AT this time the N.C.O.’s were not forced to do fatigue work (it appears that is changed now), and as it is human nature never to be satisfied with the lot that falls to one, the sergeants complained bitterly of this favourable treatment. Ungrateful beings, they forgot how they had rejoiced in the winter, when, sheltered in the huts, they had gathered round the fire while their comrades, at the mercy of the elements, passed days in the rain. It is true that now it was different; the spring had come, it was fine, and the fresh and tender green, seen in the distance like a light mist over trees and shrubs, made the sight of the sand, which stretched away grey, dirty and monotonous, still more painful than usual.

For those who for two months had been harbouring plans of escape, it was necessary to get out of the camp. It was the first step they had to take. They would thus find an opportunity of familiarising themselves with the civilians, of studying the surroundings of the camp, of seeing how it was guarded, of learning the lie of the land. For the others, boredom and the need of movement, the spring constituted the chief and only motives. And what good it would do us all, tired out with our long confinement. Moreover, we felt curious to see what the men had been admiring so much every day.

The spring had come with its charm, as it comes every year, and had filled our hearts with an irresistible desire to wander, a need to stretch our muscles, to fill our lungs with the sweet-scented, life-giving air. We wished to go out to enjoy the sunshine freely, that is to say, far from the barbed wire; we wanted to rejoice in newly awakened nature; to see a stretch of water, a stream, cultivated lands, houses; to hear the warbling of birds and the silvery notes of a chime of bells pealing from the belfry of a church. We longed to look at the smiling face of a child full of grace and health.

We were unanimous about going. Our company had to supply a fatigue party; we decided to take part in it. We were six good friends. Together we prepared our provisions; one supplied sardines, another a pie, a third white bread,—that delicious white bread that came from France,—a fourth jam, gingerbread, etc. The menu was fixed. Then each of us managed as best he could to get a coat without stripes.

Altogether excited by this event to which we looked forward, like children anticipating a long-promised picnic, we did not go to sleep till late, for we were troubled by the thought of a thousand interruptions, which might put an end to our pleasure-party outside the camp. If the commander should forbid our departure, if ... and then ...!! This day, so much longed for, was also awaited with a certain apprehension; would the work be too much for our strength, weakened as we were by too long a period of idleness?

Early on the appointed day we were ready, and closely reviewed each other’s equipment. Not a stripe was to be seen; our knapsacks were crammed full, as if for a journey of several days. Everything went off as well as could be wished.

We set off, escorted to the gates by the men of our hut, who were astonished and amused. “The N.C.O.’s going on fatigue!”

It was the first of May. The day gave promise of being glorious. In lines of four, between two rows of sentinels, we left the camp.

The march was slow, desperately slow; but the ordinary workers knew that the few minutes gained on the way there were so many minutes taken from work, so we were obliged to restrain our impatient steps. Oh that stirring sound of marching feet on the firm high road! What recollections it called up, what marches in the company of friends, alas, no longer living! What joyful stages towards the enemy whom we wished to drive back! What hours of weariness also, when, our shoulders bruised and bowed by the weight of our knapsacks, we were obliged to go on, day and night, fleeing before the invader!

The high road! At last for the first time for long months we were marching on firm ground. No longer did our feet sink into the soft sand of the camp. Our walk was lighter; it was as if chains had fallen from us. And the road which stretched in front gave us the illusion of liberty.

The hedges were clothed in tender green, the young crops were springing up in the fields, the sky was an intense blue; hidden in the trees, the birds poured out their souls in song.

This joy, this feeling of liberty, quickly takes possession of us. The smile of a rosy-cheeked, fair-haired child, who walks barefooted beside the “Franzosen,” proud and happy to hold one of them by the hand, the voice of a young girl singing, the sight of an inn shining cleanly with its red tiles and green shutters, strike a gay note; the cool refreshing air, the bird that suddenly rises and flies away, the calf that starts on a mad race across the field, all these things make us feel free, and seem to us like a hymn of gratitude to the Creator in which unconsciously we take part, till the moment when our joy, having reached its height, is brusquely turned into grief and our happiness is dispersed, leaving us with our sadness.

But let us drive away gloomy thoughts—the day is made for joy. Now see the Frenchmen outrival each other in making fun of a Boche who passes, of an absent-minded sentinel who stumbles, of a “MÄdchen” who looks at us with a broad, sheepish smile, and then suddenly frightened casts her eyes on the ground between her dusty shoes. Then it is a joke on an exceedingly stout Teuton woman, a snatch of a song, a call to a cock in its own language, or to a duck, a cow or a pig seen on the way. It is the boisterousness of schoolboys at liberty, of a contagious exuberance of spirits. Life sparkles and even takes possession of our heavy guards themselves, whom these demonstrations amuse.

We pass a bridge guarded by the military. Here a broad winding river, bright and rapid, flows through fruitful plains. It was into this river that two of our comrades had plunged, while trying to escape, although they did not know how to swim. One was captured and killed on the spot. The other.... Let us be silent! Our thoughts go out to the unhappy man, who saw his efforts of no avail, when he had felt the joy of liberty for a quarter of an hour, and who died the victim of the useless brutality of a German patrol at the moment when he surrendered. And that after having lived for twenty-four hours in mortal terror.

We meet few people on the road. In the fields are women and children.

As we skirt the town we see huge sections of pipes in concrete. One of our men with a very serious air asks the sentinel if those are the 420 guns: “Kanonen? vier hundert und zwanzig?” and the sentinel replies gravely, “Nein,” in the learned manner of a spectacled professor.

We are taken across a drill-ground where recruits in dark-blue uniform are standing in line, motionless and as stiff as the tin soldiers of Nuremberg. Farther on an artillery recruit, who does not lie down quickly enough to please his “Feldwebel,” hears a torrent of oaths poured on him; they sound like the grating of a rusty chain. Each of the imprecations is accompanied by a kick or a cut with the flat of the sword, both destined to inculcate quickness into the stupid head of a trooper ... and so on!

Now we have arrived at the timber-yard, where is a sawmill. We must cut, saw, chop and carry enormous tree-trunks which are piled as high as a house.

Just as they come to hand a workman distributes saws, hatchets, crowbars to the hands stretched out for them. What are we going to do? At last here is our chance. They ask for six men to work without tools. With a jump we rush out of our ranks, all six of us. What luck! We follow our guard, who walks off. After having traversed the factory we arrive at a place which looks on the river. This is to be our workshop. A workman has joined us; he explains to the sentinel what we have to do.

Just the time to place our knapsacks out of the sun, to take off our coats and turn up our sleeves, and there we are ready to work—in appearance at least, for we have firmly decided not to over-fatigue ourselves.

At first we let the sentinel try to explain the nature of the work we are to do. We listen without understanding to the poor man, who speaks and gesticulates in vain, and our faces are impassive and empty of thought. At last in despair he puts down his gun, mounts a truck and makes the action of discharging the four or five tree-trunks that are there. This mimicry recalls the game of “trades,” which was the joy of our childhood.

We have understood! Now that the Boche has exhausted his breath, exerted himself, put himself in a perspiration to make us understand, one of us, who knows German perfectly, sums up his instructions in a few words, to the great astonishment of our sentinel. Our comrade explains to him what is to be done; the Boche nods his head. Yes, that is it, he understands perfectly; it would not take much to make him take off his coat and help. As for us, we have no great desire to begin, so we engage him in a long conversation concerning the rights and prerogatives of socialists.

It is the first of May; he is a workman. A democratic socialist? He confesses it timidly. He knows perfectly well that one does not work a stroke on that day. Already, tired of standing, we sit on the trunks in a ring round the Teuton, who tries to reconcile his socialistic theories, which he cannot give up, with his duty as a German soldier. Seriously brought to book he capitulates. After all, he is there to guard us and not to survey our work. Let us do what we like. He prefers, however, that we should not get him into trouble, for the General is severe.

Then we take the waggon by assault, and we try to unload the heavy trunks from it. All in vain. We have soon been there an hour, and the trunks repose in peace in the same place where we found them. The workman comes back. With a glance—that professional glance which nothing can deceive—he sees that we are not men of the trade. We set about it so badly that the best will in the world does not succeed in moving the smallest of the trunks. The workman acknowledges with pity the uselessness of our united efforts. Ah, these French! They have no energy; they don’t know how to work.

He takes hold of a crowbar, gives a heave here, a heave there, and behold, a trunk leaves the waggon and falls by its weight on the earth. Exclamations of admiration without reserve on our part: “Ach, WunderschÖn, Kolossal!” The workman is proud of himself!

Now that we are initiated into the business, the waggons are unloaded fairly quickly.

But how hot it is! With common accord we make our way to our knapsacks. The astonished sentinel advances. We stop him, calling out that we have worked enough, that it is the first of May, that we are going on strike. He shakes his head in despair, and turns his eyes another way not to witness our reprehensible want of discipline. Then we sit down. “FrÜhstÜck,” we say, and we break the bread. Overcome by curiosity the guard approaches and casts his eyes on the box of preserves which we take out. He enjoys the sight of our “Delikatessen,” which he nevertheless refuses to share with us, although we invite him, as a brother socialist to do so.

After an interval of about half an hour the work begins again. At any moment we risk grazing our hands, crushing our feet and leaving some fragments of our epidermis on the rough bark of the trees. But it is nothing really, and we enjoy ourselves hugely. The landscape which stretches before us is glorious. How lovely it would be to plunge into the limpid stream that flows at our feet!

Eleven o’clock. All the waggons are empty. While waiting for others to arrive let us play a game of Bridge—and there we are sitting down with one of our coats to serve as table. The sentinel approaches and without understanding the game watches us play. To the great joy of his simple soul he has recognised the figures on the cards and finds that the French cards are like the German ones.

The arrival of several loads does not trouble our quarter of an hour’s repose. The sentinel gets impatient, walks round us ill at ease, then at last remarks that it is not yet time to rest, that we must go on working till dinner-time. Then gravely and with the air of a grand-duke one of us declares to him that we are not forced to work, that we are “Unteroffizieren,” that we have come out to amuse ourselves, and that we shall work only when we feel inclined. The Boche is disconcerted. Respectful of rule and yet curious, he asks what rank each of us has, so as to know if we are really N.C.O.’s. “All,” and with a look round he takes in with bewilderment such an imposing group. He does not know what to say, and dares not ask us to go on with work which we could not be forced to do. We get up, however, and, joking all the time, go back to the unloading.

Midday. The sound of a whistle, cutting the air like the bursting of a shell, announces the hour of lunch.

With good appetites gained from the fresh air and the unaccustomed work, we do credit to our food. All the time our guard remains near us, curious to see what we are eating.

Time passes rapidly and we are soon back again at work. We go on happily till something happens to check our zeal. An enormous trunk has fallen so awkwardly that it is difficult to displace it. We unite our efforts and try to move it to the rhythm of our voices, shouting, “One, two, one, two.” The echo in the distance sends back these French cries that Germany has to put up with. And, after all, the utterance of these numbers is the only result of our united efforts.

However, the sentinel, who thinks these efforts sincere, lays down his rifle and comes to our help. His energetic efforts would have been enough to move the tree if some of us had not by a counter-pressure destroyed the effect. The sentinel redoubled his exertions, and we had all the trouble in the world to prevent the tree from rolling. It was hot!

The civilian workman providentially enters on the scene at the critical moment, a true Deus ex machina of the ancient tragedies. He understands our difficulty, and thinks it his duty to come and help us. Without apparent effort he succeeds in displacing the heavy piece of wood. Our astonishment knows no limits. One by one we pull ourselves upright, we let go our hold, and we contemplate with an astonished air this enormous trunk which seems quietly to obey the charm of the crowbar that the workman manipulates.

But how tiring and fatiguing it is to admire standing; we go and sit down on the neighbouring trunks, pretending to wipe our faces, which are shamefully dry. By our exclamations of praise, we encourage the sentinel and the workman, who think it a point of honour for them alone to hurl into space the trunk they have set free from an awkward position. We rest and fan ourselves.

The scene is worth a sketch, which should be entitled, as one of us cynically remarks: “French prisoners at work under their guard of the German jailers.”

The tree falls heavily down the slope. The two Boches triumphantly draw themselves up, they alone have been able to do what six Frenchmen were incapable of doing. How hot they have made themselves! While they take breath, they allow us to rest also. We enter into conversation. We go into admiration over their strength and skill. The workman, full of contempt, declares that he saw we were not accustomed to that kind of work.

It was then that the sentinel told him who we were, and they questioned us a great deal about our professions, and were greatly astonished at the positions we occupy in France. Full of timid respect they repeat each one’s occupation, pointing us out with their finger as they do so.

The disdain of a short time ago is transformed into admiration, which they can scarcely contain. Then the workman disappears. But like the good Boche that he is, he goes at once to the manager of the sawmills and tells him that men, highly placed in the commercial world and in the university world are working at his mill incognito.

The manager, who is a simple fellow,—he is a self-made man, and curiosity is not the least of his faults,—comes hurrying to us immediately. We are just getting up to go back to our work, but he signs to us to remain seated. He is a nervous little man, with a face like a weasel; his restless, mobile physiognomy is lighted up by two piercing grey eyes. On his head is a bowler hat covered with sawdust. He wears an old coat much frayed and darned all over, the pockets are bulging with notebooks. The end of a folding measure sticks out from his trousers pocket. Gaily, without preamble, he begins by pitying the prisoners for the fatigue they must feel in doing manual work to which they are not accustomed. With the perspicacity, delicacy and tact of a sergent de ville making an inquiry, he asks us if it is really true that we are all “Unteroffizieren,” and then with a tear in his eye he speaks of his son who is also a N.C.O. and who has not come back. It gives him pleasure to talk of the missing man to “his colleagues.” He is proud of it. He holds forth and soon tells us about his troubles, his moral torments, his business trials, the scarcity of men, the terrible price of food, etc. etc.

When he has given vent to his feelings his curiosity gains the upper hand. He questions us and does not disguise his admiration and his astonishment. “Kaufmann! Ach! So. BuchhÄndler! SchÖn! Oberlehrer! Professor!” Here he is a little puzzled. He looks in vain for the spectacles that tradition has fixed on the noses of the learned. In order to convince him, one of us declares that this ornament, this symbol of learning, was left on the battlefield where our “Herr Professor” was wounded and captured. A half-timid respect takes hold of this simple man, for whom titles mean so much. Very soon he will thank us for having condescended to honour his sawmill with our august presence. His admiration is greater than his love of gain, and he begs us not to overtire ourselves. We must not work more than is enough to distract us by a little healthy exercise, we must take care of ourselves. Then the conversation turns naturally on general politics and the war. The manager is thunderstruck by the splendid confidence which the Frenchmen profess, and who—the Gazette de Cologne in their hand—nevertheless certify that the victory is on the side of the Allies, and who prove it too in a clear, peremptory and conclusive manner. The poor old man’s confidence begins to be shaken. Should he doubt his Kaiser! Potius mori!

After having offered a cigar to each of us, he makes us promise to come back the next day, and goes away proud that the French N.C.O.’s have deigned to discuss things with him, a poor “HoltzhÄndler.”

Four o’clock. A break allowed of a quarter of an hour.

A young workman came and hid a little osier basket, covered with a white napkin, behind some tree trunks. After having placed it carefully in the shade he went away without saying a word. Then the sentinel tells us that the contents are for us, that it is bread and butter that the manager sends us. (The gods are kind!) He, it seems, was much impressed by our gentlemanly manners and wished to allow us some small privilege. But we are warned to show discretion, and not to let any one know we have been the object of special attention. If the authorities should learn that he had favoured the prisoners there would be trouble, and they would withdraw his gang of workers.

Hidden from curious eyes, we sat and ate our “Butterbrod” and drank our “Flaschebier,” that beer of which the prisoners were, by Draconian decrees, deprived from the first day of their captivity. At the bottom of the basket we found packets of cigarettes.

The Boche had treated us well!

However, we could not say that kindness was his only motive, for we knew with what harshness he treated our comrades.

This German had simply forgotten for a moment that we were enemies and prisoners. He only saw that we were superior to him in position and education, and it was with the customary subordination of the Teuton that he felt obliged to observe the laws of hospitality.

Thus it is throughout the social scale. The Boche is an animal to whom humiliation is a happiness. As he is pleased to bow down before a superior and lick his boots and grovel, so he finds joy in brutality, disdain, arrogance and haughtiness towards his inferiors. He alternately serves out or swallows disdain, blows, vexation, injuries and insults. In every Boche there is at once a Pasha and a dog. The hierarchy must be recognised in civil as in military life. Every one finds above him a superior, whom he flatters and fawns on, whose hands he licks, even though they strike him, and finds below him a scapegoat, patient and servile to the same degree.

The secret of success in Germany is for a man to let it be known that he is a degree above his neighbour in order to impose on him. It is a victory of this kind that we shall gain one day.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

In the young mists of the evening we regained the camp, but this corvÉe of the first of May had no morrow for us!