sunday, 15th november.
the feelings of utter exhaustion which come over us from time to time do not last long. you think yourself at the last gasp, and yet the following day you are as fresh as possible.
this morning we are taken in charge by madame gillot, who lodged us on the 9th october. we receive a warm welcome—
"what, you are all alive!"
milliard, the postman, brings us over twenty parcels; we are admirably revictualled both in food and in warm clothing.
monday, 16th november.
reymond's birthday; he is thirty years of age. to celebrate the occasion, we organize a special lunch.
in the afternoon the lieutenant reviews each man's supplies of food: his haversack, spread open at his feet, must exhibit to the officer's vigilant eye two tins of corned beef, a dozen biscuits, two little bags containing sugar, coffee, and two tablets of condensed soup.
[pg 159]
one of our men has neither biscuits nor corned beef. questioning glance of the lieutenant. evasive gesture of the man, who immediately stands at attention.
"have you eaten your two tins of corned beef?"
a sign of assent.
"your biscuits too, naturally?"
another sign of assent.
"ah! and why did you eat your tins of corned beef?"
"mon lieutenant, one evening i was hungry...."
"better and better! if the men begin to eat their reserve supplies whenever they are hungry, there will be no army left!"
that evening we laughingly relate the incident to belin. being an old soldier, he cannot get over it.
"eat one's reserve supplies without orders! if he had been in the foreign legion he would have received eight days' prison for every biscuit missing. the lieutenant was right.... you have your dozen biscuits and two tins, at all events?"
"of course, don't make such a fuss."
belin makes a friendly review to assure himself of the fact.
thin and sharp-featured, his capote well brushed and stretched, and the lower part of his trousers rolled inside his leggings, belin exhibits subtle poisings of his body and impressive movements of his arm as he points to the sky. he knows[pg 160] how to shout out the "h? mohamed!" the rallying cry intended to reach the ears of the comrade who has gone astray.
the ways and manners of civilians in warfare baffle him considerably. roberty would say to him—
"strange how much you lack understanding of parisian humour and fun."
belin, however, is a brave fellow, he has travelled, read, and fought a great deal. though we pay him a certain deference, we are very fond of him.
tuesday, 17th november.
as we are resting we become somewhat like civilians, and await the news with an anxiety unknown at the front, where one's horizon is limited to a field of beetroots.
the papers bring fresh details of the frightful battles of the yser. the german offensive seems to have been broken. what will they attempt now?
this morning our attack of the 12th is honoured by the following communiqué: "we have made slight progress between crouy and vregny." multum in parvo. here's something to make us proud, but more especially something to make us modest and patient when we think of what those men are going through who are fighting in the north, living and dying in the thick of it all. it is they who are the real heroes.
from the letters we receive it is manifest that[pg 161] we also are regarded as heroes; people will insist on considering as a gigantic struggle our life as navvies and troglodytes! how absurd! such lavish use should not be made of these fine expressions, so well deserved by those who have fought at ypres, nieuport, and dixmude.
here, too, we may deserve them some day. meanwhile, let us do a little gardening.
wednesday, 18th november.
we leave acy to return to the trenches. madame gillot stands lamenting at her door.
"ah! my poor men, i wonder if i shall ever see you again?"
"very good of you to think of us, madame gillot."
the company occupies a new sector in the front line. no dug-outs here, the ground is too hard to do anything. we take sentry duty in the middle of the beetroots, in a sort of trough dug in the ground, twenty yards in front of the trench. it is snowing.
thursday, 19th november.
at dawn hoar-frost covers the whole field. a little beyond the barbed wire are three small mounds, covered with snow: the bodies of those of the 24th who died. it is freezing hard, so we stamp our feet on the ground. red faces emerge from passe-montagnes. i carefully press my nose between my woollen-gloved fingers; the sensation of feeling the warmth come gently back is[pg 162] delicious. a few cannon shots from time to time, as though to explain our presence here.
the day is spent in walking as quickly as possible between the two frozen walls of the trench. when i cross reymond, each of us, before turning round, gravely salutes the other and says: "buon di! buon di!" like the grotesque doctors in monsieur de pourceaugnac.
the company, returning to the grotto to sleep, brings back the bodies of eight men, killed on the 12th and picked up between the lines, thanks to the heroism of an auxiliary doctor named wallon.
yesterday i received a sleeping-bag made of a kind of soft oil-cloth, lined with flannel: a notable event in a soldier's life. this evening, wrapped in my cover, i enter my sleeping-bag and pull down the edges over my head.
friday, 20th november.
the trees are now entirely stripped of leaves. the country looks cold and dismal.
the eight bodies are laid out in a line in front of the grotto: the second time we have had such a sight before our eyes. this one is mallet, who was on guard with us in the train which brought us to the depot. he was a little stout fellow, quiet and taciturn, with a brown beard. war was not at all his vocation, and he would frequently remark with a sigh: "i am certain i shall be killed."
ill-omened words which should never be spoken.
[pg 163]
mallet wore a medallion on his breast.... the night before the attack he had said quietly to a friend—
"if i die, send this medallion to my wife."
the friend now tenderly unclasps it from his capote. as this latter is being removed from the body, the cloth, covered with frozen mud, is as stiff as cardboard.
after a prolonged examination we recognize corporal lion, whose good-natured face has been rendered unrecognizable by a wound. he is another who, speaking of his young wife and children and his past happiness, had imprudently said: "it's all over with me.... i shall never come back!..." there is some difficulty in taking from his shrivelled finger the wedding-ring, the gold of which still shines a little beneath the enveloping mud.
our nerves are now too hardened for such a sight to affect them. emotion has become calm and considerate, and each of us thinks—
"well, if i were in his place, would there be around my body nothing but this cold and gloom of winter?"
the sergeant summons me along with reymond and maxence to go on cemetery duty—
"take a shovel or a pick and go down to bucy."
in the old cemetery surrounding the church, a lieutenant indicates the spot where we must dig a grave for eight men.
we set to work.
[pg 164]
shortly afterwards a tumbrel brings along the bodies. two attendants lay them out in a line. meanwhile, the hole is growing larger. our shovels encounter old rust-coloured bones, and even an entire skull, which is deposited on the edge of the grave.
at eleven o'clock the work is finished; we return to the grotto for lunch. above bucy a duel is being fought between a french and a german aeroplane; the rapid sharp cracks of a mitrailleuse reach our ears. suddenly a jet of flame streams from the german machine, which makes straight for the north, leaving a trail of smoke in its wake. it is hit; the french machine, after circling around, follows after.
on reaching the grotto we learn that the enemy bird fell within our lines on the maubeuge road. the pilot has succeeded in making good his escape, but our 75's have opened fire upon the machine, which is still burning.
at five in the evening the section is guarding the telephone at pont-rouge, on the bucy road. the light infantry have constructed a hut, which will just hold ten men. three very comfortable bedsteads, and in one corner a rustic-looking chimney-place, where a magnificent fire sheds its genial warmth. here we come to roast ourselves in turn, in the intervals of sentry duty.
the cold is bitter; the mud of the beaten track is frozen hard. the roads themselves bristle with clods of frozen earth.
the pont-rouge road, which leads direct to the[pg 165] enemy, who is entrenched three hundred yards away, is blocked by a rampart of sand-bags. these bags are covered with blood. it was here that the 5th battalion, on the 12th of this month, deposited their wounded and dead. a few broken rifles heaped up along the copse, pêle-mêle with various military equipment.
balls whistle in our ears; sometimes they ricochet on the frozen ground and glance off with a singing sound.
saturday, 21st november.
to-night the thermometer is 13° centigrade below zero. i have slept very well, in the open air, rolled in canvas wrappings at the bottom of the trench. on waking i see jacquard's hirsute beard, kind innocent eyes and red nose. the rest of his face is swathed in chestnut-coloured wool. quick, my bottle and a good mouthful of brandy. just in time, for the cold has surprised us during the night and frozen me to the very bones. i pick up my can, which i had laid aside during sleep: it is full of icicles. the coffee is frozen.
the cold has brought out a number of fantastic costumes. one of my comrades looks like a bashi-bazouk, another like a chorus singer in boris godounow. to write a letter i put on great red woollen gloves, a grey muffler, and a blue passe-montagne. i also wear trousers of green velvet; the effect being quite good.
all the same, it must not be imagined that we look disguised. at muster, the blue uniform re[pg 166]appears and the usual military aspect of things; we remain soldiers beneath our fantastic accoutrement, having all become so without an effort of will. adaptation to the drudgery and difficulties of the profession comes about insensibly.
luckily, the wind is not blowing in the direction of the trench; but the enemy's bullets pour in a raking fire. maxence, who is extremely tall and too careless to bend down, just misses being killed on two occasions. his calm is most exasperating. we shriek at him—
"sale rosse! i suppose you'll be happy when you've got a bullet through your head. and you think it will be a joke for us to carry you away dead, a giant like you?"
"he weighs at least a hundred and eighty pounds," growls jacquard, who is a dwarf in comparison.
after all, frost is better than rain and mud.
sunday, 22nd november.
the squadron's new quarters at bucy are not very luxurious: an abandoned building, considerably broken up, windows smashed, doors and casements torn away. along a narrow flight of stairs, we gain access to two square rooms.
fortunately the people next door are willing to lodge us. inside the wide street-door is a little yard; to the right, a rabbit-hutch which is empty; to the left, a ground-floor room with cellar and loft. doubtless the house is protected from enfilade firing, for it has remained standing, though[pg 167] a 77 has made a slight breach in it, above a sign-post on which we read: "achain, mattress-maker."
we enter, meeting with a cordial reception.
"it's a poor place," says the woman, whose round face is framed in a black shawl, "but we will give you every attention."
poor, indeed! nothing of the kind. the windows are unbroken, the roof intact, the doors will shut, and there is a fire in the stove. in a small room a couple of beds and a mattress laid on the floor are to be placed at our disposal.
the owners of the house sleep in the cellar. the consequence is that we are masters for the time being, one of the advantages-perhaps the only one—of the bombardment.
numbers of parcels arrive. beneath the stupefied gaze of the achains, we unpack tins of preserved food, which jules arranges on a sideboard. jules explains that we belong to the most refined and select classes of society. it is a mania of his to proclaim everywhere that we are persons of distinction. we make our appearance, tired to death and covered with mud, bundled up in mufflers, with shaggy cadaverous faces, carrying rifles, haversacks, pipes, mud, and making a horrible clatter. our hosts, troubled by such an invasion, at first manifest a certain degree of reserve, but jules speedily finds reassuring words; he exhorts us to mend our manners, and pays court to the ladies. a most valuable fellow, jules!
he is a native of franche-comté. evidently[pg 168] this district does not produce thin sorry-looking specimens of humanity. jules possesses the frame and physique of a wrestler. his big shining face, flanked with enormous ears, is illumined by two small eyes which give the impression that he may be a very difficult person to deal with.
jules is a born orderly. he has far more opportunities for exercising his subtlety behind the trenches than on the line; his vocation is to supply us with stores from outside the recognized limits. when on this quest, he fears no one and will go anywhere.
in september he had not been a couple of hours on duty before giving proof of his abilities: he found roberty's canteen, which had gone astray during the retreat, replenished our store of tobacco, and brought back with him a rabbit, a fowl, three litres of wine and a bottle of spirits.
"you can put this latter into your coffee," he said; "it will then be worth drinking."
on the day we enticed him away, jules, having lost his lieutenant, had also lost his position as orderly, and forfeiting his privileges occupied a lower position in the ranks. the adjutant, whose offers he had scorned, told him dryly that he would return to the squadron without any position at all. jules did not like disputes, and pretended to submit to his destiny. he resumed his place in the squadron, though only to occupy himself with our personal affairs, in spite of officials, roll-calls and laws.
the personal affairs of six soldiers in the second[pg 169] class do not seem a very serious matter, especially in such busy times. still, it took all jules' activity to attend to them.
"i say, old fellow, we are coming down from the outposts this evening and sleeping in the village. run along and find us a house."
jules pretends to be considerably embarrassed. he raises his arms, takes his képi between his first finger and thumb, and scratching his head with his other three fingers, says—
"that's just your way! jules, find me this, or jules, find me that! this very morning, jules cut the roll-call to do your messages, and the corporal marked him absent."
"come! come! not so much talk. we shall be in the village by nightfall. you must get there before us. we rely on you for beds and dinner."
"what if i am caught by the gendarmes? or suppose i meet the colonel?"
then we appeal to his vanity—
"you can easily outwit all the gendarmes in the place. and a fellow like you is clever enough to make up some plausible tale that will satisfy the colonel."
an appeal is also made to his interests. nothing further is needed, and when, five minutes afterwards, some one calls for jules, he has disappeared.
the lodging is found and dinner in full swing. jules confides to the company in general—
"at first the mistress refused to lodge six[pg 170] soldiers. but i talked her round. besides, i gave her to understand that you were real gentlemen."
the natives of the south of france may be braggarts; anyhow, this one from the franche-comté could easily give them points. if mention is made of a farmer's wife or even of some lady of the manor within a radius of ten leagues, jules begins to cluck like a hen, to slap his hands on his thighs, and with appropriate gestures he gives us to understand that he knows the lady in question very well indeed.
in his own district he was attached to a farm, and in his leisure hours he most certainly gave himself up to poaching.
not on account of the war will he abandon his petty occupations. no, indeed, something must be done to break the monotony of trench life.
from time to time, in spite of gendarmes and regulations, jules trips over to soissons. he returns with an entire bazaar in his musettes.
"i sell it all again, you know, at cost price," he explains. "there are times when i lose."
"of course!"
the other day he brought back a small hunting carbine. he also managed to procure the whole paraphernalia required for making snares and traps.
he is away for hours at a time, prowling about the woods, risking a court-martial a score of times, all to bring back a few tom-tits. on his return, blood and feathers are sticking to his fingers.
[pg 171]
"you savage!" exclaims verrier. "doesn't war provide you with sufficient opportunities to satisfy your bloodthirsty instincts? why should you go and kill tiny birds like these?"
"don't cry over it; i am going to cook them for you, along with a few slices of bacon...."
to-day, thanks to jules, we are en famille with the achains. the little girl, ten years of age, has pretty blue eyes and light hair, confined in a black shawl, like her mother's. she looks at haversacks, rifles, and musettes, and asks in drawling accents—
"do you really carry all these things on your back?"
indeed, the haversacks do look of a respectable size: on the top the cover, rolled in the sleeping-bag; to the left, a tent canvas; to the right, a rubber mantle; in the middle, a cooking utensil; inside, linen and tobacco, a thread and needle-case, slippers, a large packet of letters, and reserve provisions. the whole weighs nearly thirty-five pounds. the musettes, too, are of enormous bulk, swollen with provisions, toilet utensils, a ball of bread, evidently so called because it is flat, spirit-flask, knife, fork, and spoon, a tin plate, and lastly a few packets of cartridges. at the bottom is a confused mass of tobacco and matches, bread-crumbs, and earth.
sergeant chaboy announces en passant—
"be ready at five o'clock, my boys. it is the section's turn to act as artillery support at the montagne farm."
[pg 172]
the germans are beginning to fire upon the village. at four o'clock the bombardment is at its height. impossible to remain in the streets.
the light begins to fade, and the projectiles become fewer and fewer. the section musters.
the montagne farm is isolated right in the centre of a plain which overlooks bucy, and on which several batteries of our 75's have been installed.
every day the germans pour showers of projectiles on to the position. this evening their shells set fire to a straw-rick. the flames illumine the whole summit, throw into relief the desolate outlines of the trees, and project their lurid reflections on to the surrounding buildings. we hear the crackling of the straw as the flaming sprays are carried away in the distance. the section slowly advances towards the farm in columns of twos. we halt on reaching a stable, where we find a quantity of thick litter. all the better, for it is bitterly cold; several degrees below zero.
at midnight i am on guard with reymond in front of the door. it is a clear, starry night. we hide ourselves in a corner against one of the pillars of the doorway, to obtain shelter from the icy north wind. here we stand for a couple of hours. what is there for us to do? we begin by expressing, as anatole france says: "most innocent thoughts in most crude terms."
away in the distance the dull roar of a cannon. the shrieking sound draws nearer.
[pg 173]
"appears as though it were meant for us!"
the shell whirls past and bursts a hundred yards from the door.
a grunt of satisfaction on finding that the explosion has taken place at a safe distance.
one observation: the shrieking of shells almost at the end of their course reminds one of the howl of a dog baying the moon.
shots follow one another. every minute the distant "boom," then the hissing sound, which gradually grows more intense, and finally the explosion, a rending crash close at hand, followed by vibrations and the noise of broken branches. not the slightest refuge for us.
"not often have i been annoyed as i am this evening," remarks one of us.
"nor i either!" remarks the other.
"they might have waited till we had finished sentry duty before bombarding us."
renewed explosions. the door slightly opens, and the head of corporal chevalier appears.
"is the bombardment pretty violent?"
"bah! nothing extraordinary."
"the fact is—the lieutenant has sent me to say that, if things begin to look too serious, you may return. useless to get killed for nothing."
we would gladly have profited by the permission. chevalier, however, does not belong to our squadron. consequently we politely reply—
"all right, corporal, our best thanks to the lieutenant. we may as well finish our watch."
[pg 174]
chevalier's head disappears. the door shuts. fresh shells.
"how stupid of us to swagger in this way!" we reflect.
on coming to relieve us, the two following sentries, after muffling themselves up by lantern light, ask—
"a pretty heavy bombardment just now, eh?"
i have the audacity to reply—
"ah! we did not even pay attention to it, we were talking."
and so, "la tempeste finie, panurge faict le bon compaignon," as rabelais said.
monday, 23rd november.
the lieutenant appears at the door and calls out—
"everybody under shelter, to the grottoes. the bombardment is beginning again."
at that moment, indeed, a projectile dashes down upon one of the farm buildings, smashing in the stable roof. to reach the grottoes we have to run a hundred yards through the darkness. we are in the open. those who have candles light them. tableau. the grotto has been transformed into a sheep-fold. several hundreds of sheep are moving to and fro, bleating all the time in stupid fashion.
meanwhile, the german artillery is raining upon the farm and its outhouses. a fowl is killed on a dunghill by a shrapnel ball. what with the boom of the cannon and the bleating of the sheep,[pg 175] the hours pass very slowly. reymond, however, pilots us over the grotto as though it were a gallery of roman catacombs. provided with a piece of candle, he mumbles away like a sexton: "questo è la tomba di santa cecilia; tutto marmo antico!" when the cannonade stops, out in the yard he organizes a fancy bullfight, in which each of us, supplied with the necessary accessories, in turn impersonates the bull, the espada, the banderillero, the picador, or the disembowelled steed.
we play like schoolboys at recreation time, until we are quite out of breath with laughter and exertion, and then sit down on the very spot around which shells have so recently been falling.
the prussians have fired forty thousand francs' worth of munitions and have killed a fowl, which, by the way, our own gunners have eaten!
on the section returning to bucy, the general impression is summed up in the remark—
"after all, it has been rare sport!"
tuesday, 24th november.
snow is falling, and so we remain indoors. the postman's visit forms our only distraction. after yesterday's uproar the guns are quiet to-day. no set of men are ever so capricious as gunners. the inhabitants of bucy, who have spent a day and a night crouching in their cellars, walk about the streets this afternoon as though everything were once more normal. there is little damage[pg 176] done to the streets, since the germans mainly fired with their 77's.
wednesday, 25th november.
a lieutenant is chatting at the hospital door with the major. all of a sudden he falls to the ground. we gather round him, and find that he has received a bullet in the abdomen. the street opposite the hospital being perpendicular to the german trenches, spent bullets sometimes take it in enfilade, and an accident happens.
during roll-call, which takes place in the main street, a shrapnel explodes on a neighbouring house. broken tiles rain down upon us. instinctively we "form a carapace." the lieutenant has not stirred a muscle. "surely," he remarks, "you are not going to get excited over a little falling dirt. attention!" we all line up and stand at attention. the next moment the ranks are broken, and each man returns to his quarters, laughing and joking at the incident.
after all, we make a jest of everything. this is the secret of that dash and enthusiasm boasted of in the official communiqués, and about which civilians must have the most vague ideas. the good humour that has stood a campaign of four months must be in the grain; at all events, it is of quite a special kind.
the source of our morale lies in the fact that we accept life as we find it.
this evening the company returns to the trenches and sleeps in the grotto.
[pg 177]
thursday, 26th november.
the frost has disappeared; now we have a thaw with its inevitable filth and mud. the entrance of the grotto is a veritable sewer. we enter along slippery slopes, almost impassable.
latest news from the kitchens: the regiment is about to leave for the fort of arche, near epinal, unless it goes on to amiens ... unless, again, it remains here.
this evening, in the grotto, maxence lies on his back smoking a cigarette. he murmurs softly to reymond, who is making a sketch, some lines from the fêtes galantes—
au calme clair de lune triste et beau
qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres
et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,
les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres.
varlet, naked down to the waist, turns round and round, rolling himself in his flannel girdle, one end of which is held tight by meuret, who is always ready to lend a helping hand. mauventre, piaf, and the "fireman" are playing cards with the corporal, making comments on each move. charensac crouches down, drawing up an inventory of the wealth he has stored away in his haversack. the rest, rolled snugly in their coverings, sleep and snore.
friday, 27th november.
our artillery vigorously bombards the enemy's trenches. nothing to do except watch the shells—and the rain—fall.
[pg 178]
saturday, 28th november.
in the front line the section occupies a new sector, not yet completed. a misty maddening rain chills us to the very bones. impossible to see twenty yards in front of one. the kind of weather which gives you the impression that the sun has left this world and will never return.
sunday, 29th november.
the 24th goes down to bucy at six in the evening.
our hosts know the hour we are to be relieved. they expect us.
"sainte vierge, what a filthy condition you are in!" exclaims madame achain.
we are delighted to see our beds once again. madame achain would gladly change the bed linen, if she had any—but she has not, and one must not be too dainty in war time.
monday, 30th november.
another quiet day spent by the fireside in conversation, playing cards and writing letters.
this morning jacquard is charged with the making of our chocolate. when the six bowls, filled to the brim, are on the table, he calls out—
"come, messieurs, breakfast is waiting, messieurs!"
how grandiloquent it sounds!
we appear, only half awake, slouching along in slippers and old shoes. if perchance the chocolate is boiled too much or too little, if it[pg 179] is too thick or too thin, then the patient jacquard must submit to sarcastic reproaches, to complaints from men who, most assuredly, would not tolerate the slightest inconvenience!
tuesday, 1st december.
to-day we are road-labourers, an occupation lacking interest, though preferable to that of grave-digger.
the section has been ordered to clean the pont-rouge road, in anticipation of the visit of the general. we start with shovels and brooms on our shoulders. luckily, it is not raining. the pont-rouge road is filthy; that, however, is its slightest defect: it is also infested with projectiles. we are not enthusiastic about the work. no one is wounded.
wednesday, 2nd; thursday, 3rd december.
at eight o'clock the company musters in a farmyard, proceeding to a field north of bucy for drill. the soil is ploughed by huge shells which daily continue to fall. fortunately they have so far chosen a different hour from ours, thus avoiding unpleasant encounters. here we have section school: "count off in fours! right wheel! line up! shoulder arms! right! left turn!—left!"
the men man?uvre in very lethargic fashion. even the words of command have no life in them. the sergeant shouts out—
"right-about turn!—right!"
[pg 180]
he adds—
"this isn't a march at all, it's a paddle!"
towards the end of the drill we deploy in skirmish line, and fling ourselves on our knees before a hail of imaginary bullets.
"let each man practise the right position for charging. fire three cartridges at the enemy debouching at the outskirts of the wood. three hundred yards—fire!"
the lieutenant pleads with us—
"come, come, if you will drill well for five minutes i will march you back to quarters."
it is the greatest mistake in the world to drill without putting one's heart into it. as belin emphatically says—
"troops that cannot do manual exercises are no better than a flock of sheep."
and the rascal is right, too, as he always is.
friday, 4th december.
at night the company musters to mount to the trenches. on the right, for a few hundred yards, we proceed along the side of the wood, whilst to the left stretches an endless field of beetroots, in the midst of which the germans are entrenched. in this field has been dug the branch leading to the first line. it is completely dark, and the ground is quite soft; the twenty-five minutes' crossing of this branch is a most disagreeable piece of work. we knock against all sorts of corners, slip about, and fall against the slimy walls.
passages open out from time to time; these[pg 181] are second-line trenches, or else branches connecting together the various sectors. moreover, first- and second-line trenches resemble the branches, though somewhat wider and provided with earthen parapets in the direction of the enemy.
we are all on duty until nine o'clock. the germans fire their rifles to inform us that they are there. we blaze away in their direction for the same reason.
about ten everything is calm. it is raining. earth and sky seem blended in one general flood.
varlet, with his hood, looks like a dwarf out of some book of fairy tales; jacquard wears a knitted helmet, out of which emerges a fan-shaped beard; he covers his shoulders with an oil-cloth stole. he looks like a chorister masquerading as a crusader. reymond, draped in a huge khaki poncho, might have been a member of the holy league.
the walls of the trench are slippery and fall in. there are but few dug-outs, scarcely any of which can be used because of the water finding its way through the badly jointed planks. the only possible shelter consists of kennels made on the surface of the ground, into which a man may coil himself. take care, however, lest they fall in!
we can do nothing but submit to the rain, and let ourselves be submerged. this is no longer war, it's a deluge.
[pg 182]
saturday, 5th december.
everybody must be up on watch duty before dawn. this is the regulation hour for counter-attacks.... as a rule it is the quietest time of the day. about seven the cooks bring coffee and letters. after swallowing the one and devouring the others, there remains but little to do; we doze about, play cards, perhaps, in case we find a sufficiently dry spot. or we may be sent off on a cleaning expedition, scraping the mud away from the floor of the branch trench.
about noon the cooks appear again—
"lunch-time!"
there are two of them—piaf and the "fireman" in shirt-sleeves—one carrying the dish full of meat, the other carrying the two big vessels containing respectively soup and coffee.
they fill our plates and gamelles. our hands are caked with earth. the "fireman" pours out for each man a little of the mess alcohol—a nasty mixture containing tincture of iodine; we swallow it like whey. frequently there is wine to drink. we drag out the meal to kill time.
from half-past three onwards we are very impatient. we shall not be relieved before nightfall. by reason of the narrowness of branches and trenches it becomes most difficult to make room for the new arrivals. they can pass along only when we squeeze ourselves into a corner, like herrings in a barrel. to-night the company is not going down into the grotto; it must occupy another emplacement, also in the front line.
[pg 183]
appearance of a german engine which we immediately nickname the "torpedo"—a formidable explosion preceded by no hissing sound whatsoever; a blinding flash, prolonged vibrations, projectiles flung in every direction. at first we are somewhat stupefied. as i am carrying an order from the lieutenant to the adjutant, a torpedo explodes on the parapet, lifts a couple of men off their feet and covers me with earth. no one is hurt. this new invention seems to make more noise than it does injury—on condition, of course, that the projectile does not come down direct on the trench itself.
sunday, 6th december.
this morning the sun is shining! how pleasant not to have one's head bowed and one's back bent before the storm! several days of incessant rain have transformed the trenches into streams of mud. we sink over our ankles in a slimy, yellowish cream. third night in the first line.
monday, 7th december.
we are relieved at five in the afternoon. we run through the branches in all the greater hurry because we are going to our quarters. every dozen steps we slip or stumble.
i managed to reach the achains' before the rest to order dinner. on the threshold i have to answer the invariable question: "no one missing?" i reply gaily—
[pg 184]
"of course not, but we are all very dirty and tired, and as hungry as wolves."
after removing our trappings and leaning our rifles in a corner, whilst awaiting the arrival of our friends, we relate the paltry happenings of the last four days: the dark nights and heavy rainfall, the skirmishes, the bombardment, etc.
"and what of you here, has much damage been caused?"
the fact is that our village is being shelled almost daily, but the inhabitants scarcely pay attention to it. they have acquired somewhat of our mentality as soldiers, just as we have adopted something of their peasant nature. they know that in war one must be astonished at nothing.
no, this time no great damage has been done.
"a 150 shell exploded in madame b.'s garden, over there on the right, and père untel just missed being killed in his loft by a spent ball."
we remark gravely—
"all the same, things look bad."
we shake our heads just as old fogies do when the crops are likely to prove a failure.
one old dame asks anxiously—
"at all events, you'll not let them come back here?"
at this moment our comrades burst in, jacquard at the head, haversack on back, pipe in mouth, muddy and all muffled up. his big face, with its shaggy beard, beams with goodwill. he[pg 185] brandishes his big rifle in his small arms and thunders forth—
"let them come back! no indeed, my good woman; they'd have to pass over our bodies first!"
we approve of what he says, and succeed in calming him down.
the mistress, an optimist, declares in her country accent—
"shall i tell you what i think?"
"certainly."
"well, then, some fine day they will clear off without any one suspecting it."
"mon dieu, for my part, i shouldn't object if——"
our existence is now as well regulated as that of any government official: four days in the trenches, four days at bucy, four days in the trenches, and so on.
how glad we are to get back to the house and our old habits!
yes, we keep to these habits, though they are far different from those we followed in the bygone days of peace. it may be that we do so because we know them to be so fragile and uncertain, like ourselves, and at the mercy of the least of the hazards of war.
after dinner, then, one game of cards, two, three. some other game as an occasional novelty, though we always return to the noble game of manilla.
milliard goes from house to house with the[pg 186] letters for each squadron. here he comes. a sound of footsteps in the yard. we raise our heads; is it he? it is. he knocks on the window-pane. we all spring to the door. the postman is welcomed as eagerly as though he were the bearer of victory and peace. he draws up to the lamp, reads the envelopes, and sits down. if there are but few letters he apologizes.
henriot and he chatter away by the fireside for a few minutes.
"come, boys, quick, give me your letters," says milliard. "i have three more squadrons to serve."
our thanks follow him right into the yard.
to bed early this evening.
tuesday, 8th december.
we do the best we can to clean our clothes. a knife has to be used for scraping coats and puttees, to which great scales of mud are sticking. disputes burst out. who is the first for the hand-basin?
some such remark as the following is heard—
"you're not going to keep it all to yourself, as you did last time, i suppose?"
the charge of selfishness is the one most frequently hurled at another man's head.
"you make use of it yourself first," says one man, "and then you think of others."
"well, and what of yourself? yesterday you refused me a bar of chocolate, because of the[pg 187] trouble it would have given you to unfasten your haversack."
"and you, the other day when preparing mess, didn't you go away and leave me to carry a huge pail all alone? did you, or did you not?"
such is the conversation of heroes!
the whole of the first day in quarters is spent in cleaning. at night all six of us appear shaven and brushed, combed and washed, and the far niente begins. a feeling of boredom comes over us. there is nothing to remind us that we are at war, none of war's accoutrements, at all events. reymond has adopted a colourist's costume to rest in: a black and yellow streaked cap, a short green woollen jacket, blue cloth trousers, grey gaiters, a violet girdle from which hangs a broad knife in its sheath, a red and white-specked tobacco-pouch, and a long wick of orange-coloured tinder. the effect seems to him harmonious, and the lieutenant who happened to pass along and dropped in a few minutes ago appeared delighted and somewhat surprised.
the rest content themselves with a more sober get-up, though just as little military in style: blue cloth or chestnut velvet trousers, slippers, and frequently a woollen cap.
nothing happens of a nature to enliven our existence. drill in the morning, but this is something it is impossible to "cut."
between meals i write letters. maxence, seated near the fire, with his legs crossed and his[pg 188] hand under his chin, smokes cigarettes. he muses, and at the same time keeps an eye on a rice pudding on the point of boiling over. this native of franche-comté feasts on the most insipid things, and obstinately refuses to drink wine or to eat cheese. fond of hunting, he chatters away to jules, who comes from the same province. landed proprietor and poacher discuss the different methods of tracking a hare, and talk seriously about other matters connected with hunting. in a corner varlet reads everything he can lay his hands on, even old illustrated journals. sometimes he starts off on an expedition and brings back a leg of mutton. jacquard, a jack-of-all-trades, is always doing something, either cooking or repairing. verrier, our treasurer, slowly and minutely brings the accounts up to date, with the gravity and seriousness he bestows on everything he undertakes. simply watching him roll a cigarette enables one to see that he never does anything lightly.
about noon the petit parisien reaches 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,[pg 189] 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 sometimes verrierus 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-br?lé."
saturday, 12th december.
bad news from russia....
at six in the evening we return to the trenches.[pg 190] 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 a gamelle. 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 difficult[pg 191] to 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!"
[pg 192]
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 antenn? 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 to[pg 193] prevent 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.
five poilus give 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.
[pg 194]
here comes the major. he has just finished breakfast with the colonel, who is staying at the chateau 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 formula[pg 195] implying 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.
