than their optimism to restore the courage of the troops. man after man stopped, absolutely incapable of going further, and slumped down by the side59 of the road only to be forced on, kicked on again by the corps of gendarmes which followed the march. if the column halted for a minute, half the men fell instantly asleep as they stood.
the minute the trenches were dug they had to prepare to receive the enemy. mighty little food these days, and no fresh meat. even water was scarce, as the men were forbidden to drink of springs till they had been inspected. georges’s regiment was, for the most part of the retreat, held in the second line of the rear guard, and he was, therefore, in but one actual engagement. in the general campaign it was called, probably, only “a sharp skirmish.” but, to georges, it was one of those crises when life says: “come! move up a notch!”
“i was on sentry duty at the end of the trench where the company was sleeping,” said georges. “on tuesday, the 2nd of60 september it was, near souain. i knew everyone’s life depended on me, and it was a terrible strain. you know the enemy was always right on our heels, night and day. m’sieu, i was just all eyes, searching everywhere through the dark. it must have been about two in the morning, when i thought i saw something moving on the opposite hillside. at first i wasn’t quite sure. i had to pull my eyes away deliberately, and rest them on something else—you know how your eyes get when you stare too hard and too long; but then, when i looked again quickly, i was sure. yes, the ‘bosches’ were coming! it was horrible. i saw them creeping from one bush to another like snakes.
“i kicked the sergeant who was snoring at my feet and pointed. instantly all our men were quietly awakened. my lieutenant told me to stay where i was and pretend not61 to see anything; but to choose my man and be ready to fire. yes, monsieur; it was a ticklish job; i felt rather queer, i confess. i knew that i would be the very first one to be shot at. that was about the longest fifteen minutes i ever spent.
“well, we let them crawl up, crawl up, to within a hundred meters and then just as they all jumped to their feet, the lieutenant shouted: ‘fire at will!’ i was ready for the foremost man, and i let him have it right through the forehead. here is his helmet, monsieur; see that hole?”
in the hospital at toulouse, while i listened to his story, he held up a black helmet, trimmed with brass—with a spiked top. it had never left him since that day.
yes, i saw that hole—the hole where he had killed his man. but, when i saw him look at that german helmet, there was an expression on his face that baffled me. i62 didn’t know what it meant, but i knew that coco wasn’t there—coco, with the lead pencil! no, this was a new person now on that bed in front of me. it was georges cucurou—and he would never be a boy again!
