Chapter VII: The Armies Go to Earth (2)

These shells descend upon us without warning. I was watching one of my men ramming the tobacco into his pipe at a moment when two more burst right on top of us: the hissing shell, the grimace of the man and the plunge he made, the hail of bullets amid the branches, combined to create a single impression of an attack evil and unforeseen. It is too swift; the instinctive reflex action one's body makes to protect itself occurs too late. The shell which comes with a shriek to herald its approach is a very different thing; that which explodes immediately over your head without the faintest sign of warning is both more dangerous and nerve-shaking; for a long time following these unexpected explosions the hands continue to tremble.

There they go again! Is the visitation going to endure the whole day? Every ten minutes or so we are being sprinkled with shrapnel, followed by high-explosive shells, which make the earth tremble and quiver. And they are all 77's. The firing too is direct, as a rifle is aimed, and therefore almost unbearable. Judging by the tremendous speed at which their shells arrive, they must be fired from very close at hand; the Boches must have brought a couple of guns up into their first line and are operating beneath our very noses as it were. I would not mind betting, indeed, that they have planted the two ugly little beasts right in Saint Rémy itself! Our outposts will have marked and ranged them at the very first shot, however. And so, thanks to a superb and perfected system of communication, it will not be long before they are either demolished or muzzled. Meanwhile, I know quite well their savage barking will continue until the Boche gunners become tired of the game. That is a thorn in our flesh of which we cannot for the moment rid ourselves, and so we must remain until nightfall, huddled up in the trench, our knees up to our chins, denied the liberty and freedom that lie beneath the trees.

When night does arrive at last, it finds us completely exhausted--backs aching, legs incredibly stiff. Porchon and I have been tightly jammed together at the bottom of the trench--a place not remarkable for spaciousness, and made more uncomfortable by the sharp stones littering the ground. My revolver stuck in my ribs; my flask in my hip; one of Porchon's knees was in my stomach. To sleep on the hard ground, good! We have been well broken in to that. But here the accumulation of discomforts becomes almost unendurable. An involuntary movement and Porchon groans woefully, for now he has both my knees in his stomach. What a posture to be in! What a hole to find oneself in! As soon as one moves, one crushes one's neighbour; as soon as he moves, he crushes you. Leave the trench and lie down on the dead leaves? But there are the shells, and there is the cold to penetrate to your very marrow, and keep you always conscious of your own misery!

I have never before, however, encountered any trench quite as bad as this one. The time draws on; I woo sleep and call myself a fool for my pains. Still, of many evils choose the least and pay the shot as cheerfully as possible. So I wedge all my equipment, including my revolver, flask, glasses, map-case, between my stomach and my thighs, and in this way relieve the strain on my back. Afterwards I extract the stones which project unreasonably and fling them carefully over the parapet. Things are slightly improved by these manoeuvres, and, affectionately clasping my miscellaneous collection to my bosom, I fall into a doze.

_Tuesday, September 29th._

The aforesaid two filthy little guns have been harassing us nearly all day. This evening, however, we evacuated that shell-riddled and particularly undesirable corner of the landscape. Already Mouilly is behind us, and here is Moulin-Bas, the stream filled with rushes, the sea of slender trees, the large farmhouse with the tiled roof near the cross-roads. A sunset crimson, but cold, marking the end of a glorious winter's day. The lines of the heights are cut stark and clear against a soft sky, darkening little by little, as though under protest. At the end of the road a spire uplifts its delicate silhouette; in a field are some 75's, which, in contrast with the houses, seem no more dangerous than pretty little playthings.

Halt at the approach to the village, while commands pass down the lines.

"Dress by the right!... Ground arms!..."

Some of the men sneer a little. At the end of the section preceding us, a fair little man with crimson cheeks, whose puttees, very badly rolled, sag over his boots, taps his pipe lightly against the stock of his rifle, places it in his pocket, spits a last time, and growls:

"There you are! We are certainly going to sign peace to-morrow! We might be re-entering barracks after a march. Tighten straps! Heads erect! Fasten your eyes on the clock tower! All, but joking apart ... we are at war!"

The corps commander in person appears on horseback, and he is not well pleased with things:

"No smartness about them ... slovenly ... nothing military...."

With arms ported and marching as if on parade we enter at last into the promised land. As we pass each corner of a road, a company debouches and hurries off to its quarter. The 7th turns to the left and goes off towards Rupt.

The men are pleased with their billets, and say so. The barns are spacious and warm and full of hay. The pork-butcher's wife who sells the pig's-head brawns, those brawns covered with a golden jelly which positively glide down one's throat, has her shop in the middle of our domain. And twenty yards beyond the last house, the stream spreads out to form a peaceful pond, preserved and kept clean by a mere trickle. Could one ask for anything better in which to wash one's linen?

We are already installed, rifles racked along the sides of the barn, when the battalion adjutant thrusts his face and pipe around our door. I shall not attempt to set down the language that ensued; but, briefly, we had to un-install ourselves. Farewell, thou golden-jellied brawn, farewell!

We are set down for duty in the vicinity of a sawmill. Logs of timber of equal lengths, planks already sawn, are piled outside the sheds. We have to set a sentry, bayonet fixed, to help the cooks preserve the timber from the depredations of those frail mortals who might be tempted to help themselves and merrily burn the mill's stock. A temptation not difficult to understand!

"And now," says Porchon to me, "we have got to fit ourselves out again! There must surely be some precious things about here; but perhaps in an hour or so they will carry them off."

There ensues the usual chase for rations. For that business one should possess the scent of a hound to worry out obscure corners; and diplomacy, to reach the hearts of these peasants and overcome their hesitation--for they always hesitate, never freely parting with whatever they may have for sale, hoping that another purchaser may come along and offer more than you are offering.

A freemasonry which tends to mutual benefit exists among campaigning comrades:

"Look here! Down that lane, the third house to the left, the one with the green shutters, there is an old woman who sells eggs...."

Let us go and investigate! The old woman, horrible to look upon, dry as the seared vine, toothless, filthy, untidy strands of grey hair hanging about her face, raises her arm to the sky and calls upon the Holy Virgin to witness that she has nothing, nothing at all.... We mention a price, a ridiculous, extortionate figure. It is plain magic; the arm drops instantly; her voice descends an octave; and then the old miser glides along a passage-way thick with fowl-droppings, bends her body to pass through a low doorway, emerges with caution, carrying something in her apron. And when she approaches again, half a dozen eggs are clutched in her claw-like hands--they are white as milk in contrast with her dirty, lined palms. They are still warm when she drops them into our pockets. In a lowered voice, with lips stiffly drawn over her bare gums, she says:

"Do not tell anyone about it. Perhaps I shall have some more for you when my hens have laid. But don't breathe a word about it. Mind, not a word!"

Porchon has discovered some plum jam. Jam?--it is rather a compound of quinces scarcely sweetened.

"I paid seven sous a quarter for this mixture," he informs me. "The pigs who sold it to me had two enormous copper cans full of it on their counter, and they emptied them in half an hour at the same price."

The robbers! Before the war, these quinces were left to ferment in hogsheads. Each hogshead gave a few pints of brandy at forty sous, and the pulp of the fruit was then thrown into the fire. It is not an augury of good times ahead!

We dine with an old Alsatian woman, a neat clean old woman, rosy and well preserved. She wears a bonnet, round and very white, so white that never before in the whole Meuse district have I seen one quite so chic and prepossessing. A doorway of bricks, newly washed, clean and as red as one's face after a wash in cold water; furniture which shines as does the top of the table covered with brown oilcloth. Above the sink a brass bracket reflects the light of our lamp and sends a pencil of light through the darkness.

"Cabbage soup!" announces Presle, "and after that we have roast fowl."

Oh! that roast fowl! A consumptive hen, a lamentable thing, lying on its back in the middle of an immense dish. To the head with its closed eyes was attached a body about as big as a fig, and the claws, which Presle had neglected to remove, were crisp, black and contracted as though in agony.

"It is certainly not a Bresse fowl," explains Presle in self-extenuation. "And, at the same time, I believe that her flirtations must have made a long-distance walker of her before I wrung her neck. All the same, it is fowl."

After dining, I inspect a collection of shoes which the cyclist has picked up, I know not where. It is difficult to make a selection: these are too broad, those are too long; some are already worn; others, which fit exactly and appear on first sight to be made of soft yet solid leather, unexpectedly reveal a long cut. At length I choose a pair with welted soles, newly clumped, of which the cyclist says:

"I guarantee them for six months without repair, Lieutenant. They will carry you to the end of the campaign, of that you can be certain."

"Amen!" I replied.

We go out arm in arm, Porchon and myself. The night is not very dark. The piles of planks near the sheds rise in dark, geometrical masses. The village to the right is lightless and still; away to the left, towards the cemetery, a pale mist broods over the fields. An undulating line of willows marks the course of the stream which they veil. The line continues to the foot of an abrupt slope, rising to the south-east like a gigantic wall.

"Where are you taking me?" asks Porchon.

"Just wait a little and you will see."

We walk in silence, occasionally burying our feet in heaps of soft ashes, which mark the spots where braziers have burnt.

"Point of direction, that isolated house," I explain, after a time. "There are some steps and an iron railing. Hold on to me, old man! You are going to see what you are going to see."

I take the stone steps in three jumps and knock at the door. Children's voices die abruptly to silence, a step sounds over the floor, the latch clicks, and the door opening wraps us in a gust of warm air.

We are in a smoky kitchen, dimly lit by a single candle placed on the table. From a line across the room hang stockings, handkerchiefs, swaddling clothes, drying above a stove. The chairs, scattered here and there, are all encumbered with a heterogeneous collection of things--a wash hand basin, a pair of pants, dirty dishes. Beneath one's feet one crushes certain soft things, remains of food probably, or chewed tobacco.

Our host is still a young man, sickly, pale, thin as a skeleton, his moustache and hair light-coloured. He offers us his hand with a tired gesture; it is a feverish hand, in which one can discover no bones, but only cartilages; and which, when you release it, leaves some of its moisture on your palm.

"We have been awaiting you," says the man. "My wife has prepared beds for you in that corner there, against those sacks of bran."

The woman, who is also a blonde, but swollen and paunched, leaves her chair near the stove, shakes off three or four urchins hanging to her skirts, and raises the candle from the table.

We can see clearly now. Along the sides of the plastered wall sacks are stacked. In these sacks the miller has placed a plentiful litter of straw, and, what is still more important, of an even depth all over. On the top of the straw she has placed a feather mattress, blankets and sheets. To-night we're going to have sheets, a real bed, a complete bed. We're going to undress ourselves, to instal ourselves between two sheets, wearing nothing but our shirts. I steal a glance at Porchon from the corner of my eye; his face plainly expresses his unfeigned delight and joy. Suddenly he turns towards me, places his hand on my shoulder, and regarding me with warm, affectionate eyes, says:

"You brick!"

Our bed that night was a thing never to be forgotten. Undressed in a twinkling of an eye, we plunged into its depths. And instantly it wrapped us from head to foot in a sweet, gentle embrace. Then in our turn, little by little, detail by detail, we took possession of it. There was no end to our surprise; each second produced some new discovery; in vain we sought with the whole of our body for some hardness, but there was no corner that was not soft and warm. Our bodies, which remembered all the stones of the field, all the gaps in the soil, and the greasy humidity of the woods, the harsh dryness of the stubble-fields; our bodies, bruised by nights of bivouac, by the straps of our equipment, by our shoes, by the weight of the knapsack, by all the harness of wanderers who know no roof--our bodies at present were unable swiftly to accustom themselves to so much softness and pleasure, all at one and the same time. And we broke into shouts of laughter; we expressed our enthusiasm in burlesque phrases, in formidable pleasantries, each one of which provoked new laughter which knew no end. And the man laughed at seeing us laugh, and his wife laughed, and the urchins laughed; the hovel was full of laughter.

Then the woman stole out, and when she returned she was escorting five or six of the neighbouring villagers. And all these women, too, watched us laughing, and exclaimed in astonishment and chorus at this phenomenal spectacle--two poor devils so far scorned by death; two soldiers of the great war who had fought often, had suffered much, delirious now with happiness, laughing with the abandonment of children because they were sleeping for that one night in a bed!

_Wednesday, September 30th._

A happy party are we, up above Amblonville valley. A tempered sun, a sky intensely blue, with a few little white clouds idling by. Near me on a slope the men are digging a trench; I have brought them almost up to a summit where clay gives way to chalk. Their task is easy; the picks loosen huge flakes of soft stone which scarcely adhere to each other, and which part at a single stroke. Earth such as this does not blunt or spoil the tools, and the work proceeds without pause. It is not like clay which sticks whatever one may do, compelling one constantly to scrape pick and shovel with a knife or a sharp stone.

Far away below, in a meadow beside a stream, the cooks have lit their fires. About _pots-au-feu_ which crown the flames are gathered a few men in blue and red. The whole picture is so clear-cut and distinct that by concentrating my attention I am able to recognize each one of these pigmy-like men.

A few yards from the stream, and because camp-buckets are heavy to carry when they are full of water, Lebret is holding his particular assizes. The Adjutant is squatting close to the flame, and Gendre, stripped of his equipment, and in his vest, is balancing himself and walking on his hands.

In the middle of the meadow, I can easily distinguish the cooks of my section. The man who is kneeling down and puffing at the green wood and half vanishing from time to time in the smoke, is Pinard, hairy among the most hairy in the company; Pinard, who grumbles incessantly, but who always works like any other four men put together. That other, bending so solicitously over certain dishes, is Fillot, the fatigue corporal, inspecting some particularly choice morsel which he has carefully placed aside before the distribution of rations, as every corporal of ordinary intelligence and respectful of traditions, does do.

Further to the right, on the other side of the road which descends from our hill to rejoin the main road, the Captain is sitting on an old tree-trunk and drawing designs in the dust with the point of his lance, chatting at the same time with the doctor, who is standing near him. Behind them lies an overturned, rusty plough.

I have carefully sharpened the point of my pencil, and, using my map-case as a desk, I scribble a few letters. A few words only: "In good health; best wishes." I cannot permit myself to tell them all that is in my heart. And why should I tell them? Shall I repeat again and again what is in my heart: "Please write me. I have received nothing from you since I set out. I feel all alone and that is hard----" I know well that not a day has passed without their sending me words of courage and tenderness, in the hope that they may find me, that I may read them, and that by them my courage will be strengthened and sustained. I should be ill-advised to destroy that hope. I must wait and wait, consecrating all my powers to preserving intact that confidence which I so essentially needed, which up to the present moment has never deserted me. So my pen moves swiftly, setting down those banalities which nevertheless are so eagerly awaited: "I am in good health: Best wishes!"

I have ended; my pen flies no longer. But that melancholy I experienced a few hours ago is still with me, and gradually it increases, tempting me to abandon myself to it entirely. Most miserable of men! Am I too weak, then, boldly to face the crisis and to overcome it with an equal mind? It would indeed be true courage to grapple with it and triumph over it; the worst form of self indulgence would be merely to pander to it and take melancholy pleasure in my own suffering.

I jump to my feet, rush down the slope, leaping the shell-holes, and go from fire to fire, questioning, joking, inspecting the various dishes.

"Good-day, Roux! What are you grilling there?"

"You do not know, Lieutenant? Is it possible? It is a biscuit, pure and simple. Try them. But dip it in water before toasting it, if you want to make it really toothsome. Or dipped in milk, it is delicious. Better still is it if you split it in two and make a butter sandwich of it. In the early days, we were able to get fresh butter from the Amblonville farm. But to-day!..."

Presle, advancing with tremendous strides, comes running towards us from the top of the hill.

"I was looking for you, Lieutenant," he exclaims. "I thought you were still up there. A cyclist has just come to say that you are wanted at the paymaster's office. They are sending for all the officers, one after another.... It must be your turn now!"

The paymaster? Of course, this is the last day of the month!

And I am in such frame of mind that I am not at all ill-pleased I should have to go alone. Striding rapidly down the road, I amuse myself watching the larks settling and pecking away in the dust. They let me approach them until I am able to distinguish their sharp, black eyes, their slender claws and their quaint little crests. Then, with a flutter of feathers, a stroke of their wings, they flash away almost from beneath my feet. But they do not go far; lightly they glide down into the nearest field, perch on the top of some molehill, and with head on one side, tranquilly and mockingly watch me. When I have gone on far enough, they return to the road and settle on the spot from which I drove them.

It is midday when I leave the paymaster's office, my money safe in my pocket. I discover that the walk has made me hungry, but the prospect of returning to the valley to eat the inevitable boiled meat and cooked rice--it will already be more than half cold--does not please me. I find the prospect not at all inviting. A sudden longing for dishes dainty and rare, for savoury dishes to be masticated at leisure, seizes me. My liberty of the morning, the comparative freedom of action of which only a short time remains to me, is in itself so unusual and pleasurable a sensation, that I feel the occasion demands some adequate form of celebration. Had I known in advance what was going to befall, I would have made all the essential arrangements, fittingly to mark the occasion. Being a victim of the unforeseen, no choice remains to me; I must extemporize. And since the abnormal yearning for meats tender and juicy obsesses me, I must seek, solitary and alone, to satisfy it.

Fortune is good to me. A white house with sunlit façade attracts my attention. On a garden seat near the door an old man sits, placidly warming himself in the sunshine. No complications bar the way to complete mutual understanding. He invites me to step into a perfect little kitchen; and there his daughter-in-law makes me an omelette never to be forgotten. This is followed by smoked ham, which she cuts specially for me. I eat like a glutton; near my left hand reposes a long baton of new bread, to which I help myself at will. Again and again the old man replenishes my glass with Toul wine, rosy, sparkling and dry. The fresh ham on my plate has a sheen; before me, near my glass, in which the bubbles foam, there is a stone jar of golden jam.

And when the ham at last only too obviously reveals the force and verve of my attack, when the jam-pot is half emptied, I light my pipe with a sigh of deep satisfaction. It is I who have enjoyed these delicacies, I alone. Through half-closed eyes I watch the blue smoke mounting to the rafters, swamped in a sensation of physical well-being, and evoke a picture of my comrades back in the valley, sitting down to the eternal stew and cooked rice--something of remorse, I must confess it, mingles with my self-satisfaction!

_Thursday, October 1st._

We received a surprise yesterday evening on returning to our quarters--the regimental band has been playing Two-Steps and dreamy valses on the village green. We had just unbuckled our straps before the barns when the first strains burst forth. The immediate effects of this unwonted clamour were somewhat remarkable. Less than a minute after one of the men had cried "There's a band!" the German centre had been broken! A minute later and we had made eighty thousand prisoners. By the time I arrived on the scene, the Russians were in Berlin. Outside the saw-mill I met an old dame who informed me with an air of great mystery: "That the Kaiser was dead of a stroke, but no one would be allowed to say anything about it until to-morrow!"

On investigation, however, I learn that this concert is not intended to celebrate a manifestation of national joy, but is the result of an idea of our Major. Battalion orders handed to me as I leave duly enlighten me. I read that: "The appearance of the regiment is slovenly" ... that it "shows only too plainly the effects of a prolonged stay in the wooded regions where man displays a tendency to revert to a condition of nature" ... that "it is essential to return by degrees to a more healthy and regulated style of living." So apparently a reasonable ration of music, Two-Steps and dreamy valses, is destined to tame for ever that ancestral savagery in us which the war has awakened.

And this morning at daybreak we are departing from the village once again to bury ourselves in those wooded regions where man becomes a wolf!

It is misty and the leading files of the battalion vanish from sight in a white cloud. The company preceding us is no more than a moving mass in which only the rifle barrels swaying above a crowd of heads can be distinguished. At a lesser distance forms are visible, all dull grey, but it is only when quite near that we can recognize different colours in the uniforms and see the men's breath as white puffs which quickly dissolve.

Amblonville, Mouilly, and then a narrow ravine. The slope we are mounting is covered with shrubs, hazel, cherry trees, dwarf oaks and a few big trees; at the bottom of the ravine is a lake of greenness which has retained its freshness despite the autumn. In it countless shell-holes form miniature archipelagos. The opposite slope is covered with a thinly-sown wood of pines.

The fog has disappeared and unveiled the sky. Idly I watch several of our men lounging near the pines. Three of them are sitting playing cards and smoking, two others standing behind them watch the game closely, commenting from time to time. A little higher up the slope a man is lying flat on his stomach, supporting his chin on his hands, and reading absorbedly, digging his toes in the soil the while.

I was watching, and I saw in all its brutal horror the thing that came to pass. A shell swept over the edge of the hollow, passing so close above us that we felt its breath in our faces, and dropped plumb in the centre of the peaceable group of card-players. We heard them cry aloud; then beheld two of them running madly. In the crater made by the shell the black smoke hung, and drifted for some time; little by little it disappeared. And when it was gone we saw a human trunk in bloody rags hanging between two branches of a pine. A second wounded man lay on the earth beside the mutilated legs of his comrade, and he was waving his arms and screaming. The stretcher-bearers came up at full speed.

I can see them now at the bottom of the ravine, carrying the wounded man on a stretcher; can follow their course through the high grass. And while they are making for the road, other men dig a grave in the hole dug by the shell. In a few minutes all is over; no deep hole is necessary to receive those poor human fragments!

I watch them get the soul-sickening débris down from the tree, and gently place it in the hole, together with the two legs: then the earth falls in heavy lumps. Two branches to form a cross; a name, a date. How simple it all is! After our departure to-morrow others will come as smiling and indifferent before the constant menace of death as ourselves. And perhaps near that grave which the shell dug, other card-players will seat themselves on the moss, and throw down their cards and laugh amid the fragrant bluish smoke of their pipes.

_Friday, October 2nd._

To Mouilly, all alone, hands in my pockets. I have been ordered to supervise the clearing up of the village, have all the rubbish buried, and hunt looters and deserters out of the houses.

I conscientiously accomplished this delicate mission of marshal, dustman, and police officer. I formed several fatigue-parties, each with a definite task. I sent out patrols and walked up and down the streets myself.

The results are praiseworthy. Bones, empty meat-tins and other indescribable things have disappeared beneath the earth. The roadway has been well brushed with birch brooms. Never before, not even in pre-war days, has the village been so aggressively clean. It looks as if it has been an object of tender care. Even the shattered roofs and holes in the walls now appear less desolate. Perhaps, however, I look on these things with a prejudiced eye; I am rather pleased with myself and my men; maybe that I exaggerate.

A dozen soldiers are kneeling side by side before a trough, bending over the soapy water, washing their linen in silence. But where is the washing and the babbling washerwomen of a year before? One hears nothing now but the slapping of palms against the wet clothes, and the noise of the trickling water wrung from them.

"Hullo, Pannechon? Almost finished?"

Pannechon looks up. Still kneeling and resting his hands on the inclined plank before him, he turns his head to look at me.

"Yes, Lieutenant. I have only this flannel waistcoat to finish. I have put everything to dry in the cupboard behind the chimney-piece in the house."

The house! He means the one that sheltered us last night. It resembles that in which we slept on the night of September 25th; it resembles all the other houses in the village; only certainly it ranks among the least dirty of them. In my frenzy of organization and cleansing I have had the greasy dishes washed which littered the chairs and the bed; I have scraped the stained table with a piece of glass; not even the kneading-trough have I forgotten. Moreover, I have put back the faded family photographs I found lying about in confusion; closed all the yawning drawers, and arranged in the linen-chest coarse shirts and wearing apparel, a riding coat, a green dress, and some chintzes. Pannechon has hung a cloth before the window, so that I am no longer compelled to look on empty window-frames and the shell-holes desolating the meadows.

Now that the door is closed and I am alone with him and Viollet, a taciturn and devoted lad, I no longer feel the depression which always overwhelms me at the sight of the desolated and shattered homes. This one, for the time being at least, is barred against the intrusion of passers-by. Peace has descended upon it; I do not want that peace to be disturbed. If anyone comes prying and poking his nose around the door, he will quickly find himself in the road again.

Sitting before the table smoking my pipe, I am writing and making notes of events worthy of remembrance. My pen runs well; my pipe draws well. From time to time the distant sound of guns makes the walls tremble and blows our impromptu curtain into the room. That troubles me but little, however; it signifies nothing to me. On the other hand, the crackling of the wood burning in the grate fascinates me and holds my attention. I love this song of the fire and the dancing of the flames. Pannechon and Viollet are sitting opposite each other beside the fireplace; Pannechon, with swollen cheeks, is blowing with all the force of his lungs through a long metal tube which branches at the end in the form of a lyre; his efforts send the glowing sparks up the chimney. Viollet is carefully covering some onions with hot cinders. The day is dying. The solid things about us grow more and more shadowy as twilight descends. The guns fall silent. It almost seems to me that the pendulum of the clock on the mantelshelf is going to start again, steadily and rhythmically marking the flight of the minutes.

All at once Pannechon jumps to his feet so violently that he overturns his chair. He rushes to the next room shouting:

"Fire! Fire! There's a fire!"

We run out, bumping against each other, to the door. A stifling smoke envelops us. We choke, we cough, we weep.

"The pump, the pump! There's a camp bucket here!..."

The pump creaks; the bucket fills; a steady stream is directed on the flames. Smoke swirls up in dense, choking clouds; we cough so violently that we almost vomit.

"The door! Shut the door!"

What idiot has just come in? There came a violent gust of air at the very moment when we were getting the fire under.

"Hullo!" says a voice. "What's all this about? You're making a bit of a hullabaloo, aren't you?"

It is Porchon.

"Come along, old man," I cry. "You must help if you wish to sleep here to-night. Pump, pump--like the devil!"

And the four of us fly about as madly as devils in holy water. The pump nearly bursts itself; we wallow in a black flood and tread on each other's toes; but little by little the clouds of smoke die away, the air becomes breathable, our eyes cease to run.

"Bring the candle from that table," I say to Pannechon, "and let's have a look at the damage."

The inquiry is short. There is no stonework behind the chimney-piece. One side of it formed the back of a cupboard with wooden doors, which was used for drying linen. The side had cracked and the flames had got through and set fire to the cupboard doors.

What about the linen inside? Has the worst happened?

"Pannechon, our linen?"

Pannechon smiles, Pannechon is well pleased with himself.

"Ah! Lieutenant, I'm a smart fellow. I had just got it away when the fire broke out. It was all aired--ah, no, there was an old pair of socks which were still wet, so I left them. Yes, there they are--socks no longer, but cinders! It must have been those that smothered us, together with a bundle of rags left at the bottom."

So everything is all right then. Porchon approaches the bed and caresses the eiderdown.

"Ah! old friend, but that was a narrow escape," he says affectionately. "You shall wrap us up snugly shortly." Then raising his voice, he addresses me: "Come along, it is time to mess. Do not forget that I bought some pork yesterday evening from that old man back in the valley. There are also some apple fritters, and still one more of Presle's famous fowls."

_Saturday, October 3rd._

Letters at last! Forty letters at once! And the postman tells me there are still others to follow! I plunge into the mass. I read voraciously, until I am a being intoxicated. I take them from the heap, just as they come to hand, slit the envelope open with my finger, and absorb the contents of the whole letter at once. How short a time it takes, after all, to read forty letters!

Then I re-read them slowly, line by line, as one sips an exquisite liqueur of whose bouquet one's palate never tires. My letters no longer swamp me; I select now, guided by a sure instinct.

And of all those letters, I preserve a few only--those each separate word of which bears a message of hope and encouragement for me. They are the more intimate, hopeful, brighter ones; they are the letters for which I have looked so long in vain. Having read and re-read them, I place them where, at any moment, in any place, they will be available. Meanwhile, because of them and through them, I have become more confident of myself....

Since the dawn, we have been in a steep-sided ravine, whose fresh green is most refreshing to the eyes. The guns are firing irregularly. A German battery is shelling some position out of sight; the shells fly over us at a great height, singing queerly and accompanied by the usual rustling of a heavy object flying through the air.

The older and seasoned soldiers laugh constantly while they banter and twit some new recruits who have just rejoined the colours, and who, each time a shell sails past, search the sky with anxious eyes, seeking to follow its course.

"Don't let them worry you, my boy! They are only rubbish!"

"They never explode, those big shells, as you will see for yourself. At least, that's what we have been told."

"Ah, là là! Are you sure?..."

"You shut up and leave them alone! You want to try and make them believe that they do explode, perhaps. Don't believe them! They are only trying to frighten you!"

Another man good-naturedly adds:

"I shouldn't take any notice of what they say. One says this; another that! Let them go on talking and wait and see for yourselves. You won't have long to wait!"

A true prophecy that, for we leave for the advance posts in the woods. The march is a pleasant one. We are not shelled; what rifle fire there is, is far away; we hear the crackling distinctly, but no bullets go humming past us. We march along in single file by one of those damp tracks where the sunlight, streaming through the leaves, takes to itself a greenish hue. Porchon is busy amusing himself by letting small branches fly back at me as he moves onwards. With a jump I place myself alongside him and so stop his little game.

"Have you seen the Captain of the 8th?" I ask him. "He has come back with his cheek still in bandages. His wound cannot be properly healed yet."

"Yes, I have seen him! He certainly doesn't make a fuss about his wounds!"

"What do you think of the new men?... Do they impress you well?"

"Er ... yes!... Oh, yes!"

Porchon's tone is doubtful; he appears to be rather preoccupied.

"What is wrong with them?" I ask. "I can only speak for my own section of course; but they have at least sent me two corporals and a sergeant who seem to me sound, well-meaning sort of fellows."

"Well-meaning enough, I grant you. You can always expect that. But it is true I am rather worried. You see, the new contingents seem to be comprised of nothing but non-coms., sergeants and corporals. What's the good of them? However hard you try, you can't be everywhere at the same time. Of course, while you are looking after your right, the left, unsupported, gives way.... I am sorry indeed Roux has been sent to hospital!"

"What! The Adjutant in hospital?"

"Yes! The day before yesterday. He'll be out of harness for some time. A good section leader lost!"

Two cannon shots, thundering out almost simultaneously, impel us to look up quickly. Those shells were not 75's or 105's. And where are the guns? They seemed to be under our very noses, yet they are not to be seen. Thirty yards away some gunners are coming and going, busying themselves with some business whose nature it is difficult to grasp at a glance. We approach them and, suddenly, almost at our feet, we see the guns, admirably hidden beneath a pile of brushwood, with a palisade of branches all round. An artificial thicket is the result, capable of deceiving the eye ten paces away.

"Oh, that's something like!" I exclaim. "It is an artistic triumph. I am going to congratulate the gunners."

The moment, however, I get near the guns, and slightly in front of them, a deafening, stunning explosion takes place. The rush of air almost knocks me over; my head seems to have been shattered and my ears tingle painfully. A gunner laughingly calls out to me:

"Hallo, Lieutenant! Have you heard our 90's yet?"

So these are the 90's! One of my men growls bitterly:

"What idiocy! To put these mechanics here with their two machines simply to make a noise! They would have something better to think about than making us jump if they had to go and do some fighting!"

We are in the heart of the wood. We scale a slope and descend the further side. Everyone is silent, a prey to that instinctive feeling which proximity to the Boches causes. It can hardly be described as uneasiness; rather is it a complex sensation which compels action even before the impulse behind it has formed in the mind. One instinctively walks on tiptoe, holds one's bayonet to prevent it rattling, suppresses a cough. It is as if someone had said: "Be careful! I can smell the Germans!" There are, of course, some men who do not feel this sensation as keenly as others, but the soldier who is a complete stranger to it is a rarity; time only quickens it, and with some it is an unfailing indication of the enemy's presence.

How thick these woods are! Beneath the giant trees whose lower branches begin to spread at least sixty feet above the earth, the exuberant undergrowth runs riot. It stretches across and over the path in wonderful confusion, branches twining with branches, until they seem designedly to have combined to check our progress. Thick and flexible, we have to thrust them aside with our hands before we can go on; while tenacious offshoots, wrapping themselves about our legs, send us stumbling constantly.

To right and left are green depths, as far as the eye can reach. Green, too, is the moss, fresh and velvety in the shadows; tinged with russet and gold where the sun has caught it. Green are the trunks of the age-old trees, with the humid, unhealthy greenness which betokens rot; green the countless leaves, changing and varying with the caprice of the breeze; green, yet gold-flecked, are the leaves already touched by autumn's finger.

I raise my head while we march along, seeking the sky's limpid blue for relief; but I can see only a few patches of the heavens, tranquil and serene above the restless quivering of the woods, which lighten the way for us, prisoners of this prodigious multitude of trees, of this unpitying sea of undergrowth.

We have almost fallen into the trenches, which open unexpectedly at our feet. The heads of men appear above the soil; then the men hoist themselves out of the deep cutting, with the aid of their rifles, and the relief is effected, very swiftly and without noise, in broad daylight.

These trenches are splendid, deeply sunk in the chalk, with low parapets supported by wattles. Above them, a roof of leaves droops almost down to the parapet, leaving only a narrow opening through which we can survey the terrain, without being seen. It is not possible to see far, because the visible field of fire extends only eighteen feet or so beyond our rifles, thirty feet at the most at the widest part. This zone, too, is covered with the stumps of felled trees. Beyond it there are more, as dense as those behind us, and therefore more redoubtable than the Germans they hide. The terrain slopes steeply away from us for a hundred yards or so, then rises again to a summit, which marks the horizon a mile away. The side of this rising is covered with undergrowth and, here and there, high trees. The sinking sun bathes the wood in a crimson light, which ruddies the leaves on the higher branches of the trees. And while the pungent odour of the woods rather oppresses me, my eyes weary not, until the darkness of the night extinguishes the colours, of contemplating the trees, which seem to touch the sky, whose leaves tremble in the failing light and which appear beautiful beyond description on this fading autumnal day.

_Sunday, October 4th._

Porchon has reassured himself. While we sit, plunging our pocket-knives in the same tin of beef, he enunciates considerations which have tended to induce this happy frame of mind.

"When we arrived here yesterday, I don't mind confessing that the place gave me a cold shiver up the spine. It appeared to me a cutthroat sort of hole, this little corner. However, I have reconnoitred the ground, and on my return I have found myself as comfy as formerly I had been disturbed. Have you tried to walk through the thicket over there?"

"Yes."

"Did you get far?"

"I gave it up after advancing a few steps."

"Naturally. I, too, attempted it, and, like you, decided it was better to abandon it. Under the circumstances, then, there seemed nothing for me to do but to obey the advice I received when we arrived--to guard the clearings and send out patrols from time to time. A very nice type, the lieutenant who was in command here! He saw me raiding his cigarette-papers, and in a flash offered me the book. 'You want some? Take those, then.' It is a long time since I have been so well off.... Ah, well! What do you wish for most? I only hope we have a night as calm as that of yesterday, a day of fine weather such as this, and return to our quarters for dinner--

"'The valley of my dream where I sleep in a bed.'

"You notice, old man, I possess some genius for improvisation! Meanwhile, however, my bit of foresight should carry us on comfortably until the 8th. After that, who knows? But it is at least something to be grateful for to have four days before one."

"Touch wood!" I say. "Touch wood! We are not back in the valley yet, nor in our beds."

A quartermaster coming up at this moment interrupts us. It appears that one of us two must go to the battalion headquarters to receive instructions. I set out, the messenger acting as guide.

The major's dug-out is situated near a fairly wide cross road. A forest alley prolongs to right and left a level perspective; the sun, which at this hour is directly overhead, appears as a magnificent avenue cutting right through the heart of the forest. The company in reserve is stationed here, but not a man is visible in the sunlight. When one gets nearer, however, heads pop up out of a trench among the brambles which cover it. In some astonishment, I ask myself what inconceivable folly has led these men to hide themselves in their trench on such a day, and why they watch me passing with such astonishment in their eyes.

I encounter several old comrades at the entrance of the hut in which the Captain is lying sick. It appears that an attack by the Boches is anticipated. Consequently, certain dispositions must be arranged before nightfall. I take down all instructions in my note-book, and after a few words of general advice we each depart in our respective directions.

I was approaching our trenches, walking musingly through the clearing, watching the splashes of sunlight playing over the moss, when a strange sound impelled me to halt transfixed. The sound took the form of light, aerial music, as silvery and as transparent as the sky which carried its waves to me. That welcome music had wings; it went high, higher even than the great trees, higher than the trilling of the lark. There were instants when it seemed to draw far away, being heard then only with difficulty; then it recovered force and sounded clear and distinct though limpid and immaterial. A breath of wind shook the leaves and brought a flood of the melody down to me, before it was dispersed far and wide.

It was the voice of bells in some village church.

I stood there, unmoving, listening to this chant of the bells wafting through the woods, where night and day men faced one another, seeking to kill each other.

Their message was not sad. From the heights of the heavens wherein it resounds it spreads widely over earth and men alike. The Germans in their trenches hear it, as we hear it, but the bells speak not to them as they speak to us.

To us they say:

"Hope, sons of France! I am near you, the voice of all the firesides you have left behind. To each one of you I bring a vision of that corner of the earth where the heart remains. Confidence be with you for ever, sons of France, confidence and strength for ever. I sing the life immortal of the Fatherland."

To them they say:

"Madmen who believed that France could die! Hear me! Above the little church, whose stained-glass windows lie in fragments on the pavements, the belfry still stands. It is the belfry that sends me to you, laughing and mocking. Through me it is the village that defies you. I see.... I see ... whatever you have done, I see. Whatever you may do, I shall see. I am not afraid of you. Because I know that the day will come when the cock on the steeple, staring unflinchingly towards the far horizon, will see you in desperate flight, while the innumerable bodies of your slain shall lie thick over the land!"

Night. Letters have been brought to me. One of the envelopes contains sorrow for me. I have learnt that a friend is dead.

And I welcome the darkness. Its blackness cannot be too black for me; I have even hidden myself at the bottom of the trench, because a diffused light wanders amid the boles of the age-old trees before it; and welcome also is the silence of night. Near me an occasional furtive movement reveals the presence of men who are watching. Nothing else. Not even firing in the far distance. I open my eyes in the blackness and see again the living face of my friend, frank, eyes clear and loyal, mouth slightly disdainful, beneath a closely-clipped moustache.

The news has shocked me greatly. A torpor steals over me; the blood beats violently in my temples; I am fevered. And suddenly I hear a murmur, very low, very far away, indefinable. Am I dreaming? Two soldiers, perhaps, gossiping somewhere close at hand. Yes, they are the voices of men I hear, but now they are silent. My head is burning, and still the blood thunders in my temples without a pause. Then the murmur recommences, the same as it was before. It increases; someone is speaking. I cannot distinguish the words, yet the voice is familiar to me: I know it well. But how distant it is! It seems to resound far away in space, beyond the reach of my senses; it rises from obscure depths within me; it awakens in me what is most intimate in the dead past! Low and soft, it is the voice of my friend!

"Lieutenant!"

That is a raucous voice which causes me to raise my head.

"Lieutenant!--Lieutenant!"

"What's the matter?"

"You hear that firing away to the left?"

Firing!--Firing!---- It is true; the woods; the night; the advance posts; the attack that was anticipated.... A few stars shine between the trees; it is very cold; a branch creaks, while somewhere away to our left resounds a prolonged and continuous crackling, which echoes from one end of the ravine to the other. Can they be fighting further away down the line? Is this the attack?

I leave the trench and walk slowly from one end of the line to the other. My men are standing at attention, their rifles resting on the parapet; the non-coms. are in their places; we are ready. Gropingly I enter the narrow passage-way opening into the undergrowth away in front and beyond our trenches. At the end of this, the clearing starts. I count my steps, eight, nine, ten; here is a giant beech, marking the entrance. Little by little my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness. I walk forward more confidently, almost quickly. I should have arrived at my destination by now. Three times I whistle cautiously, three times a whistle rings out in reply, and at the same time a fugitive ray of light gleams on a bayonet in the clearing and I can make out a dark figure. The sentries are keeping good guard!

"Nothing before you, Chabeau?"

"Nothing, Lieutenant!"

"Who is with you?"

"Gilon."

"That's all right. Keep your eyes and your ears open, but do not start firing if only a leaf rustles. Remember there is wire before you to which we have fastened empty meat-tins with a few pebbles inside. A Boche has only to touch the wire to set up a deuce of a rattle. Also, do not fire if you should hear crackers going off to the right or left. Just guard your particular corner to the very best of your ability. Understand?"

"I understand, Lieutenant."