Chapter XI: The Touch of Death 200 (4)

Families were unable to escape. Their homes, which should have sheltered them, were thrown wide open to the brutal dangers of the street. The invalid’s bed tottered in the ruins, the baby was thrown from its cradle. The old man died at the side of the youth, the wife in the arms of her husband, the child at its mother’s breast. The criminal extermination, determined upon and planned, was completing its frightful work, was blotting out a city, was beating to death a country. The Boche, squatting on the commanding heights, aimed his guns with ease, made sure of his fire and picked out his prey. He struck practically without risk to himself, sure to hit a target in the chaos of roofs, to demolish and to destroy. A town--what an immense quarry! The shell may fall where it will: it is sure to kill. The explosion will burst in some window, will cross some bedchamber, will find some victim. A town is a quarry more easily sighted than a battery. It is huge, it is immovable, it cannot reply. One can destroy it without danger to oneself.

Therefore the shells fell unerringly; only the flames and smoke made reply....

We paid it no further attention.

* * * * *

My poor Berthet, charming companion, and sharer of so many unforgettable experiences, was unable to follow the regiment through all its struggles. One day, while in the Rheims sector, he suffered severely in a gas attack and the physicians ordered him to the rear for treatment in one of the resting-camps. Gradually the soft air of France healed his tortured lungs and started him on the path of recovery. The German poison had, however, severely shaken his constitution and the cure was slow. He was unable to rejoin us for the tragic trials at Verdun.

VIII

DISTRACTIONS

Existence in the trenches is characterized by a monotony that soon becomes a burden. It is made up of waiting and work: work in which a man is by turns dirt-digger, sentinel, carpenter, and porter. There is much time for rest and repose. It is a special type of life, which recalls that of the sieges of olden days, when armies sat long months at a time facing each other. One does not fight all the time. The vigil is constant, but the struggle is not. There is the incessant watching of the field in front, the unrelaxed tension of stalking the enemy; and at the rear the staleness of inaction.

What is there to do? Sleep, certainly. Then find amusement, for the time is long. The hours move slowly, night follows day and day night without bringing change. Therefore, one must exercise his ingenuity.

One writes a lot of letters. There is always a relative to enlighten, or a sweetheart to console, or a mother to entertain. Letters arrive which are read and reread. Then the newspapers bring their limited ration of news. We discuss their contents. We learn that the submarine warfare is extending; that the Zeppelins have gone over England; that the Bulgars are attacking the Roumanians; that a great parliamentary speech has explained to the world the causes of the upheaval. Thus we kill a few more minutes. Then ennui returns: dull tediousness that puts the thumbscrews on the brain; homesickness for the distant fireside, for the old life renounced for war; yearning for the past, still near and yet so far. One wanders about and knows not what to do. One fellow has some playing-cards and opens a game. We smoke, and dream, and sew, and clean our arms. We await our turn at sentry duty. It rains. We yawn. The sun comes out, one risks his life to pay a visit to his neighbors. The picturesque ceases to be, by reason of familiarity. One sees nothing of that which at first fixed his attention. The deep trench where crazy grasses hang is a road only too well trodden. The mess is stale, the card-game stupid. One is bored to death and utterly worthless.

Then the inveterate wag intervenes. He sings, he “joshes.” He brings a laugh. The dying conversation revives. Those who were dozing sit up again and take notice. Circles form. Each one tells a story, and the long faces spread into smiles. Torpor is banished for a moment. The man who was cutting a cane with his pocket-knife exhibits it. It is fine and much admired. The man who hollowed out an inkstand from a fuse brings it forth. His work is curious, dainty, and ornamental: bravo! A painter is there, an artist, who brings out his album; he has a hundred drawings, warm with color. Each man would like to possess a copy. That is the end: there is nothing more. All this is too brief, and the time is too long. We cast about for something new.

In a hut some one installs a museum. It is a collection of souvenirs of the field of battle. The gathered trophies hang on the walls. A Boche helmet is near a freakishly twisted splinter. A German trooper’s sword-belt hangs near a saw-bayonet. There are cartridge-boxes, fragments of guns, the button of a tassel from the sabre of a buried German officer. Every one is interested in the work and brings his contribution to enrich the collection. It does not belong to any one in particular, but is owned jointly. It is the pride of the sector and the joy of the regiment. It receives the _casse-tête_ picked up after the last hand-to-hand scrimmage with the Boches; a reservoir of liquid fire, whose bearer lies somewhere near the trench that he sought to enter; some fragments of grenades--anything which one might pick up on a kilometre of ground furrowed by projectiles, dug up by shells, or ploughed by cannon-balls. Curious conglomeration! Glorious scraps of iron! Mute witnesses of the fury of men, implements of their ferocity!

At another spot some man who loves the cultivation of the land cares for a wee patch of garden. A garden, yes, that is what I said. In the midst of the trenches. He has planted some pansies, a sprig of stock, and three clumps of pinks. He waters them every morning, and watches them carefully. Woe to any careless foot that might crush them! These flowers, in the sombre surroundings, breathe perfume and poetry.

At another spot a fight between a dog and a rat is pulled off. A lieutenant sets a fox-terrier on a promising hole of the rodents. A group of men look on eagerly. One, armed with a pick, enlarges the opening. Another removes a stone which was in the way. The dog, trembling with excitement, sniffs, paws, digs, buries his nose in the earth, scratches, reaches the animal at the bottom of his retreat--seizes him! Good dog! He shakes the rat furiously, breaking his back. The victor is applauded and petted.

Simple distractions, these! I will pass them by quickly. There is the man who makes chains of welded wire; the one whose hobby is photography. One mysterious fellow amuses himself with cookery. There are some secret pursuits, like that of the inveterate hunters, who place game-traps at twilight and at dawn endanger their lives to go out to empty them. There are fishermen who drop lines in the canal. A hundred avocations are followed on the edge of the war, side by side with the service, in range of the cannon and punctuated by shells.

I had my occupation, as well as the others, you may be sure. I published a newspaper: a great affair. A newspaper, in the trenches--that savors at once of a trade and of an adventure. Title: _The War Cry_, appearing once a month. Every month, then, I had a problem: to get paper. An obliging cyclist had to bring it from the village on the day fixed. He left it at the foot of a sapling, no matter what the uproar overhead; no matter how large the edition of shrapnel messages from the Germans. Oh, honest pulp, intended for a simple life, into what scenes of adventure art thou thrust!

In one trench the print-shop was twenty feet underground. It was illuminated by three night-lamps, set in a triangle. At another place the shop was on a level with the surface of the ground, and the bombardment scattered sand and pebbles over the proof. At another time it was installed in a bedroom of a ruined house. As there was no roof to catch the rain, it fell in large tears on the printer and the printing. No matter! The number was issued, illustrated. It was eagerly sought, and the copies circulated briskly, carrying gratuitous joy, smoothing knit brows, bringing a laugh, and, finally, carrying to the rear the gayety of the front.

When I look back upon these labors, they seem to me childish. In their place, they were amazing. The Great Tragedy held us constantly in its clutch. The man who was polishing a ring for his fiancée did not finish it: that very evening a ball or a piece of shell shattered the work and destroyed the worker. The man who was carving a walking-stick was a mutilated wreck before his work was finished. The danger was incessant. In these occupations we sought distraction from the thought of it all, but one could never ward off that which fate held in store for him. It was an intermission snatched from ennui; a truce; and when one was doing fairly well, thinking no more of physical discomfort and mental anguish, suddenly the cannon barked, the alarm was sounded, and the dance of hell was on again!

“Outside: trench thirteen!”

Then we ran. We left the rings and walking-sticks and the newspaper. _The War Cry_--It was the real war cry now. The Boche had come upon us by stealth. It might be night or day, morning or evening. He slid, he crept, he crouched, he jumped into our trench. We must hack him to pieces with grenades. Then we must put up again a fallen splinter-shield, reconstruct an observation-post, open again a filled-up trench. The shells came like gusts of wind, the shrapnel flew, smoked, and stunk.

Or, at another time, it was our turn to leap out, run to the assault, take a trench, hold it, and guard it.

It was necessary, from time to time, to go to the rear that we might enjoy some real security and relaxation.

The relief! Who will ever adequately sing its praise? It came at night, ordinarily. Two or three days before the event the sector saw strangers arrive for a visit, officers and sergeants, who looked around and took instructions. This is the way they were shown about:

“Look out at this point. This part of the trench seems to be in easy range of the guns.”

“This is a bad corner. Torpedoes hit it every morning. Go by quickly over there, for you can be seen.”

“Every man who passes this spot is saluted by a bullet. We have some wounded every evening.”

They took notes, made observations and inquiries. We looked upon their activities with satisfaction. They were the forerunners of comrades who were about to come, in their turn, to enjoy a period in the open country--underground. They never came too soon. Already we were making up our packets, putting our affairs in order, buckling our knapsacks, filling our side-bags.

We departed fewer than we came. We left some chums in the earth, under humble mounds marked with a cross. There was one man surprised when on patrol--he was carried back dying in the arms of his companions. Another, disembowelled by a grenade, fell at his post without a cry. We had known these men, we had loved them. One was gay, one was grave. All were loyal comrades whom we would never see again. When killed they had remained all day lying at their posts. A cloth was thrown over them, concealing the face and partly covering the body. In the evening when the shadows fell, we put them in their graves.

It was very simple. If possible, the section surrounded the grave, a rough excavation hollowed in the dirt thrown up from the trenches. Sometimes, not always, some one murmured a prayer. The body was lowered, and the dead went his way saluted as a hero by the cannon. That was all. It was sad and impressive, simple as an unpremeditated gesture. Some one put a bunch of field-flowers on the fresh mound. The soldier’s cap was placed on the wooden cross. Then into a bottle was slipped the name of the departed--dead that France might live, fallen at his post of honor. Immediately we returned to our places, to watch and to fight. To-day it was he. To-morrow it would be one’s self.

The relief came by following the communication-trenches. Curious concerning their new post, the fresh arrivals asked many questions:

“Pretty nifty here, isn’t it?”

“Where are the kitchens?”

We informed them as rapidly as possible. We wished that they would arrive more quickly. It seemed as if we would perish in waiting for them, and that the danger increased by their coming. They made a lot of noise. They went back and forth, they talked. Surely the Boche would hear them and let loose his cannon.

In fact, that is what often occurred. Then the brutal shells added to the disorder. Ignorant of the shelters, lost in the thick darkness, the new arrivals flattened themselves out where they could. Their non-commissioned officers reassembled them and led them on in jostled disorder. It seemed that the confusion would never end, that we would have to stay there, all mixed together like tangled thread from an unwound spool. It seemed that the deadly hammering would annihilate us all, down in the earth. Then the officers brought order from chaos. The first line took their places. At the posts of listening the new men replaced the old.

“Notice that recess: that is where the Boches send their love-tokens.”

“Do you see that black pile over yonder? Behind it is a German machine-gun.”

Down in the shelters the new men were making themselves at home, the departing men were gathering up their belongings.

“Good luck to you!”

“Don’t worry about that!”

Then we set out. We reached the line of supply, and crossed a clearing filled with artillery. We could breathe more easily. We were going away, toward repose. At last, in the darkness, we found the road. Conversation began, pipes were lighted. We were getting farther away from the tunnels, from the depths of the earth, and from death. Though still menaced by shells, we felt liberated. We came to a demolished village occupied by moving shadows: men who remained at the rear, in the accessory service of food supply and munitions. Lanterns bobbed here and there. Some horses hitched by the road switched their tails in friendly salute. We went on. We met an ammunition-train going at full speed in a terrible racket of wheels and oaths. Still we marched. We descended a slope. Over yonder lay the Promised Land, spared by the gods of war: where the crops were growing; where the houses had roofs, the villages had inhabitants, the barns had straw; where there was wine to drink, girls to look at, and merchandise to buy. It was all there. We knew it. The recollections of our former visit came to mind. One hoped to find the cantonment running on as in the last sojourn; la mère Laprot, who knew so well how to cook an omelet, and big Berthe, whose teeth were so white when she smiled.

One gave an energetic hunch to the knapsack. One recognized every tree, every turn of the road. We were getting nearer. One more pause and we would be there. We must still climb a bluff, steep as a ladder, leading to the plateau. We climbed--for everything can be overcome.

At last we arrived. The village awaited us with open arms. We entered, and were at home.

The shed was hospitable as ever. We felt of the straw, and laid aside our accoutrement. The arms and leather trappings made a little pile at the head of each man’s place. Blankets came out of the knapsacks. How delicious to stretch at full length on the straw! A few moments more and a hundred sonorous snores, deep and diversified, blended their antiphones under the worm-eaten roof.

Life entered the village with the troops. From early morning the streets swarmed. Wagons lined up under the trees and unpacked their loads. Horses chewed their hay while switching their tails contentedly, or enjoyed long drinks at the trough. The blacksmith hammered the glowing horseshoes in the midst of a smoky haze. The buffets were full. The cold-meat shop was invaded. The grocer was besieged until he emptied his boxes. It was a rush, a battle, an assault.

“Some sausage!”

“Some thread!”

“Some soap!”

“How much for this cheese?”

“I’ll take that box!”

The coins jingled. Happy laughter responded to happy smiles. Wine flowed. At the river laundry the surface of the stream was billowy white with the suds from well-washed clothing. With a drum for a chair, the barber was busy with his razor. At another place shower-baths completed the work of renovation. New faces emerged, fresh-skinned and wide-eyed. The exuberant joy of youth burst forth into gay cries and bodily freedom. Visits were exchanged. The smoking kitchens were sending out delicious odors. The non-coms were kept busy hunting for their men who had disappeared, flown away.

By noon, however, the troop was again in order. In the square the soldiers were in line, with arms polished and garments clean. The roll was called. Their appearance was noted, their losses of equipment were made good. The report was read. We learned that such an one was cited for bravery, that the general was pleased, that we would remain eight days without molestation.

Then the gayety increased. We organized to make the most of our vacation. Some men with a bright idea arranged a theatre and prepared a concert. Two sawhorses supported the stage, which we trimmed with leaves. We draped the flag of the _mairie_ overhead. The programme was quickly arranged, as we had a considerable talent in the regiment.

On the day appointed for the performance chairs were placed for the higher officers, the chief of the battalion, and the captains. The privates noisily disposed of themselves as chance permitted. There were spectators roosting on the wheels of carts, others perched on straw-stacks; wherever a body could hold its equilibrium, there was a body. An improvised orchestra opened the entertainment. Then several singers followed with comic songs. The applause was tumultuous, as high spirits mounted higher. We forgot the war, at that moment, and its suffering and privation. A ballad touched our deeper sentiment. A monologue was punctuated with laughter. The hilarious faces of the spectators told of their pleasure--the joy of living, with youth and health. We relaxed our tense nerves, and became human beings again. There were no more shells, no more mud, no more guard duty, no more fatigue. The tragedy had paused; and, if one had not heard the growling rage of the cannon bent upon its work of death and destruction, one would have believed that there could be no more pleasant existence.

On other days there were games in the open air. Like children freed from school the men ran in the meadows, tussled in a game of prisoner’s base, or played leap-frog. The suppleness of body, the litheness of movement, were such as to inspire admiration. These were no longer soldiers, but graceful athletes, with agile muscles and solid torso. Under the trees gently waving in the breeze, with the clear sky of France above a charming countryside, the scene evoked the picture of the athletic games of antiquity. Not even the group of philosophers was lacking, walking up and down and arguing.

Thus the hours ran on, peaceful and all too short. The troop took a fresh breath, renewed its spirit, calmed excited nerves, found new courage and a magnificent enthusiasm. The cruel remembrance of dark hours, of horrible spectacles, of losses, became dim. We found again a vibrant love of life. The soul-sickness which had grown upon us at the parapets, under the shells, melted away in the new environment, in the joy of a recreation dearly won.

The week of vacation was completed. They were new men, refreshed and invigorated, who fell into line when the hour arrived. In the darkness we retraced the road by which we had come. We were returning to the battle, we were re-entering the tunnels, the dugouts, the redans, the trenches, the parallels. Now we were the relief, in our turn. We took our place. We brought back with us arms, food, replenished cartridge-boxes, new men to fill the vacancies in our ranks. More than that, we brought back valor, patience, faith, and a spirit reborn.

We entered again the domain of death, again we began the agony.

IX

THE BATTLE OF CHAMPAGNE

A year had passed. The Marne and the Yser had gone into history. We knew that enormous preparations were in progress behind our lines. They are always known. The symptoms are perfectly visible. The artillery is massed, the various operations are pushed more vigorously, new precautions are taken.

Vague rumors are afloat. Every one wishes to appear informed, and the strangest forecasts, the most absurd reports are passed from mouth to mouth, originating no one knows where.

“We are going clear to the Rhine, this time!”

“What! do you think? As far as the Meuse, and already----”

“The cavalry is massed at the rear; and if the cavalry passes, the line is already smashed. Then, _mon vieux_, how far do you think we’ll go?”

The war was changing its aspect. Germany, checked at the Marne, seemed to have an unsuspected force. Her regiments were renewed continuously. They seemed to spring from the ground, an uncounted host, capable of breaking over any barrier. Unprepared France, in accepting the combat, profited by the period of “digging in,” to cast big guns and manufacture shells. A colossal effort galvanized her hope. People repeated the famous words of Joffre: “Je les grignote.”[F]

We were confident: Germany could not win. She would be beaten as soon as we could collect guns and ammunition in sufficient quantities. Some words of the generals came down to the ranks. Gallieni had said: “They are in the trenches--they are lost!”

We believed it, we were sure of it. The humblest cook, in his smoky _abri_, spattered with his sauces, his blackened face beaming with smiles, had no more doubt of it than the major-general in his automobile.

Many furloughs had been granted. Each man had been allowed to visit his family, and had spread assurance of success in return for the festivities his friends had prepared for him. No doubts found lodgment in the minds of the people. On tenter-hooks the country awaited victory. Trembling old mothers believed it, tearful wives put faith in it, fathers felt convinced of it. At last we would be avenged, we would punish the enemy’s infamous arrogance, we would chastise him, we would crush him. We were going to crunch him by an enormous pressure, overthrow his system of trenches, advance, break his line; and then, with one burst of valor, we would hurl him back whence he came--into his deep forests, as far as the Rhine; perhaps still farther, to his lair. Every one knew the good news, counted on it, awaited it with impatience.

People liked the bearing of the soldiers. All were delighted to see them so robust, so hardened; more alert than at the beginning, more viril, more manly. The warrior’s helmet graced his forehead like an aureole. The men were fêted and showered with tokens of affection. Long trains brought them home--so ardent, and young, and splendid; shouting their joy in the stations, passing through towns with the air of a victor. How the women admired them! They were treated (in advance) as liberators. Those sober people who still were apprehensive of the outcome, who reckoned up the future and calculated the chances, were looked upon with a reproachful eye. This time it was certain: we would pass!

The opening came the 20th of September. A furious storm of artillery saluted the dawn, and set the thunder rolling. It was a prodigious simoon. The sky cracked with the terrible, hot breath; the earth itself bubbled. A deluge of red-hot iron fell. It was more than a noise: it was a tempest, a gigantic roaring, the forge of Vulcan in full action; an entire sector of the front bursting into flame. What a fantastic tornado! All calibers of shells shrieked together. No single voice of cannon could be distinguished in the concert. They were blended in one roll, as if a god had sounded the charge on a gigantic drum. The avalanche of steel fell on the enemy’s breastworks, spattered over the intervening space, let loose billows of smoke, dust, and flames. The very earth seemed to cry out to heaven, as it was pounded to powder and scorched by the fire. Entire sections of trench walls leaped into the air; a giant plough turned over the tunnels. A heavy cloud formed, grew thicker, rolled over the battle-field. The passing hours augmented the uproar. No sooner did the climax appear to be reached than the tumult increased afresh.

Massed near the field of carnage, the bivouacked troops were in readiness. Each company had its rôle, and each was ready. Each knew at what hour to join the dance. They were going to pierce through, they would pass! Comrades exchanged encouragement and last promises. All hoped to survive, and pursue the routed foe in a sweeping victory.

Our regiment, like others, awaited the call. It had no active part in the festivity, but was present. This was for us a poignant grief. In our sector, not a sound. The cannon were as silent as if every living thing had become a mere spectator of the drama. As the roaring increased in volume from minute to minute, we listened. We divined the scene. We could follow it in the clouds, and in the sounds carried by the breeze. We were like curious, listening neighbors who hear the people next door quarrel and fight. The Germans opposite us remained silent also, and listened, like ourselves.

Battle of Champagne! It had not yet a name. It held all the hope of France, a single, united, colossal WILL. For five days France could only listen to the panting of an army in travail, and held her breath.

The 25th of September, at 9.15 in the morning, the first line left the trenches; bounded forward, hurled themselves on the enemy. Another line followed, and another, and another. Less than an hour later, everywhere, even well back at the rear, messages of victory came. The telephone passed on the joyful news, distributed it to the end of its lines. In our ranks, where we awaited our turn with arms at rest, we breathed with high-swelling hope. We defied the enemy, that day. We looked at his lines, marked his location. To-morrow, perhaps, we would be where he was to-day. We would command his crushed-in shelter, his hiding-places opened by the shells; we would be the victors, and he would be driven before us. Oh, yes, we were quite sure. Already, with pricked-up ears, we could perceive the advance. Our cannon pierced his lines. It roared elsewhere than was usual; already, opposite us, the German had turned.

And yet--no! The accursed race has the tricks of a cowardly beast. To the chivalrous courage which offers itself for an open test of prowess, the Boche opposes stealthy ambush, burrowing in the ground. For the noble _élan_ of our men, for their impetuous passion, for their valor, the Teutonic sneak sets a snare: close to the ground, about a foot high or less, a fine copper-wire was concealed in the grass, and electrified. Our heroes were ensnared in that web. In vain their assaults were renewed. In vain they accomplished a hundred exploits. Close to the earth the traitorous wire caught their ankles, sent the electric shock through their legs, threw them down and burned them.

But we--we were still ignorant of all this, and we awaited our turn. In the falling night we saw the neighboring sky light up. The enemy’s fear was read in the number of his rockets. He was afraid of our sortie, of our onslaught and the outcome.

Ah! Those hours! Those days, those four days of superhuman effort! In what a fever we passed them! At any moment we could become participants, and yet we remained there, inert, champing our bits. We talked, that we might shake off our impatience; that we might hear words, though their import went unnoticed. We talked without knowing what we said, merely to hear ourselves say something. We waited for our cue: nothing came! Near us our comrades were fighting in a veritable furnace; they were living the apotheosis of supreme minutes, living the glory of combat, amidst an uproar of shells: in suffering of the flesh and in the beauty of sublime Adventure. We envied them. We mounted to the extreme edge of the embankments, to the parapets of the trenches, that we might see farther and follow more closely the movement of the drama; that we might breathe the odor of battle and grasp its splendor. We looked at the fire-reddened sky, where a hundred lightnings flashed and a hundred thunders rolled. We desired, with all our souls, to enter the strife, and at last force back the intrenched enemy--intrenched in our land, in our soil.

Since then many a battle has been fought. We have had Verdun, we have had the Somme, we have had the Aisne, we have had almost each day a unique page of history. Most certainly; but it was at this time that we learned our lesson. We learned that patience is the weapon _par excellence_ in a war such as this; whereas, at that time we still conserved intact the old faith in French ardor. It was the first shock following the Marne, after the defense of the Yser. It was the first hope of breaking through. We were near it, so near we could almost touch it, but we did not attain it. We were ready for death itself, but the sacrifice was unavailing. The sacks loaded for the forward march, the filled cartridge-cases, weighed heavily and more heavily when we knew that the line remained where it had been, that the breach was not sufficient, that an insignificant wire had stopped our onslaught and protected the German.

Nevertheless, the results were worth the effort. We counted our prisoners by hundreds, we gathered from them much information. Yes; but the gain was as nothing, so great had been our hopes. We were bound to accept another hibernation, dig in the earth again, dig oftener and longer; look forward to a war of greater duration, more murderous; recommence the effort, accept not months, but years.

The war ceased to be a human struggle. The mass of material became appalling. It was no longer a shock of arms, but an industrial clash: the machine substituted for the valor of a man, the contrivance become demoniac. Cannon were made in enormous calibers. Old pieces were replaced by huge-throated monsters, and one guessed that the wily German, girt for supreme effort, was preparing something more, which would make the early part of the war seem like child’s play.

This is why the present war is impossible of narration. It is no longer a battle of a certain date. It is not, as in former times, a moment in history, the clash of two wills, the shock of two armed bodies of men. It is a period in a century. It involves, not two peoples, but the world. It is not a turning-point, but a transformation. It is almost a state of society: “C’est la guerre.”

Later, in an unforeseen epoch, in the year ----, it will be taught the children as two dates: the war began August 2, 1914; it ended ----. All the tragedy, all our cries, our furies, our agonies, our suffering and death--all this, without name, blurred and indistinct, will be contained between two numbers, and will mark two eons: that before the War, that after the War. We will have fought and we will have wept; our bodies will have been broken and our hearts will have bled, without our being able to say, “It happened as I have told it,” for we will not know just how it happened. We will be obliged to call to mind the first day when grenades were used; the day torpedoes came to light; the advent of the four-hundreds. Facts will be mixed in our troubled memories. We will no longer recall all that happened to us. To be more explicit, to create a truer picture, we will say:

“At the Marne, we used rifles.”

“In Champagne, we threw bombs.”

“At Verdun--such cannon!”

“On the Somme the shells flew so thick they met in mid-air.”

“And then--and then, America came!”

X

VERDUN

Those who have not been actively engaged in the war cannot form any conception of it. When they hear a combatant speak of it, they say:

“Then you fight all the time?” “No.” Whereupon they think: “Then in the firing-line one is not really in much danger.”

Ah, not so fast, good people! In this war, this new, present-day war, the vigilance is continuous, the hand-to-hand struggle is not. Shells fall unceasingly, but the open battle, the assault, is not without interruption. Fortunately.

Thus it was that after the German check, after the Crown of Nancy had withstood the foe’s attack, since the Marne in fact, the sector at Verdun remained quiet.

It was a particularly good point. Here and there a sprinkle of shells, then nothing more. There was fighting everywhere else, in Flanders, in Artois, in Champagne, even in the Woëvre district, but not at Verdun. The sector was so calm, that the only guard left there consisted of Territorials, mostly older men. They worked without too much effort, these fathers of families; without much disturbance, doing general work of repairs about the fortifications, pipe in mouth, almost at peace in the midst of war. In the winter of 1915 they shivered a little with the cold; but the forest was near by, wood was abundant, and the cold caused no great suffering. In the evening, down in the deep trenches, in the well-heated huts, or in the powerful forts, such as Douaumont, Vaux, Vachereauville, they basked in the heat as on a sunny day. They looked at the falling snow and the landscape sleeping under its white blanket. They swept the snow with branches of trees, blew on their fingers a little, accepted their slight discomfort in patience.

December passed, unusually cold; then January came, bringing the new year. One more year gone, one less to come! Soon the beautiful days would come, the spring, and--who knows?--perhaps peace. Germany was tired of it all, near the end of her resources, and would give in. Every one had his own definite idea on the subject. According to one, peace would come before the end of June. Another thought the war would last well toward the end of July. No one imagined that the following winter----

February entered. At the listening-posts one received a surprise: one noticed signs of life and activity among the enemy.

“They are unloading iron.”

“They are doing a lot of talking.”

Bah! The Boches were putting their affairs in order. For more than a year the opposing lines had been looking at each other without any great exchange of blows. They felt quite well acquainted. The fellows opposite were taking good care of their own bones. Some said they were only the Landsturm, who were hibernating over there.

In the town of Verdun the usual life continued. The cafés were so crowded they turned people away; concerts and theatres were in full swing; everywhere there was great animation, on account of the presence of troops in increased numbers. One could not find a vacant room to rent, and the price of provisions soared. All the towns and even villages, where so many troops were spending their money, were infected with this fever of success, of easy money, of the riches which rolled in. Verdun was no exception to the rule. The citadel was choked with troops: officers and privates, drinking and laughing. To be sure, when the war goes well, there is no need to be austere.

February reserved its own surprise. The short month, which amounts to nothing at all, so short that it seems crippled, this one-armed month, displayed in this particular year the malice of a dwarf.

Suddenly the German line burst into flame. It was like a spark on a train of powder. Twelve hundred cannon, perhaps more, crashed in chorus.

“_Alerte!_ To arms!”

Ah! Yes! Ground, hacked, mutilated, overrun, those easy-going papas, the Territorials, fought the best they could; but the Argonne was the accomplice of the Boche. The drive became irresistible. With the shell-power of this massed artillery, the lines were broken and obliterated. Under the storm of shells the trenches were levelled. It was not an artillery battle, nor merely a violent attack. It was rather an avalanche of explosives. The molten torrent, crackling with sparks, fantastic, inhuman, swept all before it. All the massed Krupp guns in diabolic fury spat their clots of flaming blood. The torn, disembowelled earth leaped into the air and fell in dust. A bitter smoke filled the air, dense on the plain and dense on the mountain summit. Douaumont became a forge, Vaux was a fiery cyclone. Thavannes was a scarlet glow, le Mort Homme was a continuous roar, and Verdun heard the approaching thunder in apprehensive dread.

At the call for reinforcements the regiments came in all haste, to bare their breasts to the cannon. Fiercely the units clung to their ground, placed their batteries, intrenched themselves, and offered stubborn resistance. The enemy still advanced. The adversary was not an army division but all Germany, with the dynasty, the Crown Prince, the old Haseleer at their head. The defenders were again faced by the terrible order, “Conquer or die,” as on the Marne and the Yser. Once more that game was played. Once more it had the upper hand. Destiny, impassive, looked on.

Three kilometres of retreat brought the French to the Côte de Poivre.

The Boche had orders to take, at all costs, the “strongest citadel of France.” That success would mean the death of our country. It meant all France exposed to the foe, Paris captured, Defeat. It meant Crime triumphant, history violated, supremacy of brutal might, humanity’s bonds reforged. It meant the flower of the Revolution crushed and Liberty in chains. It meant the Kaiser’s boot on the neck of the world.

“Do you wish aid?” came the message from England, already preparing to send succor. France responded proudly: “No! I can hold my ground.”

And she held it. The world knows it.

An innumerable host, coated in dirty gray like a repulsive animal, rushed on in its heavy, obstinate bravery; as an infuriated bull with lowered head madly charges his foe, so the German brute in his blind rage hurled himself toward us. In the path of the Hunnish Horde stood French valor. THEY SHALL NOT PASS! Nor did they. But--what a struggle!

All the slopes which form the heights of the Meuse and are the ramparts of Gaul, resounded as a monster forge. There Vulcan had set up his furnaces. Such a battle is too great to be recounted. It is the story of Thavannes, whose immense tunnel of approach sheltered a whole battalion at a time. It is the story of the fall of Douaumont; then the siege of indomitable Vaux, dauntless, resisting, panting, quivering like a drum. There the shells fall at the rate of ten per minute. Raynal is commanding there: that is enough. Ten times the German hurled his force against the fortifications, and ten times he fell back, baffled. The garrison stood its ground in a furnace of the damned. New men entered by a breach, followed a narrow path, found the postern gate, and leaped in. For every man who came, came a shell. Overhead twenty airplanes circled about, directing the fire, like vultures above the eagle’s nest; while the cannon on the surrounding heights converged their fire.

Vaux! Heroic name, name never to be forgotten! Vaux, a rock burned by acids, by powder, by the fires of hell. Vaux held out five days, six days--eight days! The sky at night was a hot glow. The earth was one continuous roar of explosions, enveloped in billows of smoke. In that inferno men fought unto death. Trenches, shelters, stone, and earthworks were wiped away by the shells; the battle left the protection of the ground and swung into free space.

The regiments were brought from the rear. They were supplied with food and ammunition by a whole army of camions, which looked like an immense serpent twisting along the road. Beyond Verdun the men entered directly into the furnace. Their units melted in the very act of going to the relief of their comrades at the firing-line. No matter! They advanced, leaping from one shell-hole to another, up to the lines where the survivors of the preceding regiments still held the assailant at a distance. They were one man against ten. Of a hundred who set out, only fifty arrived. They felt the reassurance given by the strength of Vaux. Vaux hammered by blows--but Vaux still living, still French, withstanding the tempest and defying the German. One felt there the heart of steel in the fortress of rock. In addition to the battle all about was the spectacle of a mass of masonry holding an army in check.

Vaux fell. Only thirst ended its resistance. The enemy, stupefied to count the handful of heroes who had thus held them at bay, rendered the captives the highest honors. The Commandant Raynal kept his sword; the Crown Prince, in humility before such glory, was glad to pay him homage, and asked to be presented.

Vaux fell, but Verdun was not taken. There huge shells fell unceasingly. The German loves the easy targets: a cluster of houses, a town, is an object hard to miss. In the town, then, the storm swept the streets. Entire quarters went down in dust. Like Rheims, like Soissons, like Ypres, like Liége, Verdun was the victim of the Huns. People took refuge in the citadel, in its enormous subterranean chambers of massive masonry. There, where the stone corridors were damp as cellars, night and day both soldiers and civilians found shelter. There young mothers nursed their babes, there people of all conditions lived as best they could; there, underground, helter-skelter, all piled together. They could hear the shells of the Hun falling on the city, the houses crumbling, the wounded shrieking.

All France and all the world had their eyes on Verdun the inviolable; on Verdun surrounded by flames, in the vortex of action; on Verdun, which did not weaken. Without respite, the Teutonic masses were hurled to the assault. Like a sea of mud they poured upon the outposts of the city. They were beaten down by grenades, shells, machine-guns, fire, shot, and powder; and They did not pass!

All about were scenes most thrilling. It would be impossible to recount them all. We must choose only one or two.

One day, then, of date unrecorded (Verdun held out eight months!), a troop going up to the fortress of Thavannes found the railway below and followed it. They came to the tunnel and entered, although it was already much encumbered. In vain did the gendarme on guard try to oppose their passage: the newcomers were too many. They numbered about six hundred. Above them the battle raged. They were intending to stop for breath, then go on up the slope and take their posts, where Death awaited them.

No! They will never go so far. They seek a reprieve for an instant in the tunnel, but Death comes to meet them. In the long black cavern are piles of ammunition in transit. There are soldiers, and wounded men, and mules, and general confusion. Some one, man or beast (no one knows which), hits a case of explosives. In the dark tube there is a flash, an uproar, a cloud of smoke: four hundred bodies lie mangled and scorched, as when the fire-damp explodes in the depth of a mine. The living make their way out as best they can, leaving the dead and wounded. The two hundred who escape reform their line, mount the hill, enter the real furnace: this other episode did not count. It was an extra, for good measure. The accident could not prevent the fulfilment of the task before them. What were left of the battalion went where their order sent them. Four hundred fell on the way. Too bad. Orders are orders: they are carried out by the remnant....

This is only one instance in a thousand.

* * * * *

We all had a great curiosity to see the famous precincts where the strife raged so violently. It was almost with joy, therefore, that we received our call. The day the order arrived the news ran quickly through the ranks: “We are going over there, boys!” “Over there” meant Verdun. That was understood. We hastened to get ready; we arranged knapsacks; put our affairs in order. The vans were loaded, the horses hitched. In the canteens we drank to Victory, to the Return, to Good Luck. Eyes glistened behind the smoke of pipes, and we jostled and laughed. Even those who feared the terrible adventure and dreaded death concealed their uneasiness and cloaked it with smiles. On the other hand, many danced for joy, happy to have a part in the fight, to be in full action.

All together, pell-mell, happy and unhappy, we were punctually on the spot appointed for the automobiles to receive us when evening arrived. The entire convoy waited behind a hill. The drivers, muffled up in pelts, chatted while waiting for us. They looked fantastic in the dim light. Only two or three lanterns winked and blinked in the night. One was dimly aware of a file of conveyances lined up along the edge of the road, like great beasts asleep; the going to and fro of the officers of the convoy, and their colloquy with the colonel. It was all more felt than seen. One could distinguish only shadows; one heard the tramp of men, the dull murmur of low-voiced talking, sometimes an exclamation or a stifled oath.

Then orders were transmitted by cyclists. The first battalion set out. Hurriedly each section climbed into the autos. These ought to have carried twenty men each, but twenty-five and even thirty were piled in, somehow, with their arms, their luggage, their knapsacks, their side-bags, their canteens. As soon as a company was loaded in the captain gave the order to go. One by one the cars fell into line. The motors coughed and plunged forward like a dog unleashed. Then ten more machines received a new company, and departed in their turn. They also were swallowed up by the night.

When my turn came, by some chance I was assigned to an auto with the officers, where we were much less crowded than in the large vehicles of the privates. I therefore expected to gain some further information concerning our destination. In this I was disappointed, as the officers knew very little about it; besides, from the time the motor started and the auto was on its way no further conversation was possible. We could not hear each other, even when nearly shouting, and we had enough to do in resisting the bumps which threw us against each other. We inhaled the dust: a thick, heavy dust, raised by the wheels. It soon covered us completely. One could feel it coating his face, and small grains of sand rolled between one’s fingers. We could not see, for the curtains were drawn down tightly, and it was very dark. We travelled as in an interminable tunnel, with no light whatever, with no knowledge of what we were passing or of the country we were traversing. Sometimes there were sudden stops. The quickly set brakes brought us to a standstill with a jerk. We asked the driver: “What is the matter? Where are we?” He scarcely answered, for he knew no more than we. His order was to follow the auto in front of him, and to keep his machine twenty metres behind, that he might avoid a collision in case of a too-sudden stop. He followed his orders, and knew nothing more. He did not even know the road we were travelling. The car which led the procession carried the chief officer of the convoy. Probably he was the only man besides our colonel who knew our destination.

Thus we journeyed four hours before dawn. As the pale light invaded our rolling apartment little by little, we saw how completely we were covered with dust. We were white from head to feet, like a miller dredged in his flour. Our clothing was white, our hair, our faces, our arms. We appeared grotesquely like veritable old men. We looked each other over and laughed. Then, as there was nothing more to fear from the dust, a lieutenant raised a curtain. We found ourselves on a winding road in a charming, gently-rolling country. Small trees formed tiny groves on the hillsides, and the whole landscape was quite different from that we had just left.

Suddenly the captain made a gesture. He had perceived an airplane, soaring directly over us in a most disquieting manner. It was flying too high for us to distinguish, even with glasses, whether it was French or German; but its manœuvres were suspicious. It had command of the road, and seemed to be preparing to fire on the convoy. In fact, that was exactly what happened, a few minutes later, when the flyer suddenly came lower and opened fire with his mitrailleuse. The automobiles increased their speed and lengthened the distance from one to another. Nevertheless, the aviator could move much faster than could we, and he circled above us like a vulture over his prey. Fortunately, he had no bombs, and his aim was too uncertain to inflict much damage. As it was, he wounded several men, and would have wounded many more if the special guns for the purpose had not opened fire on him, or if three French planes had not appeared on the horizon. At sight of them he made a hasty escape, amid our shouts and jeers. Our wounded were rapidly cared for by a surgeon, and shortly after were placed in the first field-hospital encountered on the road, amid the ruins of a village. This village gave us the first knowledge of our whereabouts. We were entering the valley of the Woëvre, and Verdun lay beyond the hills. The roll of the cannon had become audible.

After a short halt we set out again. This time we entered the field of action. It was evidenced by the constantly increasing number of convoys encountered. Long lines of camions were climbing toward the battle, loaded with munitions or food; or, like our own, with men. The road became very wide, encroaching some distance into the fields. Some soldiers, in the stream of conveyances, threw pebbles under our wheels without as much as lifting their eyes to look at us: they had seen so much already that the spectacle of troops going under fire interested them not at all.

With our advance the scene changed rapidly. We saw some autos overturned in a ditch and burning. Some dead horses stretched their rigid legs in the air. Under some tents men bustled about with stretchers, instruments, and boxes. These were the temporary dressing-stations, where the men wounded on the route were cared for: any who had met with accidents from vehicles, as well as those who had been hit by shell-splinters--for we had entered the zone of projectiles, and stray splinters reached even that far. The scene became indescribable. It was a mob, where one felt nevertheless a discipline, a sense of regulated, methodical order. We were in the side-wings of the battle, in the midst of its movable stage-settings, among the stage-hands, machinists, electricians, and supernumeraries, whose activities are unseen by the public, but who make it possible for the performance to go on and be brilliant. Long trains of horse-drawn caissons followed each other at full speed. Field-ambulances, marked with large red crosses, slipped into the moving stream. Vehicles of every sort, gray with dust or mud-bespattered, rumbled, creaked, rolled along, stopped, started, stuck in the ruts, freed themselves. The moving line looked like the folds of a fabulous serpent.

The voice of the cannon increased in power and volume. It was like hearing an orchestra of inferno. The ear received only a tremendous, continuous roar, like the rolling of thunder which never ceases.