BATTLES AND BIVOUACS illustration BATTLES & BIVOUACS A FRENCH SOLDIER'S NOTE-BOOK BY JACQUES ROUJON Translated by FRED ROTHWELL illustration LONDON: GEORGE ALLEN & UNWIN LTD. RUSKIN HOUSE 40 MUSEUM STREET, W.C. First published in 1916 (All rights reserved) I' leur semble qu'i'faut parler de la RamÉe, grenadier de Champagne, comme d'un prince dont auquel on ne risque rien de vanter toujours. I' vous lui mettent l'ÉpÉe À la main qu'Ça doit lui fatiguer le poignet furieusement et qu'on dirait qu'la RamÉe n'a jamais fait autre chose d'aussi meilleur ... I'n'faut pas se battre tous les jours: i' n'y aurait plus de plaisir. (Le Conte de La RamÉe.) CONTENTS
BATTLES AND BIVOUACS HUMES Tuesday, 11th August, 1914. Five o'clock in the morning. En route for the Gare de l'Est. All the same, as I turn the corner of the street in which I live, I experience a feeling of heartrending distress. I stop and glance back. Then I wave my hand to the window. Bah! I shall come back. It is a fine, sunny day. There are crowds of people in front of the station—men of every description, most of them wearing caps, but no shirt-collar, some with musettes[1] slung over the shoulder, others carrying a valise. A few belonging to the ranks are wearing uniforms quite out of date. Any amount of bustle and noise but no shrieks. Those who stay behind remain with cheeks glued to the iron railings, their eyes fixed on some particular individual until he is out of sight. On the platform I come across Verrier, a friend I have known all my life: at school, in the Latin Quarter, and during my military service. He is a tall, light-complexioned fellow, thin and pallid, very cool and self-possessed. We find that we are both to be sent to the same depot. As there are some seats unoccupied in a second-class carriage, we quickly take possession of them, delighted at the prospect of travelling elsewhere than on the floor. The train begins to move. We look at each other. "This time things are serious," remarks Verrier. Indeed, we have something more to think of than passing exams, at school or college, or being reviewed by the colonel. We spring to the window like the rest and shout out, "Vive la France!" Henceforward all our thoughts must be directed towards peace—peace along the path of victory. Our compartment is stiflingly hot. There are eight of us, belonging to every division of the service: artillery, cavalry, and infantry. Plunged suddenly into military life, we revive old memories and listen to interminable stories of stern adjutants and good-natured captains. A spirit of cordiality is immediately set up and at the same time a special brand of courtesy, for you have no idea to whom you may be talking; it is quite likely that the man in front of you will to-morrow be your corporal or your sergeant. Every one of us is determined to do his duty; this is so manifestly taken for granted that no one mentions the matter. William II comes in for severe criticism. "The whole thing's impossible. The Germans themselves will rise in revolt." "They will do nothing of the kind," interrupts one who has lived in Germany. "They will do their best to kill us all." "Whether they rise in revolt or not, they have Russia and England to deal with, and we also intend to do our share." General approval. No one doubts but that the victory will be speedy—within three months, or before Christmas at the latest. Provisions are distributed; we eat and drink. Toasts are passed. The train rumbles gently along; by noon we have only reached Villiers-sur-Marne. Along the whole length of the line stand people waving their handkerchiefs and wishing us good luck. Our stops are frequent and prolonged. From time to time we jump down to stretch our legs a little. A red disc bars the way. Behind our train waits another, which sets up a loud strident whistle. The engine starts afresh. A few kilometres farther along, another stop. At the stations they offer us fresh, clear water in pails; they even offer us wine. Everything is very welcome. It is sultry. Conversation begins to languish. Those who have a photograph of their children pass it round. We look at these portraits with the utmost sympathy and return them to the father, who apologizes for the fact that his eyes are brimming with tears. Night descends. The men, half asleep, drowsily nod their heads or drop them gently on to their neighbours' shoulders. Wednesday, 12th August. About three in the morning we reach Langres. In the dimly lit station a thousand men are moving to and fro, asking questions. At the exit stand sub-officers, holding above their heads, at the end of a pole, large boards stating the numbers of the regiments. They collect their reservists and carry them off. Is there no placard containing our number? What are we to do? I show my paper to an adjutant. "The 352nd, 27th company? You must go to Humes." "Humes! Where is that?" "Have you come here for me to give you a lesson in geography? Find your way there as best you can." A few paces away a detachment is forming: it is that of the 352nd. There are a hundred of us, and we are started along the road. Dawn appears. An hour and a half's march in silence. The men stagger along drowsily. We reach Humes, a village five or six kilometres distant from Langres, situated in the valley of the Marne. The houses are low, with thatched roofs. The sergeant calls a halt in one of the streets. Shortly we hear a commanding voice say— "Second section, muster!" Men issue from a shed near by, elbowing one another, some with and others without arms: this is the second section. They fall into line, form fours, and march off to drill, to the repeated call of one, two, one, two! "Suppose we try to find the post-office?" says Verrier. On reaching it, we each scribble a postcard and return to the street, wondering what to do next. Before the sputtering tap of a street fountain stands a soldier at his ablutions, with bare breast, his red-trousered legs far apart. Of a sudden he gives a snort. I notice his closely cropped hair and his unshaven chin. "Reymond!" Reymond is a bosom friend of Janson's. "I believe you're right," drawled Verrier. "We have not met for about a dozen years, so I don't suppose he'll recognize us." Meanwhile, I call out— "Hello, Reymond!" The soldier stares at us from head to foot hesitatingly. We look like a pair of tramps, dirty and dishevelled, capless and collarless. Verrier affects a smoked eyeglass. Nevertheless, Reymond recognizes us. "Ah! It's you, is it? Chouette!" He has been here five days. Having been called up by mistake on the second day of mobilization, he was sent from Bernay to Langres, and then on to Humes. "Come along, let's have a talk over a bottle," he says. "What! Is there drink to be had at Humes?" "Rather! The beer they drink in these parts will take a lot of beating." Ten minutes afterwards one would think we had been the closest friends all our life. How fortunate to have come across Reymond! He is a painter, quite a gay companion, and possessed of that kind of assurance and self-confidence peculiar to certain bashful individuals. He is quite at home in the village, and carries us off to the office of our company. There he introduces us to the corporal, has our names enrolled in his squad, and supplies us with gamelles. "I suppose you have had nothing to eat?" he asks. "No." "Come along with me." He takes us to the cook. "Here are a couple of men who feel peckish." Our gamelles are filled and we sit down on the ground. We mess together and eat our share of the grub. We are to receive our uniform to-morrow at the latest. Meanwhile, there is nothing left to do but wander about Humes. The Mouche is a pretty stream entering the Marne just on the outskirts of the village. There is a pool, a windmill, giant trees, and dung all over the place; cows and geese, poultry of every description, but few inhabitants. Soldiers abound. At nine o'clock, Verrier, Reymond and myself make our bed in the hay. All around may be heard the usual jokes and pleasantries of the mess, just as in times of peace. One may distinguish the thick, rolling voices of those from Burgundy and the Franche-ComtÉ, the accent of the Lyons silk-weavers, and the peculiar intonations of men from the various provinces. Bursts of laughter, then snoring followed by silence. Down below, in a stable, the plaintive lowing of a calf. Thursday, 13th August. Four in the morning. "Time to get up!" We shake and stretch ourselves. It is rather chilly. The men come down from the loft on a tottering ladder which has one out of every two rungs missing. In the street, the army cook, who has long been up and about, ladles coffee from a huge pot and fills the tins held out. In the tumult each man retires into a corner to avoid spilling the precious liquid. Six o'clock. We are marched out of the village in columns of fours. The country is charming; the meadows through which flows the Marne are lined with poplars. We return to quarters at ten o'clock. The sun's rays are beating down upon us. We baptize our street Dung Avenue. Fortunately for us, the impossibility of isolating ourselves prevents us from thinking of what we have left behind. Here solitude and silence are unknown. Friday, 14th August. This morning we march twenty kilometres. The company collects in a meadow which a bend of the Marne has converted into a peninsula. During the tropical hours about noontime we indulge in a siesta beneath the faint shade of the poplars. This life is an extremely healthy one; it constitutes a regular camping-out cure. We now take our meals at the HÔtel du Commerce, kept by M. Girardot, nicknamed PÈre Achille. It is a large building on the main road between Paris and Belfort. Out in the yard and in both dining-rooms every table is engaged. Just as in the canteen, there is shouting and smoking, whilst the men call for drinks by hammering vigorously with their fists on the table. Every evening amateur singers give us proof of their talent. The song relating the story of Suzette is a very popular one. No sooner is the last verse ended than "Bis! bis!" is roared out, and a willing encore is forthcoming. The artist raises his hand to his mouth and coughs, before recommencing, and every one joins in the chorus. The smoke rising from the pipes casts a dim mist over the lamps which hang from the ceiling. Saturday, 15th August. PÈre Achille places his loft at our disposal, at the farther end of the yard, above the stable. Climbing a ladder, you find bundles of hay to right and left. In the centre is a large open space containing a folding-bed occupied by Vitrier, of the 28th company, a neighbour and friend of the proprietor. Here we shall get along quite comfortably, all the more so as we have also the run of a garden. There is an apple-tree, beneath whose shade we spend our leisure hours. Four stone steps enable us to go down to the river to wash our clothes or our persons. After all, cleanliness is a very simple matter, so far as we are concerned. I have just seen the lieutenant in command of our company, and have given him my name. I am to leave with the next detachment which joins up, either with the regiment in reserve or with that in the field, according as the one or the other is the first to need reinforcements. This war will certainly not last long; we must hasten to reach the firing line if we could see anything of it. What can be the matter? Letters take five or six days to arrive from Paris. The only journals we see are those of Langres: the Petit Haut-Marnais and the Spectateur, nicknamed at Humes Le Secateur. We crowd around the cyclists who bring them and clear off their supplies in a few moments. The Paris journals have altogether stopped. Sunday, 16th August. The company musters at seven in the morning; the four sections, each in two rows, forming a square around the lieutenants and sub-officers. The lieutenant in command is a kind-hearted man, on whom the gravity of the situation weighs heavily. This morning he declares curtly— "The musters take far too long!" Profound silence. "Far too long. And I don't wish to speak of the matter again...." Gabriel reads the daily orders: "Every morning, drill and marching. Tuesdays and Thursdays, rifle practice. Afternoons, lectures in quarters from one to three; afterwards, Swedish gymnastics." This existence in the depot, a blend between barrack-life and drill, will not be so very pleasant every day. May the powers that be send us speedily to battle! This morning, at nine o'clock, military mass. The church is situated on an eminence above Humes. Once the threshold is crossed, profound silence. Silence in broad daylight! Well, well! It rather puts one out! There are flags around the walls. All the seats are occupied by soldiers and officers, pÊle-mÊle. A few peasant women are present, their sombre garments clashing with the blue and red uniforms. It is a musical mass, and the music is worthy of a cathedral: all the instrumentalists and singers of the depot have had their services requisitioned. How striking the contrast between this grave ritual and ceremonial, the successive chants and breaks of silence, and the rough, stirring military life we have been spending for several days past, made up of shouts and hay, of cattle and dung. A young priest has passed a surplice over his soldier's coat. His words are mild and kind, his sermon straight to the point, as he pleads the claims of family and country. The listeners weave their own dreams around his simple words as they fall upon the attentive and thoughtful assembly. The end of the mass brings with it a change; these men, who have suddenly been unexpectedly moved in spite of themselves, make up for an hour's silence and immobility by shouting aloud and hustling one another. Back at the hotel, with the aid of pipe and beer, they laud to the skies the priest's eloquence. Big Albert, for whom it has been impossible to find a pair of pants large enough in the stores, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand after he has emptied his glass, and says— "Believe me or not, as you please, but when that little priest spoke of our mothers and wives and children, well! I could no more keep back the tears than a woman!" And there he stands, with legs outspread and hands in pockets, his vest unbuttoned over his protruding paunch. Evidently he is not subject to nervous attacks. Reymond, Verrier and myself have obtained a pass for Langres. Lunch at the hotel; napkins and tablecloth. What luxury! The young lady who serves us is very polite. We enter various shops to purchase chocolate, wax candles, writing-paper, blacking, a lantern and some of MoliÈre's plays to read aloud in the loft. We return to Humes at six o'clock, shouting out songs at the top of our voice as the rain comes pouring down. Monday, 17th August. Five hundred men have been appointed to make up a detachment which is to hold itself in readiness to leave for the front at a minute's notice. My name is on the list, which includes men of the youngest classes and volunteers. It forms the contingent complement. We are fitted out from head to foot. First, we receive a blue muff with which each man immediately covers his kÉpi. This is the rallying sign. Out in the streets, comrades who see us wearing a blue kÉpi say— "Ah! So you are one of the complement?" We answer, "Yes," in a tone of modest indifference ill concealed by a big dose of vanity. A score of times every day we receive the order: "Those belonging to the contingent complement are wanted with everything they have at the office." There we receive small packets of provisions, such as coffee, sugar, condensed soup; on another occasion, a musette; then again a can, leathern straps, cartridges; for each separate article of our equipment a special journey is necessary. Such incidents as the following are quite common. A man enters the office of the company, salutes, and says— "Beg pardon, sergeant, but I have no sling for my rifle"; or, "I have no strap for my can"; or, "I have no suspension hooks." The sergeant, busy writing, answers his interrupter— "Will you go away! And quick, too!" The man disappears, as the sergeant remarks to the company generally— "Silly fellow, to come and ask me for straps whilst I am distributing musettes!" You are asked for the number of your rifle, your full name and address. Then you go to the bureau for your identification disc, your first field-dressing, and lastly you are called upon to give the names and addresses of those to whom information must be sent in case of death. Ah! This is something we had never thought of. Three legal functionaries and five sergeants, without counting the quartermaster, scribble away as fast as they can. Again we are mustered, and the lieutenant sees us arrive one by one. With a despairing gesture, he asks— "You call this a muster, do you?" The contingent complement gathers round the door, waiting. At first whispering goes on, then voices are raised, there is jest and laughter. Suddenly a sub-officer leaves the sanctum. "Stop this awful noise, will you! One can't hear oneself speak. Besides, what do you want here, lounging about the door? Off you go!" We disappear, though not for long. Within a very few minutes an orderly is seen hurrying about and shouting— "Quick! You are wanted at the office." The sub-officer who has just dismissed us from the doorstep greets us with the words— "Come, now, how is it that the men of the contingent complement are never to be found? Has some one to come and take you by the hand?" Rain has been falling ever since the previous day. Humes is now a marsh; the river overflows its banks. Tuesday, 18th August. It is again fine. The contingent complement is back from march and drill, and I am resting on a form. All around is a regiment of hens and geese, geese with blue eyes just like those of a lady I once met and whom I suddenly call to mind. The ducklings waddle along in twos, plunge their beaks and roll about in the liquid manure, and when they have become transformed into little balls of filth, they march away with the utmost gravity to gargle and clean themselves in the river. Farther away are cows, sheep, and dirty children. In front of me lie heaps of dung, two on my right and one on my left; it is quite unnecessary for me to turn round, for I am certain there is another behind me. The glorious sun, however, compensates for everything, and the scenery is very picturesque. I spring to my feet as I hear the words: "The contingent complement is wanted at the office." I cross the meadow, pass the river by the narrow drawbridge, and ascend the pebbly road leading to the shed euphemistically called "the office." A gift: ninety-six cartridges; a piece of news: the contingent complement is expected to leave for the front at any moment. Both the gift and the piece of news are very welcome. Then follow musters upon musters; reviews by corporal, sergeant, chief of section; review by the lieutenant in command of the company. That evening, in the loft, Verrier and Reymond, who are to stay behind at Humes, minutely check the contents of my haversack and musette. They add a tin of preserves and complete my first field-dressing and sewing materials. Evidently they think that those in the fighting line run considerable risks. My own thoughts are all of home, after the war, of the peace and quiet of daily existence once this task is over. Vitrier, the fortunate possessor of a folding-bed, returns at nine o'clock. The lucky fellow evades all the drills and marches, and spends his days at home in the neighbourhood. He is a charming person, whom we have affectionately nicknamed "the Spy," because he is to be met with only after twilight or before dawn. "The Spy" has brought young Raoul up to the loft; a gentle, light-complexioned, pallid-looking youth. He talks like a book and is full of such aphorisms as— "For a man who, like me, is horrified at the very thought of death, a soldier's life is quite a mistake." As he removes his foot-gear, Raoul tells us that he has been this afternoon watching the trains full of wounded pass by. "My walk had a definite purpose, you see," he adds. Down below, we hear the faint tinkling of a bell, suspended from the neck of an enormous dog, which we have nicknamed the chien À sonnettes. In spite of his manifestly gentle disposition, this animal fills us with terror. He is always lying stretched at the foot of the ladder, and frequently in the dark we step on his head. To our amazement, he has bitten no one, so far. Thursday, 20th August. Is this the last rÉveillÉ in the loft? It has become a very comfortable spot. In the hay, where I lie wrapped up in a quilt, with a cotton nightcap coming over my ears, I would gladly sleep on into the middle of the morning. But it is five o'clock, and we must rise. Drill and march. In the afternoon, siesta and conversation beneath the apple-tree. The weather is gloriously fine. We wash our socks in the Mouche. Reymond has managed to secure an order; the lieutenant says to him— "Since you are a painter, paint my name on my canteen." He takes advantage of this diversion to avoid drill. He paints two white letters every day, and even then.... Friday, 21st August. When is the contingent complement to leave? Armed for war, we have seen nothing but the office. It's not enough. A change in our existence: the arrival of Lieutenant Roberty at Humes, and his appearance in our clan. The other day, at muster, there was a rumour abroad that we were soon to have a new sub-lieutenant from Alsace. Here he is, in the centre of the square; of medium height, papier mÂchÉ appearance, very dark moustache, and the half-closed eyes of a myope. He wears red trousers and an extraordinary black coat, chimney-corner style, with a little gold lace at the sleeves. I look curiously at him, wondering where the deuce I can have seen that profile, so reminiscent of a tame jaguar. A voice calls me; it is that of the new sub-lieutenant. "Don't you recognize me?" ... "No, mon lieutenant, and yet ... really, I cannot remember your name...." "Roberty." Raising my hands, I say— "I beg your pardon, I have never seen you except in a dress suit." And indeed, I remembered on the occasion of more than one general rehearsal the elegant appearance of my confrÈre. Comparing to-day's silhouette with that of former times, I simply remark— "What a change! You look better in civilian clothes." Instead of getting angry with me he merely laughs. A few comrades approach. As Roberty has just come from Alsace, he tells us of the first attack on Mulhouse, in which he took part. "They say," remarks some one, "that the Germans scamper off as soon as they see the French?" "That's what they say at the depot, is it? Well, since you are about to leave for the front, you will see for yourselves." Roberty is bored to death at Humes, though he tolerates the HÔtel Girardot, with its garden and loft. He forgets his rank, and spends his leisure time with us. Discipline has already gained such a hold on us that at first we feel uneasy at such intimacy with a lieutenant. But really it is impossible to keep one's distance with Roberty. And now we have an additional comrade under the apple-tree or under the spiders' webs in the loft. News at last. The French have had to fall back in Alsace. A big effort, however, is soon to be made in the north. The Russians have crossed the Prussian frontiers. In spite of slight impediments, things continue to go well. Saturday, 22nd August. By flattering the quartermaster I have had my haversack, which was slightly worn, exchanged for a new one. I put my things in it with the contented feeling of one who has managed to purchase a glass cupboard after years of economy. How calm it is to-day! In the corner where I have taken refuge with my writing materials geese are gobbling up haricots under my very feet, as pleased as Punch at their daring. The youths of Class 14 appear on the scene; they are mostly from the Vosges. We tell them— "Hullo, young ones! The war will be over before your training is finished." They agree with the sentiment, though vexed to think it may be true. And they assure us they would do everything required of them, if called upon, just as well as the older men. "All the same," we reply, "you can't expect us to want the war to continue merely to enable you to give an exhibition of your talents!" FOOTNOTES: [1] A musette is a kind of brown cloth satchel worn by a French soldier over the right shoulder and containing his rations, etc.—Translator's Note. IN LORRAINE Sunday, 23rd August. This morning we started in the direction of Belfort. About midnight the whole of Humes was peacefully sleeping when the bugler sounded a prolonged call, repeated all over the village. In a twinkling we join our squads. It appears that the regiment at the front urgently needs reinforcements of five hundred men. The complement—no longer contingent—has mustered in the dark. After the roll-call we are summoned to the office for the last time. Distribution of rations and small loaves. At six o'clock the five hundred are ready to start. Our chief is a lieutenant of the reserve—a schoolmaster in civil life. Each man has picked a few flowers on the roadside to fasten a bunch to his rifle. The whole depot is present. Verrier and Reymond give me a vigorous handshake. Really the whole scene moves me, though for nothing in the world would I have it appear so. "Look out, there! Number! Form fours! Right wheel! Forward!" The column begins to move, and we thunder forth the Marseillaise with the utmost enthusiasm. I turn round to wave a last farewell to my friends. They return the gesture and shout, "Au revoir!" At Langres station we enter the train, which rumbles off in an easterly direction. I again have the luck to find myself in a second-class carriage. The same atmosphere and gaiety as when we left Paris for the depot. Almost all my companions have gone before their turn. They are convinced they will come back and see the end of the business. And they wish to be in at the victory. The heat is terrible. Perspiration trickles down faces already bronzed by a fortnight in the open air. There are ten in the compartment; all the same, at nightfall, we manage to drop off to sleep. Monday, 24th August. Daybreak. The road is blocked; we advance but slowly, stopping several times in the course of an hour. We almost run into a locomotive and three carriages that have been overturned, the result of a recent catastrophe. During the night we have changed direction: instead of continuing towards the east, Gerardmer and the Schlucht, at Laveline we were shunted on to the line of Saint-DiÉ—LunÉville, across the Vosges. In the distance to the right we hear the roar of the cannon. Raon-l'Etape. All change! It is noon. To the east of the station is a semi-circle of mountains. In the direction of the Donon the cannonade is incessant, though it no longer forms a dull rumble: each shot is distinct from the rest. Of their own accord the men load their rifles. We fall back upon Rambervillers. It appears that things here are not progressing at all well. The 13th Corps, the van of which had reached Schirmeck, is now retreating before enormous forces. We see regiments file past: men and beasts look grimy and thin; there is a feverish look in their eyes, beneath the grey lids. The artillery pass along so exhausted that they totter in their saddles; they have their ammunition-wagons behind them, but no guns. Jokingly one of our men calls after them, not thinking what he is saying— "Well, well! where are the cannon?" Then they give us black looks and shrug their shoulders. Some one jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the enemy. We insist no further. The men of the 13th Corps, who have been under fire for a fortnight without a break, see from our blue muffs, which still retain their colour, and from our comparative cleanliness, that we have just come on the scene. They call out to us— "You new ones there have come at the right moment. You'll find plenty to do!" An endless file of inhabitants fleeing before the invasion; they have heaped their goods and furniture on to great carts drawn by oxen, whilst they themselves follow behind, laden with baskets and bundles of all sorts. For a few minutes a young woman walks along abreast of our section. She is carrying a little girl, whilst another hangs on to her dress. On a perambulator, which she pushes along, are piled up clothes and various odds and ends. All these poor folk, seeing us proceeding in the direction of the west, know what it means: their homes abandoned, to be pillaged and burnt by the enemy. Women cry out to us— "This is the direction you should be taking, not that." And they point eastwards. They even add— "Are you running away?" The road mounts and descends through woods of fir-trees. A lieutenant of dragoons is sleeping on the side of a copse, his arm linked in his horse's bridle. To the right is a dense mass of smoke, occasionally broken by red glares of light: Baccarat is in flames. A pitiless sun beats down on all this misery and sadness. The cannon roars incessantly. A sound as of thunder is heard, doubtless coming from the fort of Manonvillers. Night falls, and the sky is lit up with flashes of light. An aeroplane darts past, quite close to the ground. Without waiting for the word of command, the whole detachment fires at it. Rambervillers is now in sight. We halt on the road. Prolonged discussion between the lieutenant and a staff officer. The lieutenant comes up to us— "We are on the wrong track; all the same we shall lay in a store of provisions and spend the night in the barracks of Rambervillers." It is now quite dark. We wait in a barrack yard, until finally the lieutenant says that we may enter the buildings. Meat is passed round. I have not the heart to cook and eat a piece. Since the previous morning, twenty-four hours on the railway and thirty kilometres on foot, in the heat of the sun. However new and fresh we may be as troops, a little sleep is more than welcome. Each man busies himself in finding quilt and straw mattress. The cannon are silent. For supper I dip some bread in my wine. It tastes good. Tuesday, 25th August. Three in the morning. Everybody is up and about. How I should have liked to sleep a few hours longer! In the yard, by candle-light, the lieutenant presides over a distribution of coffee, haricots and potatoes. Our gamelles must be taken down, filled and replaced on our haversacks. What is the direction we are to take? The east, in all probability. We halt at dawn by the side of a wood and make some coffee. Fires are lit and the pots begin to boil. Some of us make an attempt to roast a piece of raw meat at the end of a stick, when the order comes to start off once more. We swallow the burning liquid. The lieutenant informs us that the detachment is to be linked on to the left of the 105th. The cannonade is intense. In a few moments we shall be within the line of fire. Everybody is in the best humour imaginable. Now we are led along in a general movement, the purpose of which we naturally understand nothing; we have only to obey and keep our eyes open. Though full of spirit, we are quite bewildered and dumbfounded. In the first place, we expected to link up with our regiment; it appears that this regiment is fifty kilometres away. Then again, we are without officers: before leaving the depot, the detachment was divided into eight provisional sections of sixty men each. Several of these sections are commanded by a corporal, or even—a still more serious matter—by two corporals; it is so in our own case. We traverse a hilltop and look down into a valley. The sections advance at intervals of thirty paces, in columns of fours. So far everything has been as regular as at an ordinary drill. The lieutenant sends an order that we are to halt and lie down. Good! It is fine, and the sun is beginning to make itself felt. Soon the entire section is lying stretched on the ground. In front, a hill behind which the battle is being fought. The panting of the mitrailleuses may be clearly distinguished, by reason of its regularity, from the intermittent rending and tearing of musketry discharges. Suddenly a shell bursts, a distance of two hundred yards away. The cloud of black smoke rises and disperses almost immediately. Then come other shells at regular intervals. Are we the enemy's target? No. His object is to reach a village on our right and a wood of fir-trees on our left; the black clouds appear in turn over a house in the village, near the church steeple, over the wood. Suddenly, from the edge of the wood, four thunderous claps go off. Shouts of joy, as the section exclaims— "Those are our 75's replying!" They are speaking now in all directions. We are greatly excited, for every one is delighted at the spectacle of a real battle obtained so cheaply. No one is afraid. Not a single heroic word is uttered; merely rapid interjections. "Ah! What a pity! There goes the steeple!" And indeed, the steeple falls crashing to the ground as though it were no more substantial than a child's toy. It must surely have been made of cardboard to have crumpled up so quickly. Still lying at full length on the grass, I pick a couple of flowers and place them in my pocket-book as a souvenir. Are we to spend the whole day basking in the sun? The other sections rise and advance; we do the same. We make our way towards a wood over the hill opposite. We skirmish along a road, beneath the firs. Near a tree, a dragoon, his breast bare and feet firmly planted on the ground, is having his back examined by a major; on his shoulder-blade is a large gash, from which the blood is dripping as from a tap. On the ground, by the wounded man's side—this is the first wounded soldier I have seen—lie his helmet and his arms, his coat and shirt. The roar of battle increases; it is as though invisible hands were beating away with huge sticks on a number of carpets. We think we recognize the enemy's mitrailleuses by their tacotacotac, which continues for several seconds; whereas ours stop, begin again, stop once more, in less mechanical fashion. The roar of our 75's may be distinguished amid the deafening crash; they go off in fours, with a sharp, clear crack. The lieutenant arrives. We ask him— "Where are the others?" It is not his mission to tell us, but rather to send us over to a battery which is calling for infantry support. The four cannon are close at hand, small, and with mouth pointing upwards. They have not been marked, fortunately for the gunners and for ourselves as well. The lieutenant is on the watch a few yards away, and we hear the words of command. The enemy is drawing nearer; a short time ago he was 2,400 yards away, then 2,000, and now he is within 1,800 yards. Soon the captain of the battery gives the order— "Bring up the limbers!" The horses are a little to the rear, in a hollow of the meadow. The guns are now silent; they are fastened to the carriages. In a few minutes they have all left. It is ten o'clock. And what of ourselves? An artilleryman passes along on horseback at a walking pace. Some one asks— "Why is the battery going away? Are we beaten?" He flings at us the mild though superior look of a horseman for a foot-soldier. "The Germans are firing at us from a distance of twelve kilometres with their 210's. It's right enough waging war, but not when the advantage is all on one side." And off he goes. I look back and see him tossing his head. A staff officer comes up at a gentle trot. "What are you all doing here?" he asks. "Artillery supports, mon capitaine." "Don't you see that your artillery is gone? You had better do the same. We are falling back." From the crest the section descends into a smiling valley, through which winds a stream. A hostile aeroplane flies right above us; it drops a fuse in the form of a smoking serpent. Ironical exclamations— "What's that filth? Just look at it!" Five minutes afterwards violent explosions are heard just overhead. The German artillery is peppering our retreat. Why is no one either killed or wounded? I cannot tell. A shell bursts right in the middle of a group of hussars, who disappear in the smoke. When it lifts, we see that both men and horses have been thrown to the ground, but they rise intact. Then every one within a radius of three hundred yards laughs. We cross the river one by one on a plank. A couple of stretcher-bearers carry off a light-infantryman all covered with blood; his face is livid, beneath the dust and perspiration. His head shakes loosely about on the stretcher, and his eyes wear a dull, indifferent expression. A few splinters fall harmlessly around. Assuredly the Germans are firing too high. I hear the remark— "Their artillery is no good, and they aim no better than a peasant could do." Noon. An implacable sun in a sky of crude blue. A glorious summer, really! The 75's begin again. Their silence was somewhat disturbing. We have been retiring for a couple of hours, and now we come to a halt. Why is this? If the Germans have beaten us, why do they not follow up their advantage? But then, in war a foot-soldier must resign himself to the fact that he may not know why he advances or withdraws. He sees only his immediate surroundings, nothing of any consequence. The guns are silent. Not a shot is heard. The order is given to pile arms. We proceed to a neighbouring stream to quench our thirst and refresh ourselves by dashing a few quarts of water over our heads. No shade anywhere to be seen; we shall have to lie down in the full glare of the sun. Each couple shares a box of tinned meat, which is spread between pieces of bread. A refreshing drink is followed by a good smoke. A hussar, galloping towards us, exclaims— "Castelnau is here. We shall soon have them caught as in a vice!" "Good!" For some moments the lieutenant has been in conversation with a general. He now comes up and gives the order to pick up our arms. Our turn has come at last. The general approaches. "You are fresh troops," he says, "and I rely on you to do your best to capture the positions we lost this morning. Reinforcements are announced. What we have to do now is to gain time." We ask for nothing more than to march forward. From time to time I catch the general's orders to the lieutenant: "Cross that village ... pass the bridge ... reach the heights ... make sure that the wood on the right is not occupied by the enemy ... do not lose contact with the main body...." We advance in fours. Each section moves along in the same direction at intervals of a hundred yards. The lieutenant—the only officer for these five hundred men—marches at the head of my squadron. On reaching the village mentioned, we find a peasant quietly leading three oxen to the watering-place. A little farther along two children, hand in hand, watch us file past. The houses are empty. Once again the open country. Passing under an apple-tree, I pluck an apple and eat it to quench my thirst. We cross a bridge. There are three roads before us. The lieutenant hesitates for a moment and then takes the middle one. No firing anywhere; perfect calm and silence. On reaching an elevation, we are greeted with a storm of bullets. I hear the orders to form a skirmish line, and to set our rifles at the 800 yards range. Very soon we are being fired at from the front and from both sides. The lieutenant runs the entire length of the skirmish line. He brings the men forward in tens, according to regulations. I watch him and feel certain that he will be shot. No, he continues his course right in the thick of the bullets. If only we could see the enemy! But he is safe in his trenches or hidden in the wood, and is able to fire at us as he pleases. Lying flat on the grass, for the first time we hear the bullets whistle past. The enemy's fire, too well directed, sends the earth leaping into the air all around me. I imagine my head to be as large as a pumpkin. What a target! Whilst reloading, I notice an ant right in front of me, scaling some cartridge cases, and the thought comes to me— "What an advantage to be quite small." Hearing a cry, I turn my head and see a poor fellow with the blood streaming from his hand. The wounded man groans— "Aie! Aie! Just what I expected!" Then he stands upright. He feels that he has paid his debt and is now out of the game. It no longer interests him, so off he goes. He proceeds about a dozen yards towards the rear, and then, of course, falls dead to the ground, riddled with bullets. The soldier on my right says— "Now I'm hit!" "Where?" "A flesh wound in the arm. Nothing serious." I am inquisitive enough to ask— "Does it hurt?" "I don't feel anything. For the moment there was a burning sensation. My arm is quite stiff." It is the turn of his other neighbour to ask— "Shall I dress it for you?" "No, thanks. I had better get back to the rear." "In that case, hand me your cartridges." "Of course. I was forgetting." The wounded man turns over on to his side, and with the bullets hailing down, quietly begins to empty his cases. His wound troubles him considerably, and he apologizes for his awkwardness. "How numb my hand feels!" Rules are rules, and regulations are regulations. Both soldiers have learnt, long ago in barracks, that sharpshooters advance in couples. They know that when one is wounded, the other must dress the wound, if possible, and in any case take the wounded man's cartridges. They think this is an opportunity to put into practice what they have learnt in theory. But what they do not know—and assuredly I am not going to undeceive them—is that the regulation they are following out was repealed over two years ago. A comic interlude. A man, in a panic of fear, refuses to advance. A bugler, who has just been ordered to take command of the section, addresses him as follows— "Forward! or you shall taste the butt-end of my rifle." Groans and lamentations. Then the bugler rises to his feet and says— "Join your comrades ahead." The other, utterly cowed, begins to crawl along the ground. "No crawling! On your feet at once; I'll teach you to show the white feather!" "You want me to be killed!" "If you don't go at once, I'll kick you." He gets up, whining and blubbering. The bugler accompanies him right to the line. "Now lie down!" The bugler, too, sinks to the ground. It is a miracle they were not both killed. Meanwhile, the German artillery is beginning to find its mark. We pay heavily for every step forward; soon all advance is impossible. We are even compelled to retire when the mitrailleuses are directed upon us. After our leaps forward we now have to leap backward. A few yards in a declivity afford us a moment's respite, the balls passing over our heads. Taking advantage of this, I open my musette, hoping to enjoy a drink, and find that a bullet has smashed the bottle to pieces. Now we have to climb some rising ground, the German bullets following us all the way. The command is heard— "Fix bayonets! the enemy is in the village. We are outflanked!" Is this to be a hand-to-hand encounter? Nothing of the kind; the village is empty. The bayonets are sheathed. Flinging our rifles over our shoulder, we turn away, firmly persuaded that, after traversing another hundred yards and finding ourselves once again in the open, we shall all be shot. A wounded man, who has preceded us, calls to us as we pass. He is on his feet, though pale as death. His head is bandaged; there is a fixed glare in his eyes. The death sweat streams down his face, as he says hoarsely— "You're not going to leave me here, are you? Take me away! I am wounded in three places." "Come along, then; we'll carry you into this farm." "No, no! They'll come and finish me. Please don't leave me behind." One cannot tell the poor fellow that he will be dead before the Germans arrive. It is courting death for ourselves also, sure enough, but we take him tenderly by the arm and drag him away with us. Very speedily the end comes, and we leave him lifeless on the ground. It is six o'clock. What remains of the section is crossing a field of oats. The bullets still follow us, also occasional bursts of artillery firing. We have to pass in and out of the projectiles like ants making their way between drops of water trickling from the rose of a watering-pot. The man by my side falls to the ground and lies there motionless. Behind me I hear the snort of a shell. "That one's for me!" I say to myself. Instinctively I hitch up my haversack over my head. The shell explodes, and I am lifted into the air. Then I find myself flat on the ground. A stifling feeling comes over me; I tear off my cravat, coat and equipment, and I know no more. It is night before I regain consciousness. Where am I? I stagger to my feet, but immediately sink to the ground like a drunken man. Rain is falling, thin but penetrating. The ground on which I lie stretched is a veritable quagmire. I perceive that my shirt and trousers form my only covering. My senses are quite confused; surely the whole thing is a horrible nightmare! I am shivering all over, and my mouth is full of blood. What am I doing here all alone in the middle of the night, and half undressed? I feel myself all over; not a scratch. My watch and knife are in their place. After all, I am not dreaming. Then memory suddenly returns: the skirmish-line, the withdrawal under fire, the shell. I look around: everywhere on the horizon flames are to be seen. An occasional boom of cannon in the distance. I must have fallen between the lines. Forward, straight in front of me, come what may. I cross a wood, and fall into a stream, where I remain for some time in an almost fainting condition. The rumbling of carriage wheels makes me prick up my ears. I blindly feel my way in the direction indicated; I have lost my glasses. A short-sighted person without his glasses is in the mental condition of a drowning man. I am at the end of my tether. For three hours I have been crawling along; the rumblings draw near. Soon I hear the sound of voices; my heart stands still! What if the language is German! A good French oath reaches my ears. I run forward; the ground slips from beneath my feet, and I tumble headlong down a steep path into the midst of a convoy of stretcher-bearers. They bundle me into a pair of blankets, as I am now quite helpless. I ask what time it is: three in the morning. I must have been unconscious from six o'clock till midnight. Wednesday, 26th August. At daybreak we reach Rambervillers. A major procures for me a kÉpi and an odd coat, and sends me to the hospital. My one object now is to find a pair of spectacles. The streets are almost deserted. A few groups here and there, in one of which I notice a man wearing an eyeglass. Going up to him, I speak of my difficulty. Sympathetic and understanding, he takes me to an optician. All the shops are closed: for one reason, because it is seven in the morning; for another, because, as I am informed, yesterday's battle did not turn well for us—I suspected this from what happened to myself—and the Germans might enter Rambervillers to-day. Here is the optician's place; he has left the town, and his wife is on the point of abandoning the house and following him. She is quite willing to find me a pair of spectacles, and offers me a grog in the bargain. I reach the hospital. "What am I to do with you?" asks the major. "You will simply be taken prisoner if the Germans advance. There is an evacuation train at the station. Off you go!" This train is still almost empty: a few vans, some of which are fitted up with stretchers for the more severely wounded, and a number of third-class or second-class carriages. I enter one of the vans: three rows of forms, two against each side, and one in the middle. Between the two sliding doors is an empty space. I lie down and watch the reinforcements, announced yesterday, pass by. The men march along gaily and in perfect order. Desperate fighting is going on a few kilometres away. Wounded soldiers now pour into the station; they are being brought up direct from the firing line. Ha! here comes a man of my own squadron. He is wounded in the arm. On catching sight of me, he exclaims— "What! were you not killed?" "No, I am still alive, you see." "But you are reported dead. Some of the company saw you fall, hurled to the ground beneath a 210 shot." "Is that all?" The van fills up, but the stretcher-bearers continue to bring others. "There is no more room here, I suppose?" "There are already more than forty of us." "Close up a little. We must find room for every one." We do the best we can; I lean against the form in such a way that the sergeant seated in front of me places on it his two injured feet which have just been hurriedly dressed. It is a shell wound, and the wrappings are speedily soaked with blood. There is a man walking to and fro the entire length of the train outside; his head is bandaged, and his arm in a sling. On being told to enter the van, he makes a violent gesture of refusal, and continues his walk along the platform. A maddening performance, though necessary to numb his terrible sufferings and enable him to retain full consciousness. And this goes on for four hours. More stretchers, each bearing a pallid and grimy sufferer. Not a cry or scream, though occasionally some poor fellow, on being involuntarily hustled, utters a long-drawn-out "Ah!" and clenches his teeth. A quite young infantryman lies outstretched between the doors, both legs swathed in wadding. On asking how he feels, he feebly whispers, "Bien mal," and shakes his head. Another squeeze to make room for fresh arrivals. One of these exclaims— "What numbers of Germans have been killed! They're paying for this, I can tell you!" From every corner exclamations are heard approving of the sentiment. At two o'clock the train begins to move. Ever since dawn the boom of cannon has been heard without a break. A feverish sensation comes over me, and I close my eyes. How hot it is! To obtain a little air and leave as much room as possible for the more severely wounded, I sit down by the side of a sergeant-major on the edge of the truck, my legs hanging outside the carriage. The firs of the Vosges file past in a seemingly endless procession. At each station Red-Cross and volunteer nurses bring milk, bread and tea; frequently also cakes, eggs and preserves. Those of us who can walk serve the rest, leaving the van and returning with hands full of provisions. At nightfall I fling myself on the floor, under a form close to the wall. Out in the open country, stoppages are frequent. From time to time the engine-driver's shrill whistles keep the way clear. Thursday, 27th August. The infantry sergeant has stretched his legs and placed his feet on the form under which I am lying. On awakening, I notice that the blood from his wound has been streaming over my hair and neck. About nine o'clock we reach Gray. The men-attendants remove a few severe cases which must be operated on without delay. One part of the station has been transformed into a hospital. There are any number of majors about, and they find plenty to do. I request permission to return to the depot; since I have no broken limbs, why should I stay on at the hospital? Accordingly I am sent to Chalindrey, where I have two hours to wait for the Langres train. I wonder if I can find a chemist's shop. One is pointed out to me. The chemist looks me over with considerable suspicion and mistrust. A shapeless kÉpi, a dirty, threadbare coat, and an unshaven face all covered with mud are not prepossessing features. He asks— "My dear fellow, what do you do in ordinary times?" Respect for the journal causes me to hesitate somewhat. But then, this war excuses everything, and I confess— "I am on the editorial staff of the Figaro, monsieur." "Indeed? you don't look like it!" He laughs heartily, introduces his wife, and ... invites me to lunch. My hosts have three sons at the front; they attend to my wants as though I were one of these. Then they motor me back to Humes. I cannot find words to thank them, nor do I know how to tell them that I will not forget their kindness. The HÔtel Girardot and PÈre Achille at the door! He recognizes me. "A ghost!" Everybody comes running up. Reymond, from the loft, thinks he hears my voice. He clambers down and stands amazed at my cadaverous appearance. "Can it be you, dear old fellow?" he asks. "Well, well, you are a pretty sight!" He grasps my hands; still I can find nothing to say. Then he carries me off to the lieutenant, the commander, the major. "Is there a bed for him?" asks the latter. "Yes." "Well, let him have it at once, and don't let him be moved. If no complications show themselves to-morrow, he will be on his feet in three days." They hoist me into the loft. "The Spy" has left, and so I take possession of the folding-bed. Verrier, who has come running up, tucks me in. A corporal, who knows all about drugs, briskly rubs turpentine into my skin. "Anything fresh here?" I ask. "I should think so. Two days after you left a new detachment was sent out, including 'the Spy,' Raoul, and Lefranc." Lefranc was first violin at the Colonne concerts. He would sometimes come up into our loft and play Ravel and Stravinski for us. Down below in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. They shouted out— "Haven't you nearly finished up in the loft? How do you expect us to sleep with all this squeaking overhead?" Thereupon Lefranc played a slow drawling valse, and the muleteers calmed down. Reymond continues— "Roberty comes here every day now. It will soon be our turn to leave. Within a week Humes will probably see no more of us." "Do you belong to Class 4?" "Yes." "Then I must make haste to get well, in which case I may accompany you." |
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