friday, 8th january.
this morning at half-past six, our artillery opens fire over a sector of several kilometres. fifty guns each fire a hundred and twenty-five shots, a formidable total. the moroccans carry two lines of trenches above crouy and, along with the light infantry, obtain a footing on the upland. an important success, it appears. the german counter-attack is ineffectual. their artillery is directed upon our trenches and upon the ground in the rear.
are we to attack shortly? the question is asked of the lieutenants, but they cannot answer it.
from noon onwards firing grows more intense; it is a tempest of iron until five o'clock. storms of german shells beat down upon bucy, whilst our own 75's crash their projectiles on to the trenches opposite. in the midst of the din we distinctly note the roar of the heavier shells passing overhead with the sound as of a slowly moving train over an iron bridge.
as though the rain were not enough, a hailstorm begins to lash our faces. thunder-claps[pg 230] alternate with the roar of cannon. the sky is lit up with lightning flashes. we are in a state of utter stupefaction when the hour of relief arrives.
on reaching our ali-baba cave, we learn that a 210 shell fell this afternoon in front of the grotto on a spot which for months we have regarded as absolutely sheltered. sergeant martin has been hurled into the air and the cooks flung pêle-mêle on to the ground. even in the galleries the men have been lifted off their feet by an irresistible shock. it is discovered that no one has received any real harm except sergeant martin, whose left leg has been cut off close to the pelvis. debris of red cloth and of flesh are still strewn around the enormous hollow dug by the projectile.
saturday, 9th january.
after a delightful and dry night spent in the grotto, we are sent to clean out the branch trenches. jacquard remains in the grotto busily occupied in arranging in a box our store of chocolate tablets.
outside, the dance continues: 75's, 77's, 90's, 105's, 155's, and 210's plough their way through the air. with hands crossed on the shovel handle, and one foot on the iron, we watch these latter shells fall around the montagne farm, and upon le moncel and sainte-marguerite: first a black cloud, then a red star-like flash and finally a thunderous explosion.
the enemy is trying to find our batteries. from[pg 231] time to time four shots from a 75 follow one another in rapid succession as though to say: "don't concern yourself." the spectacle is so fascinating that we do not feel at all inclined to work.
violent fusillade from the direction of crouy.
towards evening the rain stops a little; so does the firing. the company is again installed in the first line.
verrier, reymond, maxence and myself are appointed to occupy in turn two loop-holes and a dug-out. this latter is not an attractive place: a cavity of three cubic yards dug in the side of the trench. there is scarcely room to move one's body, and a few inside repairs are quite indispensable.
no sooner have we arrived than the corporal in charge declares—
"there are four of you for this post. arrange amongst yourselves as regards the hours, but i want always to see two of you at the loop-holes."
"all right."
two of us then mount guard; a simple matter in the daytime. it consists in walking about the trench, smoking one's pipe. an occasional glance opposite to see that nothing stirs.
those left in the dug-out are busily occupied. first, there is the cleaning to be done. our predecessors have left bones and pieces of waste paper lying about, and the sight is sickening.
"ah, là là! could they not have removed their own filth themselves?"
[pg 232]
then three tent canvases are opened out upon one another in front of the entrance to the dug-out. this is a delicate operation: no space or chink must be left between this improvised doorway and the walls of earth; first, in order to stop the draughts—it is extraordinary how one fears draughts in the trenches!—and then to keep out any light calculated to make our presence known to the germans.
a cover on the ground to serve as a carpet. two small niches in the wall for placing candles. a piece of plank, held up by two tent pickets driven into the wall, forms a shelf: the refuge of pipes, gamelles, and stores. two bags on the ground to lean upon.
this task ended, one can take breath. it is now the time for letter-writing, the ever-recurring formula: "i am writing to you from the first line of trenches, close to the germans. all the same, don't be anxious about me, there is little risk...." we read the paper and find that all foot-soldiers are looked upon as heroes. there it is, in print. these things flatter us greatly. after all, it's something to be a foot-soldier!
generally everything is quiet at this hour; like ourselves, the germans are preparing dinner and bed.
the time comes for us to sit down to our meal. one man only remains on guard. the other three dine gaily, and at considerable length. when the conversation becomes too noisy, the sentry gives a kick at the tent canvas. every[pg 233] ten minutes the poor fellow draws aside the screen and asks—
"aren't you going to relieve me soon? i'm terribly hungry."
we reply—
"all right, there'll be something left for you. remove that head of yours; you're letting in the cold."
he resigns himself to his lot, well aware that any one under cover is privileged to swear at a wet dog.
from time to time he fires a shot into the dark, just to make him forget his hunger. he puts himself en liaison with the entries right and left of him.
finally he hears the words—
"come along, your turn for dinner. one of us will take your place. just wipe your boots and don't soil the carpet."
he glides into the hole, which exhales a blended odour of stew, tobacco and fighting. a broad smile appears on his face as he says: "that smells nice." and he believes it too. he perceives his portion simmering away on a soldier's chafing-dish. speedily comes fresh cause for anxiety—
"where's my coffee? i'll wager you've not kept it warm for me!"
indignant protests.
"see! there's your coffee. we've even kept a cigar for you. would you like to begin with a couple of sardines?"
[pg 234]
after which, his hosts add, pretending to shiver with cold—
"careful, all the same, you're wet through. don't stir, or you'll upset everything in the room."
at eight o'clock' dinner is over. each man cleans his plate and his knife and fork with a piece of bread.
preparations for the night. two are going on watch duty and two to sleep; relieving one another every four hours. the two privileged ones, who are able to digest their meal at leisure, light their pipes, pass the bottle of spirits, and are speedily fast asleep.
the two sentries stand with their back's to the rain. they hide their pipes in the hollow of the hand.
"what weather!"
"dreadful!"
one man coughs. the other remarks—
"suppose we move from here; you'll wake the children."
maxence and myself occupy the dug-out from eight till midnight. we smoke a few pipes. the post has brought newspapers. our accoutrements hang on nails driven into the timber which props up the shelter. maxence, who has been somewhat fidgety for some minutes, remarks—
"i don't care! i'm going to put on my socks; it will be far more comfortable."
"and suppose the lieutenant comes along.... and what if the germans attack?"
"eh?"
[pg 235]
he hesitates, his hand on the point of unrolling his puttee.
"nonsense! those over in front won't stir an inch."
i succeed in persuading him not to remove his boots. well wrapped in our coverings, we talk before going to sleep.
i am interrupted by an exclamation in the trench—
"the germans are in the branch trench! look out!"
we spring to our accoutrements and arms. a hundred yards to the right a brisk fusillade is going on.
"who was it shouted, 'look out!'?"
"a man of the fourth section, the one on guard at the listening post," placidly answers verrier, who has already fixed his bayonet to his rifle, though retaining his cigarette between his lips.
"well! where are the germans? there is nothing to be heard!"
we begin to scent one of those tragi-comic incidents frequent in warfare. the lieutenant passes, an electric lamp in hand. as he strides away towards the right, he gives the order—
"everybody at the loop-holes!"
the command is obeyed.
in half an hour's time he returns.
"well! what was the matter?"
thereupon, half-smiling, and half-angry, he relates—
"it was a german patrol that had taken the[pg 236] wrong direction. our sentry was watching, sheltered by a tarpaulin stretched across two pieces of wood. he hears the sound of voices and heavy steps, and, crash! something splits the tarpaulin and falls with a howl on to his shoulders. it was a german! stupefied, the sentry calls out: 'to arms!' everybody comes rushing from the shelters, and there is a fine uproar. meanwhile, the german scales the parapet and clears off. the patrol had already disappeared."
when the lieutenant has gone, we make our way through the three or four hundred yards of deserted, winding branches to visit the heroes of the adventure. they look very shamefaced.
the corporal seems uneasy.
"do you think the lieutenant will give me the lock-up for this?"
indignantly he adds—
"but what fools they were to come along here! is that the way an enemy patrol goes to work?"
evidently, if the enemy in future approaches our lines without taking the usual precautions, he will no longer be playing the game!
the sentry especially has a very sickly look.
"why didn't you stick your bayonet into the fool of a german?" some one asks.
"my bayonet was sheathed. do you fix your bayonet when on sentry duty in the trench? it's only in the illustrated papers that you find such silly things!"
the escaped german, whom we baptize fritz,[pg 237] has left his mauser behind. what sort of a story will fritz have to tell on returning to his own lines without his rifle? will he be kicked unmercifully? or will he be clever enough to make up a tale of heroism which will win him an iron cross?
a stormy night. rifle shots. patrols peppering one another.
the voice of a wounded german calls for help, a plaintive, wailing voice; he wishes to surrender, his comrades have left him, and he begs us to come for him.
"come along. we'll do you no harm."
there is no reply. most likely a feint to draw some of us into an ambush.
sunday, 10th january.
this morning we notice that the germans have profited by the darkness to dig an attack branch, enabling them to pour a raking fire into our trenches. this part of the sector is becoming difficult to hold. we receive the impression that the enemy is preparing an ugly surprise.
at noon we are relieved. the glorious sunshine puts us in good humour. a profound sense of security and repose inside—or in front of—the grotto, whilst a heavy cannonade is preparing an attack on hill 132.
the attack is made at sunset. the moroccans and light infantry carry a third line of trenches, and fortify themselves on the upland, almost touching the perrière farm.
[pg 238]
monday, 11th january.
the whole afternoon we stand at the entrance of the grotto watching the big projectiles fall upon bucy. vr—ran! vr—ran! in the evening, silence again reigns; the 21st and 24th go down to vénizel, on the aisne, a distance of four kilometres from bucy.
for the first time since the 15th of november we are about to find ourselves out of rifle-shot range. how glad we should be if we could put ourselves for a week out of earshot of the cannons' roar!
it rains in torrents. our quarters have been badly arranged; no one knows where he has to go. lieutenants shout; sub-officers raise their arms in despair. we men wait, the rain pouring down upon us.
finally comes an order: our squadron is on guard, and we must occupy a pinnace moored on the right bank of the aisne, above the bridge. we follow the banks of the swollen stream, and then cross a wood, the first few trees of which are partially under water. a faint light is seen: it is the pinnace. we enter one by one along a shaky plank which threatens to give way. and now we are yachtsmen. this is one of the most curious incarnations of our life as soldiers.
the squadron—which, for the occasion, we call the crew—occupies the 'tween decks. there is a big petrol lamp and a good stove. the skipper, mobilized on the spot, and his wife, seem very nice people. and what a pleasant refuge!
[pg 239]
varlet brings letters and parcels. our joy knows no bounds. reymond, tricked out in a sky-blue cap, repeatedly mounts on to the deck.
"are you on the watch?" asks the corporal.
"yes. fine breeze north-north-west. in twenty days we shall reach the cape of good hope."
with a stubby little pipe in his mouth, his shaggy beard, and his manner of walking with legs apart as though the boat were rolling, he looks exactly like a seasoned old salt.
there are fourteen of us in the boat, and we are all covered with vermin. the corporal, neck and breast bare, is engaged in minutely picking his shirt; he burns his fleas in the stove, and at each immolation gives an exclamation of wild satisfaction.
the capotes are hardened with mud, and the bayonets, which usually serve as candlesticks, are covered with wax drippings. as for our rusty, stopped-up rifles, they will only be fit for service after a thorough cleaning.
i feel somewhat feverish, and sit down apart from the rest. a formidable slap on my back: charensac's way of showing his affection. heart-broken to see me ill, he shouts confidentially into my ear—
"what's the use of fretting, old fellow?"
"just leave him alone for the present," advises the corporal.
charensac brightens up more and more as he eats. he is just as happy and pleased in a pinnace as he would be anywhere else.
[pg 240]
seeing that his comrades are writing letters, he goes to and fro, brawling out—
"ah! ah! so my little mates are working. good! mustn't disturb them now."
in spite of the smell of rancid oil and tar we are quite content because we are dry, and so we sit up till two in the morning. finally, each of us picks out a corner, wraps himself in his cover, and falls asleep on the floor.
tuesday, 12th january.
the whole morning on the deck of the pinnace. an infernal cannonade is roaring on the upland. how they must be enjoying themselves! about eleven o'clock, as i was beginning to brush my capote, charensac and meuret come running up, out of breath, and sputter out—
"to arms! the germans are advancing."
various exclamations. we hastily equip ourselves.
when the section is mustered, the lieutenant first makes us cross the bridge of vénizel and pass along the left bank of the aisne, i.e. in the direction opposite to the seat of battle. here we begin to descend with the stream. the swollen waters, of slimy yellow, carry off debris of every kind. after proceeding a kilometre, we reach a wooden bridge. the flood is so strong that the current threatens to wash over the flooring. this bridge has been constructed by the english; it still bears inscriptions in their language. we cross; again we find ourselves[pg 241] on the right bank. to reach the trenches we shall have to traverse, in open daylight, the plain of vénizel, which is three kilometres wide, and under the enemy's fire from the neighbouring heights.
"in columns by twos, forward!"
scarcely have we started in the direction of bucy than we are greeted by a shell, then by two, followed soon by three. we are being fired upon. a command is given that the four squadrons should follow one another at intervals of fifty yards.
on reaching the first houses in bucy we find considerable excitement. gunners, sword and revolver in hand, exclaim—
"don't go in that direction! the germans are at the sugar-mill of crouy."
a horseman gallops up, coming from the line. as he rides past we ask—
"well, good news?"
he frowns and makes a wry face. evidently there is hard fighting going on.
the section climbs in the direction of the trenches. half-way up, we meet a few men and a lieutenant of another regiment. they wear a haggard look, and seem uncertain of their movements.
"where are you going?" asks our lieutenant.
"i've not the faintest idea," says the other. "this is all that's left of my company. we have just been mined."
one man, still in a very shaky condition, explains—
[pg 242]
"for days past we have been hearing a scraping noise underground. then, of a sudden, v'lan! we are all blown into the air! our poor comrades!"
over the entire upland, between missy, bucy, crouy, and the paris-soissons-maubeuge road, the battle is being waged. the germans counter-attack at several points. the artillery duel is a terrible one.
i am quite out of breath. as well as i can, aided by charensac, i climb the steep and muddy slope leading to the first-line trenches. really, i must throw out some ballast.
thrusting my hand into my musette, i take out a couple of tins of preserved lobster. these i mechanically hand across to charensac, who, woebegone, makes a sign that he does not want them. this is one of the saddest impressions of fatigue and weariness that i have ever experienced. if charensac has come to this pass, we are in a state! i say—
"well, then; the more's the pity! away they go!"
i fling the two tins on to the road, charensac sighing as he watches them disappear.
at the top of the slope we start along the hollow way bordering the upland. we are up to our knees in mud. exhausted, i sit down on the ground, but a shrapnel explosion a few yards away proves to me that this is neither the time nor the place to rest.
i rejoin the section just as it is passing close to a battery installed above the way, and partially[pg 243] concealed by foliage. the captain walks to and fro under the balls. accosting our lieutenant, he asks—
"where are you going?"
a vague gesture is the reply.
"you don't know? then come along with me, you can defend my guns."
we have to pass before one of those mouths spitting out fire without a break. our lieutenant politely remarks that it might be prudent to interrupt the firing, to avoid accidents. the captain, with a somewhat disdainful smile, condescends to give the order—
"cease firing, to allow the foot-soldiers to pass."
our section disappears in a branch in front of the four cannons. some men keep watch and fit up loop-holes and firing embankments. the rest fling themselves on to the ground. the enemy's artillery plays upon us. a 77 shell, which does not explode, comes to a stop on the edge of the parapet, close to a gabion. its pointed nose projects over the trench as though to see what is taking place.
charensac glides up to my side with the two tins of lobster in his hands! on reflecting over the matter, he could not tolerate the loss of such wealth, and so, at the risk of a dose of shrapnel, he actually went back to pick up my preserved food. it's a case of principle; not only will he waste nothing himself, he will not see anything belonging to others wasted. and he actually[pg 244] refuses to accept them for himself! i finally overcome his scruples by reasoning with him somewhat as follows: "i tell you i threw them away, they are not mine. keep them yourself, you old fool. and take care that the germans let you live long enough to eat them."
he thanks me heartily for the trouble he has taken.
the day ends without any serious incidents to ourselves. when evening comes, the section retires into a dug-out. a piece of bread and a tin of foie gras is all we have to eat after a twenty-four hours' fast. at eleven o'clock comes the order to rejoin the rest of the 24th. the company is put on reserve, and we go to sleep in a neighbouring grotto.
wednesday, 13th january.
five in the morning. in obedience to command, i rise, but find that i can scarcely stand on my legs. i am quite sick; on trying to put on my things, a feeling of dizziness comes over me.
i give up the struggle and stagger away to see the lieutenant.
"mon lieutenant, i feel ill and can scarcely stand."
"yes, that's very evident."
"do you think there will be anything of importance happening to-day?"
"i don't think so; the company is now in reserve. remain here. you may go down to the hospital shortly."
[pg 245]
i lie down again in a corner, on a pile of stones, which seems as soft as eider-down, so great is my fatigue. by candle-light my companions rapidly equip and arm themselves. reymond and verrier, maxence and jacquard, disappear; i have not even the strength to call after them au revoir! henriot and varlet grasp me by the hand.
"come now, old fellow, you're not dead yet."
"i feel very near it."
"you'll soon be all right. see you again shortly."
and off they go. i am left alone in this unfamiliar grotto, which is larger, colder, and more forbidding in appearance than our former one. i again fall into a heavy sleep.
ten o'clock. a succession of dull sounds is heard above the vault: the roar of cannon. i hear whispers and wailings. a relief post has just been installed in the grotto, and i recognize the voices of the major and the attendants. stretcher-bearers continue to bring in one wounded man after another. what can be the matter?
i sit up. they tell me that fighting has been going on over the whole upland for more than four hours.
"and where is the 24th?"
"the 24th is in reserve."
good. i lie down again and instantly sink off to sleep.
noon. the same dull heavy sounds, even more frequent than a couple of hours ago. i rise to my feet, still in a very shaky condition. no one[pg 246] is near me, except a few wounded moroccans who have dragged themselves here. somewhat uneasy, i proceed to the entrance of the grotto. the spectacle is a bewildering one. squalls of shells are falling; bullets are whistling past. about twenty yards away are a few straggling soldiers, firing and shouting. a light infantryman, with glaring eyes, screams out—
"a rifle! give me a rifle! mine won't fire any longer. a rifle! here they come!"
and the wounded drag themselves painfully along, trying to find shelter. i question one of them. things are going ill with us. the germans are advancing; they will be here any moment.
a lieutenant, as he passes, calls out—
"those of you who are wounded and are able to walk, go back, unless you want to be taken prisoners."
go back. an easy thing to say. i know the ways leading to the hospital, they catch all the spent balls; besides, the german artillery must be sweeping the slopes.
moreover, i cannot stand upright. now i'm in for it, i shall surely be taken. a feeling of inexpressible anguish comes over me; my head whirls. i try to reflect, but can only repeat: "prisoner. i'm going to be taken prisoner." my one dread and horror!
once more i thrust my head outside. there is nothing to be done; no means of passing. the road is ploughed up with projectiles.[pg 247] returning, i tear up a few letters. all around me are none but moroccans. the first shock passed, my presence of mind returns, and i clearly see what is going to take place: a rush of germans into the grotto, the massacre of the wounded moroccans, and of myself along with the rest. no, i prefer to die outside rather than in this hole. it can't be helped; i must try to reach the hospital.
again i find myself at the entrance of the grotto. i measure the distance to be traversed: the most dangerous part is the crossing of the road. afterwards, the tree-covered slope descends abruptly to bucy; the balls will pass over my head.
there will also be shells coming crashing down, but i have no choice; if i stay here, i am done for.
gathering up my remaining strength, i rush out. the road is crossed. i fling myself flat on to the ground, to recover my breath. now i see bucy and a part of the ravine. shrapnel and projectiles are bursting on every side. i am perfectly calm; i do not miss an atom of the charm of the situation. but my chances are poor. forward! i descend gently, holding on to the trees. my musettes are choking me. with my knife i cut the two straps. ah! now i breathe better. another effort; the first houses are in sight.
"you cannot pass here! where are you going?"
[pg 248]
"the lieutenant has authorized me to go down to bucy."
"you're not wounded?"
"no."
"then you cannot pass. those are my orders."
he is a light infantry corporal, a finely built soldier, with a strong, obstinate expression on his face. he continues—
"i see you are in a sorry plight, but it was the commander himself who gave me my orders: 'only the wounded are to pass.'"
"very good. you are right. it's wrong of me to be ill."
i sit down by the corporal's side, partially protected by a bit of crumbling wall. he informs me that a terrible battle has been raging ever since the morning, that after an awful bombardment our first lines have been overthrown, and that we hold only the road which is on a level with the grottos. at any moment this last line may be broken through, and the germans will then pour down on bucy.
a perpetual stream of wounded. after a rapid inspection the corporal allows them to pass. the roar of cannon is deafening; it shows no signs of stopping. the balls sing above us, some crash into the ground: ffuutt....
"the thing that worries me most," remarks the corporal in confidential accents, "is that i have left my haversack up there with my watch in it. a silver watch! i'm dreadfully afraid i shall never see it again!"
[pg 249]
i do not dare to confirm his fears.
i look anxiously in the direction of the ridge on which fighting is going on. my fatigue and weakness are such that i am almost indifferent to everything; there is but one settled determination in my mind: not to be taken prisoner.
an hour passes. the firing seems to be dying away. the wounded continue to stagger along to the hospital; they give us bad news.
"ah! the deuce!" suddenly exclaims the corporal. "we are giving way!"
actually we see small silhouettes come tumbling down the slope. this is the end; the line must have been broken.
"off you go, if you are able to walk. there is no reason why you should stay here any longer. nom d'un chien, if only i can get back my haversack!" he continues.
a rapid handshake and i move away. i proceed along one of the streets of bucy, keeping close to the walls. shells batter down on to the houses around. another couple of hundred yards and i reach the hospital. look out! a dangerous crossing, and a raking fire along this road. a company of moroccans is in reserve: all the men side by side, leaning against the walls. they await the order to attack. with eyes fixed on me, they laugh and seem to be watching for the moment when i shall be bowled over like a rabbit.
no loitering here: either i shall get across or i shall not. well, here goes! i dash forward[pg 250] and find myself in the hospital yard. two shells explode on the stable. the major recognizes me.
"ah! it's you, is it? well, you're a lucky fellow! come in, quick."
i lie down at the foot of the stairs, exhausted by my latest effort. i am so sleepy i can scarcely keep my eyes open.
without a pause the major is signing evacuation orders.
"clear out, fast, those who are able to walk. bucy may be taken any moment."
the wounded go hobbling away along the grapeshot-riddled road, the balls giving forth their odious buzzing sound all the time. two carts are harnessed, and in them a score of badly wounded men are heaped together.
as in a dream, i recognize comrades of the 352nd. they tell me that the 21st has been exterminated. ah! and belin? no one can give me any information.
"what of the 24th?"
"it was in reserve still a short time ago."
where are my comrades? poor fellows. here comes lieutenant r——, the lieutenant of my section. he is hopping on one leg, with a bullet in his thigh. no sooner do i see him than i ask—
"where are my comrades?"
"ah, yes, i know whom you mean. well, all five were uninjured an hour ago. that's all i can tell you. things are pretty hot!"
i help him to get into the cart.
[pg 251]
"are you not coming too?"
"no, mon lieutenant, i am not wounded."
"good-night, then, and good luck."
i wait another hour. the ridge is still being held, otherwise the germans would be here. i don't know where to put myself so as not to be in the way. i feel worse than i should with a bullet in my skin, but a sick man, surrounded by others suffering from bleeding wounds, must be aware that he is a bore and a nuisance.
an infantry sergeant, who has just been brought down on a stretcher, has a gaping wound in the abdomen, caused by a shell explosion. he wears a calm though sad expression, and scarcely seems to suffer at all; he simply turns his eyes to right and left, watching the movements of the attendant who is dressing the wound.
all the time cries and calls are heard alternating with the crash of explosions.
"you stretcher-bearers, go and fetch a cook who has just lost both his legs, close to the wash-house."
"and you others, don't stay in the yard; you'll get killed."
"the wounded, as they enter, must leave their rifles at the street-door."
the major perceives me, lying on the ground.
"see, here's an evacuation order. off you go to septmonts."
it is half-past four. as it is beginning to get dark the bombardment slackens. i grasp a few hands.
[pg 252]
"au revoir, old fellow. you'll get there all right."
i cross bucy. stupefied, the inhabitants stand at the doors. there are ruins everywhere. a few of the women are in tears. the road to vénizel: four kilometres straight across the plain. my fevered excitement sustains me, along with the one obsessing idea: if only i can reach the bridge i shall not be caught.
the hours seem to drag along on leaden footsteps. in the distance i see a column on the march; they are reinforcements. at last! a battalion of zouaves. khaki-coloured chechias, infantry capotes and velvet trousers form their accoutrement; there is nothing about them of the classic zouave. as i come up i salute the commander, and say to him—
"make haste. they are still holding out up there."
"that's right; we'll soon be with them."
boom! four shrapnels right on the front section, on a level with which i find myself. no harm done, however.
it is getting dark. i continue to advance, somewhat shakily, but that matters little.
the bridge! i show my evacuation order to a captain. so gently does he say the words: "pass, my dear fellow," that a scruple comes over me, and i say—
"i am not wounded, you know, i am only ill."
vénizel. i meet perron, the head stretcher-bearer of the 352nd. he is going to billy, to[pg 253] bring away some wounded. he offers to accompany me, and takes my arm. two more kilometres in the dark. fortunately we know the country well. the cannon having stopped, the sudden silence is somewhat disconcerting. there is a buzzing sound in my ears.
perron knows no one at billy, so i take him to the people who found accommodation for us in october. they have not forgotten lieutenant roberty.
"he is surely not dead?" they ask.
"no, he has been evacuated."
"and your other friends?"
"ah! yes, where are they? this morning they were still alive, but now——"
a man belonging to the 21st saw belin about noon, engaged with his bayonet in the trenches. by questioning everybody, right and left, i learn that in all probability the 24th company has lost fewer men than any other of the regiment.
my hosts prepare a bed for perron and one for myself. i can no longer see clearly, so i turn in and go to sleep.
thursday, 14th january.
twice in the night i awake with a start. bare-footed and in my nightshirt, i run outside to listen. they are our own troops passing in the direction of vénizel. the germans will not cross the aisne.
at eight in the morning i continue my way, with a wounded man belonging to the 21st. billy is a very excited place.
[pg 254]
i perceive sergeant chevalier of the 24th. at once he reassures me: verrier, reymond, varlet, maxence and jacquard are safe and unhurt. the company has suffered but little: five or six killed, a score of wounded.
what a relief! i make my way towards septmonts in almost a gay mood, half supporting the man of the 21st, who is wounded in the arm, and half supported by him. my companion tells me that he has been engaged in hand-to-hand fighting in the branches, and has fired point-blank on the germans. the more they killed, however, the more there seemed to be left.
unfortunately, no one can tell me anything of belin!
at septmonts an ambulance doctor examines me thoroughly.
"good; i must pack you off to bed. go and see desprès."
desprès has a small pavilion near the chateau, containing beds for about a score of sick and wounded. he is the hospital attendant. busily engaged as he is, running from one bed to another, he gives me some food, and i speedily find myself tucked in between the white sheets. how calm and quiet it is here! i feel more tired and feeble than ever.
sunday, 17th january.
for three days i have been resting here under the watchful care of desprès, who bestows as much attention on his patients as would a mother.[pg 255] it puzzles me exceedingly how this excellent and kind-hearted fellow manages to get through his various duties. in the intervals of sweeping out the room, i learn that his wife lives in the neighbourhood of montdidier, right in the heart of a bombarded district. the family is scattered; the home must be in ruins. he utters not a word of complaint, but devotes himself whole-heartedly to his task of soothing and consoling us.
finally i receive news of my friends: a long letter from reymond, brought by one of my wounded companions. he writes as follows—
"well, you are an old humbug, giving us the slip in this fashion! still, you're a lucky fellow, though now you must take good care of yourself. perron informed us that you were at septmonts. we have been ordered to take a rest, but our present surroundings are nothing to boast of. i myself am terribly lame, and my feet bleed a great deal. verrier can scarcely breathe; his coughing is painful to listen to. maxence, under an attack of acute dysentery, has that pretty green complexion you remember seeing when we were down at fontenoy; varlet's knee is as big as a child's head; jacquard is laid up with bronchitis. we take up all the doctor's time, when he makes his rounds.
the regiment held its ground long enough to enable reinforcements to arrive. the whole of our squadron was there.
belin is living. he came out without a scratch,[pg 256] though he fought like a madman. i'll see you again before long, old fellow...."
as i lie in my bed i read the letter again and again. this evening, i am able to get up and sit on the doorstep. the rain has stopped. how well i appreciate the peace and quiet of this place as i listen to the roar of the cannon and the crack of the rifles in the distance.
