Project Gutenberg's 'Neath Verdun, August-October, 1914, by Maurice Genevoix This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: 'Neath Verdun, August-October, 1914 Author: Maurice Genevoix Translator: H. Grahame Richards Release Date: September 5, 2014 [EBook #46770] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'NEATH VERDUN *** Produced by Brian Coe and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) 'Neath Verdun PREFATORY NOTE The following work has been scrutinized by the French Military Authorities, and the word (Censored) will be found in the text to indicate the eliminations they have deemed it expedient to make. 'NEATH VERDUN August—October, 1914 By Maurice Genevoix. With a Preface by Ernest Lavisse decoration TRANSLATED BY H. GRAHAME RICHARDS Translator of: "Hunters and Hunting in the Arctic" (Duc d'Orleans) "Expansion of Modern Germany" etc., etc. "Geographical Distribution of Capital" (Prof. A. Vergogni) LONDON: HUTCHINSON & CO. PATERNOSTER ROW :: :: 1916 dedication TO THE MEMORY OF MY FRIEND ROBERT PORCHON Mentioned in Army Orders for "admirable bravery" KILLED AT LES EPARGES THE 20th OF FEBRUARY, 1915 CONTENTS I.— Contact is established 1 II.— The Crossing of the Meuse 19 III.— The Retreat 31 IV.— The Days of the Marne 44 V.— Behind the Crown Prince's Army 118 VI.— In the Woods 160 VII.— The Armies go to Earth 205 PREFACE The author of this work, Mr. Maurice Genevoix, is a second-year student at the Ecole Normale, Paris. Having finished the second year of his course and, incidentally, completed a study "on Maupassant," he was in a position to regard with pleasant anticipation the vacation due to fall in July, 1914—a month later he received his baptism of fire, and of what a fire! He supplies us with an invaluable picture of the war. In the first place, the writer is endowed with astonishing powers of observation; he sees all in a glance, he hears everything. The intense power of concentration he possesses enables him instantly to seize upon all essentials of a particular incident or scene, and so to harmonize them as to produce a picture true to life. Nothing escapes him—the song or hiss of bullets, the diverse notes of hurtling shells, the explosions, the shatterings— every tone of the infernal uproar; the breezes that pass, those that follow the explosions, those that have caressed the bodies of the dead "Whose frightful odour poisons the air;" the faces of men in moments of great crisis, their words, their dialogues; and, finally, the changing appearances of inanimate things, for are not actions for ever associated in the mind with the changing aspects of nature? The pre-eminent, outstanding merit of the work, however, consists in the never failing sincerity of its author. Many of those accounts already published—joyous greetings from the trenches, or light-hearted letters most carefully selected from among many thousands—due to many reasons, such as the precautions taken by the Censor; the reluctance among non-combatants to emphasize their own inaction and well-being by contrast with the suffering of others; a natural and universal desire to make the best of things; the very human habit of seeking to explain numerous and diverse manifestations by one simple idea, for example, to attribute every great event to the heroism of every man involved—a heroism without an end; and finally, the tone of the Press, the banality of its optimism—all these things contribute to present a picture of war softened and sweetened, abounding in "good times." Such travesty of the truth at once revolts and fills with indignation those who fight. A war such as this has proved to be merits at least that we should hear and face unflinchingly the truth of it in all its entirety. The regiment is on the march; towards the close of day it passes through a village: "The entrance to the village, which is indeed little more than a hamlet, was choked with carriages, with ploughs and horse-rakes, which had been drawn to one side. In silence we pass before the shattered houses. Nothing remains but the mere shells of walls and distorted chimneys still standing above the wrecked hearths. Some charred beams have rolled almost into the middle of the roadway; a large mechanical mowing-machine raises its broken shaft like a stump. "The regiment defiles through the gloomy evening; our steps resound lugubriously and violate the surrounding desolation. In a short while, when the last section will have disappeared over the summit of the hill, the cold and silent night will descend again on the village, and peace shroud the poor, dead houses." The regiment is on the march, and it is raining: "Resignation indeed is difficult of attainment when one knows, as we do, the increase of our sufferings the rain involves: the heavy clothes; the coldness which penetrates with the water; the hardened leather of our boots; trousers flapping against the legs and hindering each stride; the linen at the bottom of the knapsack—that precious linen, to feel which against one's skin is a sheer delight—hopelessly stained, transformed little by little into a sodden mass on which papers and bottles of pickles have left their stain; the mud that spurts into one's face and covers one's hands; the confused arrival; the night all too short for sleep passed beneath a coat that freezes instead of warming; the whole body stiff, joints without suppleness, painful; and the departure with boots of wood which crush the feet like the torture- shoe. Hard, indeed, is resignation!" But something turns up which makes the regiment forget the rain and its own sufferings. It passes between lines of strangely still bodies—and those are the bodies of Frenchmen, their brothers. "They seem attired all in new clothes, those still figures, so continuously has the unceasing rain poured down upon them. Their flesh is decomposed. Seeing them so darkened, with lips so swollen, some of the men exclaimed: "'Hullo! These are Turks!'" Their bodies had been "sloped backwards," facing the road, as though "to watch us pass." The Germans, retreating after the days of the Marne, indulged freely in the folly of arranging the bodies of their victims after this fashion. The officer himself was for a moment overcome by this horrifying spectacle, but: "Come! Head erect and fists clenched! No more of that weakness that a moment ago assailed me. We must look unmoved on these poor dead and seek from them the inspiration of hate. It was the Boche in his flight who dragged these sorry things to the side of the road, who arranged this horrid spectacle for our express benefit, and we must never rest until the brute has drunk our cup of vengeance to the dregs." The regiment has come to War; night falls, a night towards the end of September: "The cold became intense … those wounded who had not yet been recovered moan and cry aloud in their sufferings and distress…. 'Are you going to let me die here?… Drink!… Ah!… Stretcher- bearers!…' "And the soldiers, hearing those agonized cries, but chained to their posts by the word of duty, groan in anguish: 'What are they fooling about, those stretcher-bearers?… (Censored) "'They are like fleas—never to be found when one most wants them!' And the cries continue—voices soft and strained and weary from having called so often and long: (Censored) "'…?' 'Mother! Oh! Mother!—Jeanne!… P'tite 'Jeanne!… Oh! say that you can hear me, 'Jeanne!… I am thirsty … so thirsty!…' The cries of others make one shudder. 'Still, 'I say I won't … I won't die here, my God!… 'Stretcher-bearers!… Stretcher-bearers!… 'You joint-shearers, carve me up!… 'Ah!…'" The advance of the regiment is checked. The enemy, following his early retreat, which at times assumed the appearance of a veritable rout, turned at bay. The section in command of our lieutenant dig a trench and pass forty hours in it. It has rained and it is still raining. A furious downpour is succeeded by a trickling stream which drips ceaselessly above their heads: "Motionless, and packed tight together in cramped and painful attitudes, we shiver in silence. Our sodden clothes freeze our skin; our saturated caps bear down on our temples with slow and painful pressure. We raise our feet as high as we can before us, but often it occurs that our frozen fingers give way, letting our feet slip down into the muddy torrent rushing along the bottom of the trench. Already our knapsacks have slipped into the water, while the tails of our greatcoats trail in it." So one night was passed—and then a second. The relief was due to arrive at any moment; but would it ever appear, that relief? "As for myself, I no longer hoped for it. I had gone past caring. We had been there a long time…. No one will come. No one could possibly relieve us placed as we were, at the edge of this forest, in this trench, beneath this rain! Never again would we see houses with the lights glowing in the windows, never again see barns in which the well-packed hay never got wet. Nor ever again would we undress ourselves to rest our bodies and free them of this terrible iciness…." Then comes the end of endurance and patience: "It is no longer worth while even to trouble oneself by hoping!" Heart-rending scenes these, are they not? Is it imperative that they should be discounted? It is conceivable they may upset, even disgust, the reader; but because they cause us pain we must not shrink from them, for it is precisely through the medium of that pain that we enter into intimate contact and communion with our soldiers; in compelling ourselves to contemplate these realities, however unpalatable they may be, we learn to accord our soldiers that recognition, that admiration, that pity which is their due! Equally candid are his observations on the morale of the combatants. There are moments when they are demoralized, when they are afraid, yes, afraid! During a bombardment, for example: "With bodies hunched together, heads hidden beneath knapsacks, muscles strained and contorted, agonizedly awaiting the nerve-shattering shock of the explosions." One day the regiment just about to enter the firing-line encounters a column of wounded making for the clearing stations —a long column which seems unending, and: "It is as if, in merely showing themselves, with their wounds and their bloodstains, with their appearance of exhaustion and their masques of suffering, they had said to our men: See! It is a battle that is being waged! See what it has brought us…. Don't go on! And the men who were going forward looked upon them with faces anxious and troubled with dread, with eyes wide and fevered, in the grip of a moral tempest." Is it necessary to record these weaknesses? It is, because they represent nothing but the truth, and it is natural that the "living flesh should shrink," willing not to die. When Henry IV. was on the point of charging in battle his emotions so overcame him that he was compelled to dismount from his horse. But for a moment only. And then he charged! The enemy found it incredible that this man who hurled himself into the fight as recklessly as any mere carabineer could conceivably be the king of France himself. And Turenne, trembling in the face of peril, reprimanded his body, saying: "Thou tremblest, carcass!" After which he forced himself to go where he least wished to go. And so is it with our soldiers: "They are marching; each step they take brings them nearer that zone where Death reigns to-day, and still they march onwards. They go to enter that region of death, each with his living body; that body which, in the clutch of terror, performs involuntarily the motions of men fighting, eyes straight levelled, finger resting on rifle trigger; and that must continue as long as may be necessary notwithstanding the whistling bullets flying by unceasingly, bullets which often times embed themselves with a horrible, dread little noise, which makes one swiftly turn one's head as though to say: 'Hallo! Look!' And looking, they see a comrade crumple up and say to themselves: 'Soon perhaps it will be I; maybe in an hour or in a minute or even in this passing second, it will be my turn.' Then fear makes its kingdom of the living flesh. They are afraid; unquestionably they fear. But being afraid, they remain at their posts. And they fight the flesh, compel their bodies to obedience, because that is as it should be, and because, indeed, they are men!" Such is the truth, the reality, which truth and reality, far from depressing me, gives me strength. I see the soldier as he is, I know him as he is, I love and admire him with complete confidence! This work of Genevoix glorifies our poilu: reveals him as a man, highly strung and impressionable, capable of panic—the work quotes instances of such panic—but, at the same time, patient despite his temperament, enduring well-nigh beyond the powers of human endurance; a grumbler against heaven and earth, desiring always to be able precisely to account for all things—in particular he wishes to know where he is going and why he is going!—A jester full of strange quips and cranks; but docile on the whole, loving those officers who show they care for him; familiar with those who permit it, with a familiarity purely deferential; in fine, possessed of attributes and virtues which defy precise definition, wholly admirable without the slightest consciousness of it. On the 12th September, 1914, when Genevoix was perusing a notice attached to a wall, "printed in letters two hands high," announcing the victory of the Marne, he watched some soldiers approach to read the placard in their turn. "The faces of all of them were mud-stained and hairy to the very lips … for the most part they were infinitely wearied and miserable. Nevertheless, these were the men who had just fought with a courage and energy more than human; these were the men who had proved themselves stronger far than German shells and steel; these men were the conquerors. I should have liked to have told each one of them of the glow of affection which suddenly surged through me; affection for these men who have now won for themselves the admiration and respect of the whole world, who have sacrificed themselves without ever uttering the word 'sacrifice,' without seeming conscious of the sublimity of their own heroism!" The work is not altogether devoid of moments of gaiety; the conversation of the soldiers to which each contributes his particular patois; the distribution of rations to the various sections; the claims which rain down upon the corporal: "What —that sugar! Not a very fat lump, is it? Why, the pile you just handed the 3rd is almost double as much!" To which the corporal: "If you are not satisfied go and make your complaint to the Ministry!"; the cutting up of a quarter of beef by one, Martin, a miner from the North, armed with a knife "which had been given to him by a prisoner—a good enough piece of goods, too, which knife indeed has not its equal among the whole company for carving up a piece of tough meat"—and the task ended, a sufficiently difficult one, achieved as it were by the inch, Martin triumphant, proclaiming himself to be "Some Butcher." Then there is that lunch which our lieutenant orders on pay-day: an omelette, never to be forgotten; a slice of juicy ham; most wonderful of jams; hunches large and thick from a loaf of fresh bread; afterwards a pipe, the blue, fragrant smoke of which drifts slowly up to the rafters above us. And following these wonders, the night passed in a bed, with real sheets and blankets upon it! The memories of other nights are evoked—rough nights spent on heaps of stones in the fields, or on the débris of splintered trees which litter the woods, or amid the humidity and mud of the trenches, or the discomforting dryness of the stubble-fields—and now, to be covered from head to foot with bedclothes in a soft, real bed! "Not yet was our amazement exhausted … in vain we sought with every inch of our bodies for some hard spot, for some lurking corner which would hurt; but no spot or corner was there which was not soft and warm!… And we lapsed into bursts of laughter; we expressed our delight and enthusiasm in burlesque, in jokes, each one of which provoked fresh outbursts of laughter…." (Censored) "We, that is to say Porchon and myself: Lieutenant Porchon and Lieutenant Genevoix." There could be nothing more delightful than the comradeship existing between Genevoix of the Ecole Normale and the St. Cyrien, Porchon. They had been trained for widely different destinies, these two young men; the Ecole Normale on the one hand, Saint Cyr on the other! And if they both turned out to be excellent officers, with nothing to choose between them, that does not merely prove the value of the education obtained at the Ecole Normale. It proves something better and greater than that: the deep accord, the healthy unanimity which exists between French minds. So these two companions count the days gaily; they are young and they are French…. But Porchon is the gayer of the two; Genevoix envies him a little for his ready laughter, for the never failing and welcome good humour, to enter into the spirit of which, he says, "I compelled myself as though seeking the conquest of a virtue…." I like, too, the melancholy underlying this work. This war, foreseen and predicted, but whose horrors completely transcend the imagination, this retrograde movement towards the almost forgotten barbarity of a humanity we thought was marching towards new horizons, was there ever equal cause for human sadness? And there where the Germans, hailing from all parts of Germany, of all professions and creeds, steep themselves to satiation in joys purely cannibalistic, how shall a soldier of France control his tears, or rather how shall he find heart to weep?… I am pleased, too, that those superb sentiments which sustain courage in moments of superhuman fatigue, which exalt amid perils and horrors, should be touched upon, however lightly, in the following pages. They dwell in the inmost heart of us all, hidden by that timidity, that exaggerated sense of shame, which prohibits us from revealing what is best and most sacred in ourselves. A few words alone suffice, like those written after a reunion of officers when a Captain found himself in command of a Corps, because: "The Colonel had been wounded, the commander of the 1st Battalion also had been wounded, while the commanders of the 2nd and 3rd Battalions had been killed. "From the expression of the faces about me, from the serenity reflected in each man's eyes, I gathered we were all ready to face the future whatsoever it might contain…. It almost seemed we leaned on one another for support, brothers by the common faith within us. A grace exalted and fortified us!…" And how many times does the word "Patrie" occur in these pages? Once only, as far as I can remember. Genevoix, idling about the trenches one day, heard the chime of distant bells drifting over the woodlands. The Germans in their trenches heard the bells, as did our men in theirs, but they bore not the same message for us as for them. To our soldiers they said: "Hope, sons of France! I am quite near you, I, the voice of all those firesides you have left behind you. To each of you I bring a vision of that corner of the earth in which his heart is embowered. I am the heart of your homeland beating against your heart. Let confidence be always with you, sons of France, confidence and might always. I rhyme the immortal life of the Patrie!" But to the Germans they said: "Madmen, who believe that France could die! Listen to me: above the little church, the fragments of whose stained-glass windows strew the flagstones, the steeple still stands erect. It is from there I come to you, gaily, mockingly. Through me the whole village defies you. I can see!… I can see!… Whatsoever you have done I can see. Whatsoever you may yet do, I also will see. And I fear you not at all. For I know the day will come when the weather-cock on the steeple, who stares unceasingly towards the far horizon, will look down upon your mad, despairing flight, while the bodies of your numberless dead lie thick over all the land." Ernest Lavisse. 'NEATH VERDUN I CONTACT IS ESTABLISHED Tuesday, August 25th. The order for departure descended upon us like a thunderbolt: instantly, driven by the apprehension that something or other might ultimately be forgotten, there ensued a precipitate scurrying here, there, and everywhere throughout the town. Only with difficulty did I find the time even to warn those who are dear to me. The last inspection on the barrack- square was over. Out of the canteen, where I had gone to snatch a mouthful of food, I rushed, crossed the yard in a stride, and here you behold me, as erect and stiff as a ramrod, before files of men in blue coats and red trousers. I was just in time: the General himself had already reached the right of my section. I stood with sword at the salute, my right hand grasping its hilt, my left kneading the greasy paper containing my recent purchase—a penny-worth of bread and a nameless pork confection, which perspired. The General halts before me; young, well set-up in his tunic, with a face refined and full of energy. "Good luck to you, Lieutenant." "Thanks, General." "Here's my hand, Lieutenant." Did I not know it? I felt the sandwich being reduced to pulp in my own hand. "Don't you feel excited, Lieutenant?" A touch of legerdemain and my sword has passed into my left hand. I grip firmly the hand extended to me and answer loudly, distinctly, fairly meeting his eyes: "No, General." And that is a lie: I am highly excited. I should have been ashamed not to be. There were so many impressions, so many fleeting reflections to shake me from head to foot! But I well understood that "Don't you feel excited?" of the General. I said "No:" I spoke the truth. We were going to Troyes. So at least we were told. From Troyes, we were evidently to proceed straight to Mulhouse, to occupy and defend that captured town. This also we were told. The prospect delighted me. To go to Alsace and remain there was certainly not so glorious as to have won our way there; but, at the same time, the prospect was not one to be despised. We defiled through the town: roadways echoing, handkerchiefs waving, some laughter, some tears. A mistake in the route cost us a few additional miles of measured tramping. Gradually the pace grew easier, for the oldest reservists, still plump, perspired freely, making no complaint, however. We saw some of our wounded before the doorway of a large grey building. They held out at arm's length for our inspection spiked helmets and little round forage caps with red bands on a khaki ground. "We also!" we cried. "We are going there, my friends!" A young workgirl, fair and buxom, smiles upon me, displaying all her teeth. She has a small, well-poised head and inviting, ruddy cheeks. Her smile does me a world of good; for I am going to war; the morrow perhaps will see me in the thick of it! The train, at last. A mere black line of gaping trucks with a few first-class carriages. Entraining is a big affair; the young major, a dark and energetic man, urges his horse from group to group, shouting directions and commands. A constant murmur arises from the onlookers. Why in the name of everything has he given the order for the little tricoloured flags, which a moment since were waving above the marching battalion, to be removed?… Slowly we draw out of the station as the eventide descends. The sunset is sombre, dominated by monstrous clouds of purple and virgin gold. Through the night rolls on the convoy. Our old Captain of the 27th draws off his iron-plated boots and displays his socks, brilliantly yellow and quite new. We stretch ourselves, we groan, we snore. A pointsman, busy with his levers, cries out to us to ask whither we are bound: "Troyes? What a joke! You are on your way to Verdun!…" To believe everything one is told is the first illusion. O sullen silence of night travelling! Our faces grow dull and lifeless in the indistinct light which filters doubtfully through the blue shade. From time to time, perched high up on the embankment, we flash past vague figures silhouetted against the darkened heavens; they are sentries guarding the line. Suddenly long white pencils of light evolve majestically out of the night's blackness, chasing away the shadows. Walls and station lamps announce Verdun. For a further three or four miles we run on. At one o'clock in the morning we find ourselves at Charny. Amid much confusion the sections fall in opposite the doors of the wagons, from which a heavy mist now slowly drifts. And heavy-footed and slowly we set out on the march. Wednesday, August 26th. At daybreak we pass through Bras. Before the country cottages are huge piles of manure from which a light steam rises. Cocks are a-crow; but man is still sleeping. We march and still march. Little by little, I become conscious that a rather fevered curiosity is spreading through the ranks. We overtake a regiment of field artillery, drawn out in an interminable file, resting by the wayside. Gunners and drivers are alike asleep, overcome by fatigue, the former sprawled on the gun carriages, mouths wide open; the latter with their noses buried in the manes of their horses. They too sleep, poor beasts, with muzzles drooping and knees bent. We pass by, the heavy, nailed boots of the men echoing loudly on the roadway. But the artillerymen do not hear us; they sleep too soundly for that. We even find it necessary to prod the horses before they will move aside to let us pass. Crossing the Meuse, we encountered immense herds of cattle. They were divided into hundreds corralled at the water's edge in a smooth meadow. The brutes were lying on the brown earth, with their muzzles upraised in an ever-changing chorus of lowing. Cattlemen in red trousers kept placid watch over them. Vachérauville. It is broad daylight. We have called a halt on a piece of uncultivated land on the side of a hill. I am still feeling dull and knocked up after the long night passed in the box-like carriage. There are about a thousand of us altogether. The men, having piled arms and thrown themselves down on the ground, are sleeping, too tired even to ask questions. Indeed, the detachment commander himself appears to be ignorant as to our final destination. He is a dear old fellow in spectacles. I can just imagine him by his own fireside, his feet in slippers, poking away and smoking a big pipe. I shall never get used to seeing him on horseback! That nuisance, L … promoted medical officer, fusses about here and there, his tongue wagging ceaselessly: "What is this water? It's bad! Typhoid! Typhoid!—And where do you come from, young man? Have you any cartridges?—Give that horse something to drink!—This chasseur is ill.—You are ill, my friend!—Yes, yes. You are ill! —Just show me your tongue!—Ah, we must dose you. Yes!—Yes! What, not ill? No? Not ill? More's the pity! They should have taken away his spurs!…" A lamenting voice rings out: "Where's the officer! Where's the officer!" An old woman hastens up, her cap all awry, her hands raised to the skies. "What shall I do? They have taken away the canopy of my well to make a fire. Who is going to indemnify me for it?…" Loss, damage, indemnity; words, alas, we are to hear often enough! Midday. Conveyances are passing along the road at the foot of the hill: huge four-wheeled wains, each drawn by a thin, mangy horse. Wickerwork baskets, bales of household goods, rabbit hutches, have hastily been flung into them. On the top, mattresses, pillows, eiderdowns of a faded red have been piled. And on these are sitting women with backs hunched and bent, their clasped hands drooping over their knees, their eyes dull and blank. One cannot tell from their expressionless faces whether or not they are suffering. They seem to be immersed in reflections purely animal and without end. Here and there from amid this lamentable medley of goods protrude the heads of dirty-nosed urchins, with light hair tangled and matted. A few bellowing cows follow the wagon, dragging at the ropes by which they are tied, and lowing. An awkward youth with large hands and immense feet, whip in hand, drives them forward by kicking them lustily in the haunches. Suddenly, cries and the rattle of triggers ring out. I turn swiftly to find thirty of our men deploying as skirmishers, facing the crest. Our old captain, red as a beetroot, his small scared eyes darting wildly round, shouts at the top of his voice: "Look out! Look out! Rapid fire! … upon the enemy approaching … at 800 yards…." What can all this mean? Have we been taken by surprise? I look about, but can perceive nothing, absolutely nothing to cause an alarm. Then I see J—— hurriedly whispering in the captain's ear. Over the latter's face there instantly spreads an expression of complete astonishment: "Cease fire! At once! At once, I say!" J—— turns away convulsed, slyly indicating with his forefinger rows of corn-stacks aligning the crest of the hill! On the road leading to the village, we pass people in detached groups, each of which becomes a hotbed of gossip. The latest arrivals are questioned avidly and insatiably: "So there was a machine-gun in the church tower, was there?… How long did they continue firing on you?… Is it true that almost all the wounded were hit in the feet or legs?" I approach one such gathering. In the centre are two stragglers: one is silent and sad-faced; the other orates with much gesticulation. There is a slight scar on his face, where the blood has dried and coagulated. And he displays a bullet embedded in the padding of his great coat, like a needle in a piece of cloth. One encounters these stragglers constantly. (Censored) They form an endless procession, dragging one leg after the other, their faces feverish, their hair long and their beards dirty. And here are still more wagons packed with women and children, or with wounded men, some of whom sit gripping the sides with both hands, while others lie stretched full length on blood-stained straw. Ammunition wagons go by at a gallop, creating a terrible rattle; groups of dusty infantry tramp over the withered grass by the roadside. And so the torrent, descending from the top of the hill over which the road vanishes into the distance, streams on towards the bottom of the valley where the village lies. Does it mean a panic, this? I ask myself. Certainly not! But if not, then why this feeling of depression, of which, do what I will, I cannot rid myself? A Staff-officer has arrived. Our detachment commander turns pale with emotion merely at the sight of his badges. It quickly transpires that we are to turn back across the Meuse the way we came. I learn the news without surprise; I was certain that that stream of stragglers boded ill for us. A long march lies before us, over a monotonous road destitute of trees. The sky is gloomy, obscured by rain clouds. Moreover the atmosphere is oppressive. We revisit Bras and Charny, then Marre and Chattancourt: which villages all resemble each other, with their low-built houses—presenting a colour-scheme of washed-out blue and dirty yellow. And always, at the very thresholds of the cottages, is the inevitable pile of manure, spreading every now and again right into the middle of the roadway. Esnes is like Marre and Chattancourt. We are billeted there with a young woman who has the face of a toothless doll and legs without calves. In a dark corner of the room, I catch a glimpse of some strange person, fondling a child still in swaddling clothes. Like a shadow he vanishes as we enter. From the open door I watch a soldier in shirt-sleeves, forearms bare, slaughtering a sheep lying with its legs tied to a gate. Each agonized convulsion of the poor beast makes me feel ill; it brings back to my mind the time when, in a slaughter-house, I plunged my leg into a bucket filled with warm blood, streaming in a flood from the severed neck of a slaughtered cow!… The evening set in grey and depressing. Fine rain began to fall, saturating everything. I thought of my men trying to rest out in the fields, lying round their piled arms, and set out to see if I could find shelter for them. It did not prove difficult, for there was scarcely a soldier in the whole village. I found a barn full of hay, and returned to the meadow well pleased with myself: "Up, boys! Bring your arms, packs, and the whole bag of tricks! There is a roof with good hay beneath it for you over there!" Through the night and a rain increasing in violence I lead a cortège of mute shades. Alas! we do not get far. For in the village I encounter my commander, striding up and down before the houses, making himself quite ill from anxiety. "About turn! Quick march!" The shades return to the marsh, still mute. I listen to the slush-slush of their heavy boots as they tramp through the puddles. Poor devils! Returning I meet a few soldiers moving towards the cemetery with its congregation of tombs clustering round the little church. They are carrying a body wrapped in a flag on a stretcher. Then I recollect someone mentioned that a cavalryman had been killed earlier in the day by a stray bullet. Sleeping quarters I found to consist of a shabby garret. Sleep was fitful at the best. All through the night the door slammed. Every time I opened my eyes, I saw by the dim rays of a smoky lamp other eyes hidden in the shadow of caps. On one side of me, in an alcove similar to mine, a sick man, tortured by a sharp attack of rheumatism, kept constantly moaning and crying. Dawn at last! I dress myself hastily, only too thankful to escape the oppressive atmosphere of this hovel. I long to breathe the fresh air, to open my lungs, to escape as far as possible from that bed, from those greasy bedclothes which have communicated their dampness to my skin, from the musty smell of cheese, skim milk and pig's-wash…. It is still raining. In the distant meadow I can see stacked rifles and sodden knapsacks; but not a man is afoot. So much the worse…. Bravo! Thursday, August 27th. Another long march, protracted and dawdling. Indeed it could not justly be described as a march at all; rather was it the wandering of men who had lost their way. Haucourt, then Malancourt, then Béthincourt. The road is a mere river of mud. At each step a jet of yellow water spurts upwards. Heavier and heavier becomes my great coat. It is useless for me to bury my neck between my shoulders: large drops of cold rain contrive to work themselves inside my collar and trickle down my back. My knapsack bumps to and fro against my hips. Whenever a halt is called, I remain standing, not daring even to raise an arm lest the penalty be still more water down my back. We find that we have arrived at Gercourt, which proves to be our immediate destination. A splash of blue breaks through the rain clouds. Our uniforms begin to recover their original colours, brass buttons to gleam. The day's march is ended! I turn my back to the increasing warmth while trying to masticate a stringy piece of meat and some elastic-like bread. Above the men, standing easy, a mist of evaporating water rises and drifts away. "All officers stand forward!" Something apparently is about to occur. It turns out to be the Adjutant coming to give instructions from the Colonel. He is a big, dark, active man. He steps forward, drums beating: twelve files, one per company. Things move quickly for us too; a shower of questions descends upon us like an avalanche; there is no time to reply before it is all over. I am to join up with the 7th Company as the regiment passes. My regiment arrives! Our reservists run as fast as they can towards the embanked roadway. And a fine medley ensues! Greetings shouted from afar; exclamations of pleasure exchanged between the marching files and the men gathered on the banks. There is anxiety in the eyes of almost everyone looking upon those who have already fought. Some of the men return to the stacked rifles with faces lowered and arms listlessly swinging. I slip into my place as the 7th passes. And as the march proceeds the same questions are heard on every hand: "What about Robert?—He is wounded. A bullet in the shoulder. Not serious.—And Jean?—He is dead…." It is the brother of those two soldiers, the one wounded, the other killed, who replies. He lets fall these words in a breathless voice as he runs to resume his place in the ranks. We halt in column in a parched meadow. I take advantage of this opportunity to present myself to my Captain. He is a big, finely-built man, with powerful body supported by rather slender legs. The quick and penetrating glance he gives me tends to weaken my first impression, which led me to regard him as being rather slow-witted. "Ah, young man, so you are entering on your apprenticeship! You have come to a good school, as you will learn. A good school!" A smile wrinkles the corners of his blue eyes. It would seem that my superior has a pronounced taste for irony! There is also a second-lieutenant attached to my company, a Saint-Maixentian, young and solid, and something of a dandy. He has a flaming moustache rather too heavy for his ruddy, chubby face, possesses massive shoulders, thick wrists and calves. He puts out his hand and at once offers me a sip of gin as an appropriate prelude to further acquaintanceship. "Wait a little, old man, and you shall see how we'll mop them up!" He flings out an arm and with a sweep indicates the horizon and the village of Cuisy, which is close at hand. Five minutes afterwards, the whole regiment descends a steep road between two high banks covered with bushes. The stones slip beneath our feet; we clutch one another; we snatch at branches for support; my sword becomes an alpenstock. As soon as we get out into the country, we find ourselves once more in the mud and slush. We pass many barns but few houses. A village containing perhaps a hundred inhabitants is our resting-place. And there room must be found for three thousand of us. Let it be understood, we never would have occupied such a hole had there been no War! It is night. I know that we are supposed to be messing with the officers of the 8th. But where? No one has mentioned a rendezvous. I remind myself that a campaigning soldier's first principle should be: "Rely upon thyself alone." And so, through the darkness and mud and inevitable manure, I set out to discover the mess. The place of assembly is a dimly-lit kitchen. At one end, the yellow flame of a candle set the shadows dancing on the walls. A cook, bare of arms and grimy of paws, fingers and handles some meat as if he were kneading dough. A second, with a pipe between his teeth, skims the pot-au-feu whilst expectorating into the cinders. He raises towards me a face like that of a thick-lipped faun; his eyes are very clear, but unintelligent and slow-moving. The beginnings of a beard decorate his chin with a few odd hairs as stiff as bristles. It is he who receives me in a voice drawling and muffled —his mouth, it seems, is chock-full of macaroni. One after the other the officers enter. There is the Captain and the Saint-Maixentian, as well as a newly-commissioned cadet from Saint Cyr, bony of face, nose powerful, and altogether a good sort, I find, who, like myself, has just come from the depot. The Captain of the 8th is a short, well-built, fair man, refined, meticulously well-groomed, with a smile that reveals his teeth, and a soft voice which he modulates beautifully. A lieutenant, powerfully built … (Censored) … whose nose descends into his spoon … (Censored) … regales us on vapid obscenities. Finally, there is a second- lieutenant, slender and delicate, dark, with a very boyish face, intelligent yet artless. Dinner proceeds rather gloomily. The two captains exchange anecdotes concerning Morocco, or ready-made stories gleaned in the camps regarding fair women. Once more I plunge through the mud. And I reflect that it would be foolish in the extreme not to profit by this stay in a village by trying to find a bed in which to pass the night. As a result, I ultimately slip between two crumpled sheets beside a farmer of fifty or so, who breathes heavily and smells strongly. Nevertheless I sleep, and soundly too! II THE CROSSING OF THE MEUSE Friday, August 28th. Four o'clock in the morning. We ascend to the top of a stony road. The night mists are still drifting. The whole regiment falls in near the village, in an orchard bounded by hedges. And there a monocled major in a sing-song voice reads aloud a stirring proclamation: it is the Colonel's funeral oration, filled with vehement exhortations, and a poem of Déroulède's to finish up with. Much simpler and more touching is the sight of the soldiers presenting arms, and all the officers with their swords at the salute. On the summit of a wind-swept crest, we dig trenches deep enough to accommodate men standing erect. I inhale the fresh air greedily, delighted to be out in the sunshine and happy, while my men dig away with their picks and throw shovelfuls of earth over the parapet. An immense valley lies extended below us. At the foot of the hill are deeply shadowed woods interspersed with luminous lakes of well-mellowed crops. To the right, a road takes an abrupt turn and leads through an avenue of trees; in the foreground, a second road at right angles to the first, cuts an ugly gash through the dappled richness of the fields. At the bottom of the valley, the white walls of the village of Dannevoux peeps forth between the green leaves. And still further away, over towards the Meuse, invisible from this spot, is a chain of blue hills. Until evening, the men dig with zest. From afar off sounds the muffled rumble of a violent cannonade. We take our lunch by the roadside, attacking a charred fowl with teeth and fingers, and drinking muddy wine to the last dregs. To-night, as yesterday, I gratefully retire with my farmer; but on this occasion his snores haunt me, and he wakes me every time he moves. Saturday, August 29th. The men, with shirts opened and their skins wet with perspiration, complete their trenches beneath a searching and pitiless sun. Above the rumbling of distant artillery, we hear the detonations, still muffled and deadened, of nearer batteries. By holding my hand to my ear, I can distinguish soft whistlings which terminate in wailing explosions. Shrapnel evidently, the smoke of which is slowly dissipated in the calm air. We retain our billets that night also, but not many of us sleep; for the German shells are bursting now hardly a mile away from the village; the windows shake and tremble under the stress of the formidable explosions. Sunday, August 30th. Bois de Septsarges. Hardy undergrowth thrusting forth roots shoots amid the shadows of the great forest. Great splashes of light are on the moss; living, quivering sun-rays pierce the warm gloom; the acrid odour of fermentation, increased by the sun, is oppressive. It strikes one forcibly, that sun! I recline in the shelter of a tree, moving only as the shade moves. P——, a second-lieutenant of the 8th, lies weltering beside me. He is writing in pencil a long letter to his wife; he chats about her and his little girl, who is five months old. I pay him all the attention I possibly can, but I fear I do not understand much of what he says: his voice comes to me like a monotonous purring—which is, as it were, punctuated by the throbbing of the blood in my temples and fingers. And so I fall asleep. A terrific explosion wakes me with a start. Three more successive detonations shatter the air, and above my head I hear the flight of shells—a light rustling, a rapid rushing, which one can with some difficulty follow with the ear, growing more and more distant until it terminates finally in the explosion. "Those are 120 mm. guns," P—— remarks to me. Scarcely have the words crossed his lips before a succession of harsher and more violent explosions causes me to look away to the left. There is no hanging back for each other with these! They come altogether in a rush, yet each detonation is separately distinguishable, despite the deep murmur following the resounding, vibrating echo which steals through the undergrowth. I think a battery of our 75's must have urgent work on hand. By the evening, the cannonade has become far heavier. The whistling shells pass and cross each other's course; the smaller ones furiously maintaining a flat trajectory; the bigger ones sailing past almost slowly, winging through the air with well-nigh dulcet tones. Quite mechanically I raise my eyes to watch them. Every man hearing that noise for the first time, does the same thing. When we leave the wood these "marmites" are bursting away to our left, near enough for us to hear, after the explosion, the hail of splinters striking the trees. We remain in our billets as wakeful as on the preceding night, and this is to be my last night with my fat old man. Alas! Monday, August 31st. We set out for the Septsarges Wood again. The day is passed as was the preceding one. Grillon, a regimental barber, shaves me: a sensation which has already become strange to me. Two knapsacks for a stool, a tree for a backrest. I pay him with superfine tobacco, and he would have kissed me! I settle down again for a siesta, chasing the shade. Towards two o'clock we make a fresh move. We push forward in a north-easterly direction, traversing the whole length of the wood until we reach trenches constructed by the engineers with a breastwork of tree-trunks in front. We take possession of them. A shelter made of branches is reserved for my occupation a little behind the line. It would hardly have been natural had we not, in the course of our day's wanderings, received a few big Berthas—ten or so exploded in succession not thirty yards from us. I passed the night in my bower. The branches of which it was constructed had become sun-dried and reminded me of the fact by affectionately digging me in the sides. My improvised mattress would not shake down properly, while the knapsack beneath my head acquired a sudden and spiteful hardness. I was not yet used to it. Tuesday, September 1st. We remain in the trenches. Some belated food is eagerly expected from the kitchen. Very shortly, however, the inevitable complete confusion descends upon us. For the fight is moving along to our front. The Captain has sent word to say that the first line must have been broken through and that we must redouble our vigilance. Porchon, my Saint Cyrien, acting on orders, sends out a patrol away to the left. Hardly have they got clear when rifle shots ring out—we know well Lebels are speaking!—and the patrol tumbles back, scared. It appears they sighted the Boches and fired! My men become restless and anxious; there is a premonition of evil in the air. Suddenly a shrill whistling bursts out and increases, increases … until two shrapnel shells explode almost above my trench. I am down on the ground in a moment; and even in the act my attention is attracted and held by the terrified expression of one of the men. The memory of that man's face haunts me now! Once again a messenger comes up at a run: "The Captain sends me to warn you that there is nothing now between you and the Germans!" Is it true? We have seen the wounded coming down … (Censored) … A corporal of the 27th, stained and perspiring, his face expressive of his agitation, calls out to inform me that Dalle-Leblane has a bullet through his stomach. Then a great tall fellow, shot through the thighs, goes by groaning. He raises both feet, resting the whole weight of his body on those supporting him. Good comrades those, and true heroes! They carefully set down the wounded man about ten yards from my trench and, having ridded themselves of their burden, make off. So it remains for me to have the man transported, still bellowing, to the battalion first-aid post. The news reaches me, I know not by what means, that the —th are retiring, mainly on their left. It turns out to be true, for they come to relieve us, and we move back to new positions, five hundred yards to the rear. Line in sections of fours, in a clearing. The shells begin to burst around us. At the very first explosion, a reservist, a big man, fair and ruddy, turns round sharply to tell me he is wounded. He is pale and trembling violently. I discover that he has been pricked by a thorn as he was bending down! A second shell, and a street hawker from Ferral is grasping a bleeding wrist. A third: Corporal Tremoult receives the end of someone else's rifle full in the mouth. For a moment he is dismayed; then, his spirit returning, he commences to swear to the point of extinction. This peppering continues. Night. From afar sound the moans of the wounded. A mutilated horse whinnies in pain. Also there comes to my ears a strange and poignant lamentation—perhaps it is only the cry of a nightbird! I make the round at eleven o'clock, crippled by the cold. Half an hour has passed since I called...