A Blue Devil of France: Epic figures and stories of the Great War, 1914-1918 — Inside the Classic

the service commenced and the priest begun his chant for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing.

At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon everything seemed to grow dark within me--saw in the distance the towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood----

"_Dies irae, Dies illa_----"

ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _May_, 1915.

Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its scabbard and slipped it in my pocket.

I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow." An ensign from the cruiser X---- accompanies me with a dozen or so men.

Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a good turn at their game----

As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal. All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand. There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself around us, and during this interval, with my two _poilus_, I install the snare for the boches!

The work ended, we fall silently back.

We have returned to our lines without an incident!

LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE. _May_, 1915.

We are at table. Major Peigné presides at breakfast of the officers of the 19th Company, 2nd Battalion. The subjects of conversation which recur each day in a sappers' kitchen have been exhausted: progress of work along the sector, effect of the last bombardment, news of the absent ones, criticism of work accomplished by the soldiers, next _permissions_;[7] then we take up the eternal question, the only one which counts, assuredly, woman.

There have been many weeks in which not a one of us has seen a woman's petticoat, not a one, I swear it!

To be in this cursed city of Nieuport is not an enviable "visit at the seashore"--the enemy systematically persists in destroying it: the Casino, the villas and the approaches to the pier are completely torn to pieces. Can you imagine a woman in such a place?

Stories of woman, adventures of woman, anecdotes of woman, serve as topics of conversations. "When you haven't the object of your desires," said a profound philosopher, "you speak of it."

The conversation became general again, when, all at once, Lieutenant Divisia silenced us with a finger before him. No, it was impossible to be deceived, my word upon it, a woman's voice was heard in the next room!

Had a 420 fallen in the midst of us, the silence could not have been more impressive--of course realizing that it would have flattened us like pancakes. But, quickly and with remarkable unison, we arose quietly with the same intention----

Yet, with an energetic gesture, Major Peigné, who never lost a bet, stopped us and made for the door.

"Remain here," he said, "I will see what it is!" He entered the room at the side, nimbly closing the door after him. It was very malicious! We looked at each other with stupor and regret. Then we cautiously approached the crack in the boards that separated the two spaces. It was, in effect, a woman, a young woman deliciously beautiful, I assure you--an indelible vision in this terrible, stricken little city. Lady Dorothy, with her pretty khaki costume, appeared before us for the first time! She had the air of a warlike Amazon which became her perfectly, and, at first sight, we all had fallen in love with her----

She was engaged in a lengthy conversation with our corporal-secretary to whom she had been sent to do her bit among the soldiers, all unknown to us.

We all thought: "Little Lady Dorothy, the gold of your blonde hair which we see through the slit in the partition is as precious a bit as that you are offering to our corporal----"

After that we saw several times the fugitive vision of this angel with the blonde locks searching among the ruins for our wounded. She drove her own automobile with a steady hand, with enemy shells breaking around her, vainly seeking to blow her to bits.

THE CONSCIENTIOUS POILU, BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _May_, 1915.

The nights are still very cold and to warm ourselves we have builded a comfortable fire by the sea. Sacks of sand, skillfully fixed by Richard, mask the flashes from the brazier, for otherwise they would certainly invite 77's and 105's which the enemy would not lose time dropping among us to disturb our momentary comfort in the first line.

Reymond and I have many things to discuss and the hours pass relatively fast; the Marine Fusiliers come and go in the trenches and communicating lines with a sort of nervous activity that never leaves them night or day, a trait found only in men that follow the sea.

The sector is extremely calm, the tide has gone out a bit and Reymond has sent a patrol to the other side of the evacuation canal.

Soon the _poilu_ in charge of the patrol returns and, walking up to his superior, says:

"Captain, we have been out reconnoitering the enemy; we saw a boche on sentinel duty; he did not see us--I believe I can get him."

"About half a mile away."

We continued the conversation as the _poilu_ went on his errand; it struck us that the man had been deceived. As on a certain night they had charged on a blind, about a hundred yards from here----

The night was passing without incident when soon our brave chap returned and, assuming his former position before his officer, said:

"Captain, I cannot get him--there is a network of barbed wire. Can I kill him?"

"Why, certainly. Always use your own judgment. You don't usually have time to come back for instructions----"

Again he started out and the heavens began to pale; we searched once more for images of the past in the glowing embers of the wood fire which was fast dying out.

Suddenly, over there, toward the German lines, a rifle shot broke the stillness of the night, followed by the well-known machine-gun serenade; immediately rockets, star shell and the artillery came to life----

Reymond rises, standing very stiff and straight.

"Ah, hang it! The poor devil must be shot to pieces----"

Our own cannon begin to mix in the fray. Reymond decides to send some men after the others. He is visibly concerned about our soldiers and is on the verge of going himself.

Just then the poilu stands before him for the third time, saluting respectfully:

"Captain--I have killed him!"

And he said it with a kind of accent that made a shiver run down the spine.

The sky commences to resolve itself into long yellow and gray stripes--ah, Flanders!--ah, Flanders!----

SIGNS ALONG THE YSER, BEFORE ST. GEORGES. _May_, 1915.

The Marine Fusiliers leave everywhere traces of their _esprit_.

They have taken from a home, three-fourths demolished, a little statue of the Virgin, former protectress of the household.

Carrying it into the first-line trenches with them, they have constructed a niche for the Virgin in the sandbags.

With her open arms and sad air she seems to say to them:

"Our Lady of the Sandbags, pray for us; A simple figure in the niche am I, Pitying my children constantly; Die or win the war they must!"

Some yards farther is found, a little back of the first line, a large projectile, about three feet in length, fortunately unexploded, of the kind the boches have been generously distributing among us with their "minnenwerfer" for some time. A notice of warning says:

"We beg of you to let the infant sleep!"

The sand creeps into everything; that is why the _poilus_, for the entire length of the first-line trench, have placed cigar-boxes in which to keep their cartridges.

On each one is written: "Alms for the boches!"

THE DEATH OF KUHN, PARIS. _June_, 1915.

My concièrge brought me the following letter this morning:

"WITH THE ARMY. "_June_ 13, 1915.

"My Dear Capart: A sad thing has happened since your departure. Our poor Kuhn was killed two days ago. This is what occurred:

"You know that the enemy and ourselves have been carrying on mining warfare; so three days ago the Brigade decided to execute a 'coup de main' and destroy the work of the boches.

"The 'coup de main' was carried out by volunteers from the 4th Zouaves, who acted as a covering party for the sappers charged with the operation. Kuhn asked to lead the volunteers who came forward.

"Everything passed very well at the beginning, the artillery preparation was perfect and at the given hour they went at it lively. The sappers captured in the mine twenty-two Germans, all very young, and an officer. They passed them rapidly back and it was at this moment enemy reaction was felt. Kuhn remained the last--the mine blew up--we saw him totter and fall on the parapet of the boche trench, among the partially cut barbed wire. Whether he was killed by the explosion of the mine or a German bullet no one knows--we were forced back and it was very late.

"That night there was general consternation: his men cried. A little sapper went out all by himself to recover the body. He could not endure to see the body of his lieutenant remain in the hands of the enemy.

"Three times he tried to reach Kuhn's corpse in spite of incessant enemy fire which remained on the _qui-vive_.

"Finally, crouching, he came close enough to pass a cord under the arms and started back, rolling the circular wire entanglements in a manner you can very well imagine.

"At last he cleared the body from the wire, but we thought several times he would be the victim of his own devotion.

"At sunrise all that remained of Kuhn was in our lines. Captain Perroud came to see him and I accompanied him. Our poor friend's body was literally riddled with bullets, he was almost unrecognizable----

"What are you going to say to his mother. He was the only one left.

"He liked you very much and of course you will not fail to write a few words to the poor woman.

"Come back soon--we miss you!

[2] French sailors. They wear a white hat shaped like those of our own sailors and a long flowing coat. On the hat is a large red tassel. In France this has given rise to the expression, "Les petites demoiselles aux pompons rouges," or the Little Ladies of the red tassels.--Tr.

[3] AUTHOR'S NOTE.--I took the base of this shell the same evening to General Hély d'Oissel, who commanded the Division. Until this moment he was still undecided as to the caliber of shell the enemy had been using since early that morning.

[5] Je suis la corvée.--Tr.

[6] The red tassel of his hat.--Tr.

MALANCOURT WOOD AND ST. MENEHOULDE

_This chapter adds a few impressions noted by the author during a very short trip he made to the Argonne in the month of July, 1915._

_It was at this epoch the army of the Crown Prince undertook strong attacks to the north of St. Menehoulde._

_This sojourn took place between the two periods spent on the Belgian front._

_For the first time Sub-Lieutenant Capart took part in an episode in the war of mines._

_After having visited Verdun, Douaumont, and made a series of reconnaissances in Malancourt Wood, that of Hesse, and also to the west of Vauquois, Capart left for the Flanders' front where he took up his unfinished work._

ALONG THE MAIN STREET, ST. MENEHOULDE. _July_, 1915.

Cannon rumble in the distance----

_Poilus_ go and come along the thoroughfare. There is a great bustle in the village. The Argonne is the only interesting sector at this moment.

"Pretty hot up there?"

"I should say! Just came out of it!"

"Yes. They attacked in mass formation, shouting 'St. Menehoulde--St. Menehoulde!'"

"Pigs' feet! Pigs' feet! and we ate 'em up, lieutenant!"[8]

AN EPISODE IN MINING WARFARE, MALANCOURT WOOD. _July_ 7, 1915.

We arrived yesterday afternoon toward dusk, in an automobile, and in full view of the enemy.

General de Salins, who commanded the Brigade, found us at this moment on the edge of the wood and could not believe his eyes--Guéneau and I were bumping along, making very slow progress on account of the numerous shell-holes along the road made during the last bombardment.

What a magnificent afternoon! At this time of the year, Malancourt Wood is an exquisite sight. The lengthening rays of the sun easily penetrate the green foliage of the trees that completely surround us.

This sector had been active enough before, when the enemy for the first time attacked with flame-throwers. After that, save for the days when mines were exploded, the wood became one of the most quiet spots on the front.

We are heartily received by our sapper-comrades.

At night we all go together into the first-line trench, where there are but few soldiers. It is very black without. Not a rifle shot, not the sound of a cannon. What a difference from the sector in Flanders!

We leave the trench and go over, crouching, into No Man's Land, advancing with great precaution through the tall grass. When a rocket flares from our lines or those of the enemy, we flatten with our faces to the ground and remain without the slightest movement. Then we advance again, holding our breath. Finally we arrive at the enemy's barbed wire entanglements and hear them talking in their trenches.

I am close to Guéneau, who listens attentively while I murmur in his ear:

"Old chap, yesterday at this time we were drinking a whisky and soda on the boulevard."

We pass the night in a shelter placed at our disposal by Major Jouanic. We must assist in the early morning at the explosion of a mine under an enemy listening post.

We choose our time and it is yet night when we start out. Hardly awake, we look more like a hunting party: nearly all the sappers preceding us in the communicating trench are carrying clubs and might be taken for beaters.

Arriving soon at the first line, each takes the place that has been assigned. I look at my watch--the mine will be exploded at four o'clock.

It is near the edge of the wood and I gaze into the open stretch on my right. The sky is turning a deep rose and the birds are singing, as they sing at the break of a beautiful summer's day. All else is asleep in our corner of the earth, and for us who know, this silence is impressive----

Five minutes more----

I look in front of me. The mined spot is plainly visible--I see the German trench and the barbed-wire entanglement very well.

Farther to the right is the place where Guéneau and I had crouched the night before; I see the tall, yellow grass and the zig-zag path by which we had returned.

My eyes do not leave the spot, where, in a few moments, human beings will be hurled in the air and disappear. They are our enemies, but one experiences that undefinable feeling that one is conscious of when looking at the guillotine about to fall before you. What silence!

Suddenly an enormous gust of earth leaps into the air--- One gapes with stupor--a heavy detonation--the earth is transformed into a vast volcano and black soil and stones are shot continually up!

Everything in the vicinity becomes animated and three large trees begin to incline slowly in different directions with sinister crackings----

At the same moment I see very distinctly a German soldier thrown high into space, his hands tightly clutching his rifle. He turns over slowly and then his gun goes off, having, without doubt, unconsciously pulled the trigger.

Then it is this column of earth which falls showering and covering us with a rain of stones and pebbles, thumping the ground loudly----

And then comes the waking of battle; the stupor is over and a heavy fusillade breaks out along the whole line; machine-guns sputter, and the artillery fire becomes violent----

We are so close to the enemy trench that we hear the cries of the dying and wounded. The mine exploded at a well-selected spot and the losses must be heavy.

These cries are soon transformed into heart-rending wails which portray the resulting terror and anguish, cries of men who have been startled out of their sleep to die.

Bullets whistle loudly and clip the earth around us--the leaves, the new and pretty leaves of the wood, flutter and fall in our midst like in the sad days of autumn----

Quiet comes again. A big German officer has the nerve to leap on the parapet of the trench very close to us, and shout:

"Well done, Seventh Engineers!"

His attitude seemed to imply: "You are in no danger now." He then jumps back quickly into his trench.

The wounded in due time are cared for and taken back----

Work is finished for the day!

THE MAGPIE "ANATOLE," MALANCOURT WOOD. _July_ 8, 1915.

"What a luncheon, major! It is too much--too much, a thousand times too much. You dine well in Malancourt Wood! Hors d'oeuvres, roast chicken, chops. What a remarkable chef!"

"I agree with you--he is the former chef of the _Lysistrata_, the yacht belonging to Mr. James Gordon Bennett, himself!"

So saying, Major Jouanic filled his goblet with champagne to the brim. We are less than fifteen minutes from the first line and the weather is marvelous----

"Dessert is ready, Ducoux, you can bring in Anatole."

Ducoux got up and left table. He came back soon with Anatole on his finger, a young magpie who already had the air of an old maid----

Anatole is not well brought up--she is a little noisy. When one speaks to her of _Madame Colette_[9] she gives herself up to comic contortions, and what a sight!

She drinks greedily of champagne out of the guest's glass and becomes shamefully drunk!

Now she staggers around the table, making insufferable cries. She inclines her head, staring at us with one eye----

"You shame us, Anatole. Be quiet and let us hear no more from you."

Anatole flutters over, seeking refuge on Ducoux's shoulder, whom she likes best, and goes to sleep----

A WALK IN THE FOREST, MALANCOURT WOOD. _July_ 8, 1915.

This afternoon we have gone to inspect the sector. We arrived before the _Poilu_ Cemetery----

The sun shoots great streaks of light through the trees and the spot appears to us like a mighty, luminous temple----

No one near the graves to weep and pray, and the souls of the dead untroubled----

THE WAY OF THE TEUTON, MALANCOURT WOOD. _July_ 8, 1915.

We went this afternoon to see one of our friends, a lieutenant of infantry, in the neighboring sector.

Bringing along a bottle of champagne, we drank it with him at the listening post, twenty-five yards from the enemy.

Naturally the empty bottle was hurled by a skillful hand into the trench of our neighbors in front----

The reply was not long in coming: three 77's which, by the gods, were placed well enough, but which, luckily, did no damage.

These imbecile boches always lack the proper spirit.

[8] St. Menehoulde is the center of the "pigs' feet" industry.--Tr.

[9] Mme. Colette is a well-known French author. Her works about birds and animals have gained her an enviable reputation on the Continent.--Tr.

_After his short trip to the Argonne, the author spent the last days of July in the Flanders' Sector, where he remained until the end of September._

MOVING, NIEUPORT. _July_, 1915.

My _poilus_ were disagreeably surprised this morning. The proprietress of one of the villas occupied by a certain number of my men arrived at Nieuport this morning accompanied by a Belgian gendarme. General Hély d'Oissel, commanding the Division, had authorized the latter to make a search for some wine she had left in the house.

This is what is extraordinary: it is true the wine was there, but imagine and understand the despair of the _poilus_--they did not suspect the existence of the treasure! Some good _pinard_[10] was placed in a hole under the stairway, into which one descended by means of a trap door, also skillfully camouflaged by a morsel of linoleum.

And to think they had slept several months over this precious _pinard_ without knowing it!