wednesday, 23rd december.
the third day in the front line. the section is on guard at the telephone. there is a good gourbi or 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 in[pg 209] paris 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 in don 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."
[pg 210]
"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 several patés 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.
[pg 211]
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 and ennui. 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 of[pg 212] the hand. the noisy merriment is intensified when we come to the chorus.
with frenzied enthusiasm the squadron shouts out the chorus of hervé's turcs—
nous, nous sommes les soldats
et 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 the bourrée."
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 and gamelles, 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 his képi.
thereupon charensac strikes a lyrical vein. he sings in the patois of auvergne, and, being in an expansive mood, relates the whole of his life,[pg 213] 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 the bourse 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 it[pg 214] is 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 a gamelle. 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 our crèche, where the candles have just flickered out. kings and[pg 215] shepherds lie pêle-mêle on 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 the[pg 216] germans 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?
[pg 217]
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 six poilus seated 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."
[pg 218]
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 the marseillaise!
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 the train 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 infor[pg 219]mation 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.[pg 220] 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.[pg 221] 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 c?sar or napoleon—
[pg 222]
"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 morning[pg 223] some 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, accompanied[pg 224] by the sound of the gamelle chains. 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—
[pg 225]
"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 a valet de chambre in 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."
[pg 226]
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 the figaro?"
agreed. i set to work. after scribbling away for an hour, i hand a few sheets across to reymond. after reading them, he declares—
[pg 227]
"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."
[pg 228]
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 the figaro, 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.
