the irony of fate
by m. sadsawska, civic guard, motorcyclist of the 1st line regiment
we were occupying the dixmude sector. our trenches were hollowed out in the road which skirts the yser, and the regiment was sheltering in the centre of a vast horseshoe-shaped curl, traced by the river among the meadow grasses. the scenery was dolefully sad. beyond a row of century-old trees, or rather of poor trunks of trees bewailing their scathed branches, which seemed to be mounting guard around our shelters, the ruins of a railway bridge stood out, half hidden in the water. on the embankment, surrounded by broken and twisted telegraph poles, and festoons of wires and cables all mixed up, lay a powerful locomotive, which had been overturned, so that its wheels were in the air. the melancholiness of the site did not disturb our equanimity at all. we were full of hopefulness and quite ready to march on towards the piles of fallen roofs, gaping houses, and tottering walls of strange shapes, which now constituted dixmude, our old flemish city. in the misty twilight, it seemed to us as though the poor town were stretching out its mutilated arms to us, and as though the murmur of the wind in the ruins were hailing us.
[pg 296]
"courage, courage, come!" it seemed to say.
alas! the few hundred yards of verdure, which our thoughts and our wishes cleared only too willingly, hid the entrenchments and the redoubts of the enemy. every night, the bravest of our men started out patrolling, endeavouring to discover the barbed wire, the ambushes, and the traps set for us. sergeant renson had specially distinguished himself for his daring and his sang-froid. he was naturally of an adventurous nature and was an excellent soldier. in spite of his mature age, he had joined the colours as a volunteer at the very beginning of the war.
he was anxious to find out whether some information he had obtained on a preceding expedition was exact, as it was very difficult on these ink-black nights to distinguish the real from the imaginary. he, therefore, expressed a wish to carry out a reconnaissance alone, and by daylight, in the direction of the enemy's lines. "i am not afraid of death," he said to his chiefs. "i have always lived in my own way and i now want to carry out this plan. i am free to risk my own skin and, as i am forty-two years old, i should not be any great loss." he was finally allowed to do as he wished.
he went along a narrow, long passage, until he came to the edge of the yser, just where a few planks formed a raft. this means of transport was invaluable at night, but could not be used by daylight, as the enemy was on the watch. renson could not swim. that did not trouble him and he crossed the current clinging to a cable. accustomed as he was to all kinds of difficulties, this was mere child's play to him. he reached the other side, slipped into a big sack[pg 297] covered with grass and flowers, and, under this mantle of verdure, crawled along dexterously.
our emotion was intense in the trenches. all eyes were watching him, there was not a single loophole unoccupied.
under the rays of the sun, we saw this moving grass crossing the meadow. it advanced, fell back, turned, stopped, appeared and disappeared, according to the undulations of the soil. our hero was gaining ground. he was observing in his own defiant way, braving death itself. nothing daunted him, nothing seemed to affect him. he was there, moving about in front of the enemy's line. our hearts were beating wildly. every time that a bullet whizzed along, it was anguish to us, and each minute seemed eternal.
finally renson turned round and, slowly and methodically, began to wend his way back. after a few yards more he would be in safety. we saw him on the crest of the bank. he glided into the water, crossed the stream, entered the narrow passage, and was soon back in the trenches, contented and happy, bringing with him valuable information. and this man, who had thus braved death, laughed heartily, as he gave us flowers from the german trenches. he then went to his shelter and prepared his report, tracing in full detail the daring itinerary he had chosen. the commander questioned him on some point and, in order to explain better and to show the exact spot, they both approached a loophole in a communication trench. the sergeant pointed with his finger to the spot in the meadow where the enemy was observing. a few seconds later and he was moving away.... malediction!
there was a cruel whizzing sound and renson was[pg 298] dead. his skull had been pierced and he fell to the ground, the earthen wall bespattered with his generous blood.
at alveringhem, in a peaceful country cemetery, in a grave covered with flowers and surmounted by a large cross, lies adjutant renson, knight of the order of leopold ii. who died for his country.
