Battles & Bivouacs: A French soldier's note-book — Reading Companion

the Colonne concerts. He would sometimes come up into our loft and play Ravel and Stravinski for us. Down below in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. They shouted out--

"Haven't you nearly finished up in the loft? How do you expect us to sleep with all this squeaking overhead?"

Thereupon Lefranc played a slow drawling valse, and the muleteers calmed down.

"Roberty comes here every day now. It will soon be our turn to leave. Within a week Humes will probably see no more of us."

"Do you belong to Class 4?"

"Then I must make haste to get well, in which case I may accompany you."

_Saturday, 29th August._

I am now able to rise, and, with the aid of a stick, go to all four musters of the company. I recognize the heaps of dung, the geese, ducks and cows, and the snivelling little children. My comrades in the section regard me as "the one who has seen fire."

_Sunday, 30th August._

We are assured this morning that the Germans are in Amiens.

_Monday, 31st August._

I go to Langres to restore my outfit, for I have nothing left. All I had so carefully prepared or bought in Paris the few days preceding my departure--foot-gear, linen, repairing materials, field-dressing, tobacco, chocolate, toilet bag and writing-paper--utterly disappeared in the Vosges on the 25th.

I take a real bath in a real bathroom, and the sensation is glorious. Former baths I had always taken in mechanical fashion, without thinking, but now I savour and relish the joy and delight of it.

The most contradictory rumours are abroad; some proclaim great victories, others a rapid advance of the Germans by the north. There is entire confidence, however.

_Tuesday, 1st September._

Réveillé at three o'clock. The men who are well trained and ready to leave, and those who are weakly and more or less raw, are divided out into separate companies.

The lieutenant delivers an energetic little discourse on the subject of discipline; the new-comers, unaccustomed to being harangued by their commanders, regard him as some bloodthirsty tiger.

They murmur sadly to one another--

"What beastly luck to fall in with such a tartar!"

Useless to explain that the lieutenant is a charming fellow, and that this is only his way, the new-comers sorrowfully shake their heads.

Five hundred men are to leave to-day. Verrier is one of the number, so we make due preparations for his departure.

At seven in the evening the detachment leaves Humes. Shall we ever see Verrier again? Where is he going, and what is taking place? Reymond and I return to the hotel with downcast mien. Just one drink before climbing the ladder up into the loft. Assuredly it is sadder to stay behind than to depart.

_Wednesday, 2nd September._

Whenever we are free we have interesting conversations under the apple-tree with Lieutenant Roberty. The month of September will decide the war. On the 1st of November we shall all be back home.

In the Paris journals of the 29th August we read of "the situation of our front from the Somme to the Vosges...."

The Somme! We thought this phrase was simply a local _canard_, that by a typographical error the word _Somme_ had replaced the word _Sambre_. We imagined that fighting was still going on in Belgium. And the communiqué of the 30th states that the Imperial Guard received a check at Guise....

We read, without any great interest, details upon the constitution of the new ministry. No doubt the situation is serious. There is no infatuation here. We are still in quarters, with just the ordinary drill.

_Thursday, 3rd September._

We muster. The 27th is drawn up for marching, so we shall not be here long.

Three from the 28th pass into our squadron: Varlet, an electrician, a short, dark fellow with a large, pointed nose and faithful, intelligent eyes; Jacquard, a little man who vainly tries to shout as loudly as Varlet, whose voice is that of a mob orator; lastly, Charensac, who comes from Auvergne, and resembles Sancho Panza in being as broad as he is tall. The latter man has a roguish little dark moustache, and a beard that covers his neck. He wears his _képi_ on the back of his head, over his neck. His paunch protrudes in the same extravagant fashion. The fellow seems determined to treat the war as a huge joke. These three march in the second rank; Reymond and I in the first, along with Corporal Bernier and a Doctor of Law named Maxence.

The latter four have rather long legs, whereas Varlet, Jacquard, and Charensac have short ones.

The result is that we hear them grumbling as they march--

"Not so fast; we cannot follow you. One would think you had been feeding on gazelle's flesh!"

The tall ones take longer strides than ever. When we halt for a moment words are bandied about, and a quarrel seems imminent.

_Friday, 4th September._

This morning I was able to march twenty kilometres. I have regained my old form.

Out in the streets there is talk of a possible departure for Paris. The depot may be transferred to some town in the centre of France.

We learn that the Government has left Paris for Bordeaux.... This is rather astonishing news.

When will this life in depots and barracks come to an end? When others are fighting and being killed, to mount guard by the watering-trough for the purpose of preventing soldiers from washing their socks is intolerable.

_Saturday, 5th September._

No marching or drill to-day, since the order to leave may arrive any moment.

The English, says the communiqué, have taken ten cannon in the forest of Compiègne....

The Germans at Compiègne?... The train from Paris did not arrive this morning. It is becoming quite stifling here.

What is worse than the official dispatches is the multiplication of fantastic news. A famous airman has been shot as a spy; a mined forest in the neighbourhood of Lunéville has been fired, destroying three German army corps....

From Brittany a telegram reaches me dated 31st August. It has been only five days on the road!

Just now there returned to the depot with a bullet in his arm a man who left on the 23rd August, like myself. He has been a sergeant-major, belonging to Class 1886, who gave up his stripes and joined again. As I had seen him fall, I imagined he was dead. Like a couple of old soldiers, we recall the plain strewn with projectiles and all the incidents of that day on the battlefield. On the evening of the 25th he counted seventeen villages in flames.

Whilst boasting of our campaigns, Reymond, who is just behind us, recites--

Dost remember, Viscount, that half-lune we captured from the enemy at the siege of Arras?

What's that thou say'st? A half-lune indeed! It was a full lune, I tell thee....

_Sunday, 6th September._

At the seven o'clock muster the quartermaster reads out the orders for the day--

"Sunday, rest and labour [_travaux_] incidental to the cleanliness of the body."

The word _travaux_ will give some faint indication of the trouble needed to get the dirt out of one's skin.

Washing of clothes and a bathe in the Mouche. Eager perusal, beneath the apple-tree, of letters and journals three days old.

Endless discussion and jokes on the "considerable factor" of which Lord Kitchener can say nothing more than that it will come to the help of the Allies. At Humes the watchword is "_Cherchez le facteur!_" ("Find the postman!")

No defeat has been announced, and yet the Germans are at Senlis! No use trying to understand, as we used to say in barracks. Fighting and killing is going on whilst we are doing nothing but chatter beneath the apple-tree.

_Monday, 7th September._

A comrade receives a letter from his mother telling him of the possible entry of the Germans into Paris. Most improbable; how are we to believe such a thing? And yet the terms of the letter are most distinct and detailed. By common consent we leave this subject of conversation and begin to speak of the Russian victories.

_Tuesday, 8th September._

We now form part of a detachment of five hundred men with our friend Roberty in command. We shall proceed to the front either this evening or to-morrow.

This morning an engine-driver told us at the station that in the neighbourhood of Reims the French have made great hecatombs of Germans. He saw the corpses heaped up in piles. One piece of good news at all events.

I take my leave of the Girardot family; we shake hands and drink healths. Then I fondle and caress the huge dog, the _chien à sonnettes_, whose bell gives forth a more melancholy tinkle than ever.

The campaign at Humes is ended.

_Wednesday, 9th September._

The order to leave came this evening. Our detachment is to join up with the 352nd.

Final preparations: all the tins of preserves we had piled up in Girardot's loft are divided out amongst the men of the squadron; these tins--_foies gras_, tongue, knuckle of ham, corned beef--are called _Rimailhos_, because of their calibre.

At seven in the morning we leave Humes. The entire depot is present, and the people of the district bring us flowers with which we adorn our rifles. Roll-call. A short address by the commander of the depot. Shouts of "Vive la France!" _En route_ as we thunder forth the _Marseillaise_.

At Langres station we pile up our rifles. A few innocent fellows scribble postcards, whilst we poke fun at them.

"Do you mean to say you're writing? You know it will never reach its destination!"

There is a sense of satisfaction, however, in sending a thought to those at home.

The train is ready. Our haversacks are strapped on and we line up on the platform. The regulations order silence, but each man is shouting with all his might. When the train begins to move, there are ten heads and shoulders pressing out at the windows. We again shriek out the _Marseillaise_. In point of fact, where are we going? Where is the 352nd? No one knows, not even Roberty.

He has chosen our squadron to supply a police guard for the train. This is a sign of favouritism: the police guard fills three first-class compartments, whilst the other poor fellows are piled in tens in third-class carriages, or even in vans. At each station the guard jump down on to the platform, bayonet fixed, and helmet strapped round the chin. Theoretically they must see to it that no one leaves the station. In reality they say to their comrades, who disperse in every direction--

"Fetch me a quart, old man! See, here's my can! You understand I cannot go myself as it is my business to prevent any one leaving."

Belin, our corporal, has served nine years in the Foreign Legion, and so he knows the ropes. The gentlest and pleasantest of companions. In the two first-class carriages, besides Roberty, are Reymond and myself, Maxence, whom I have already mentioned, a handsome fellow from the Franche-Comté, head taller than the rest of us, a lawyer and big landed proprietor, who knows Verlaine by heart, and lastly, Jacquard, Varlet and Charensac.

The day is spent in eating preserved food, smoking pipes, playing cards, and roaring out songs and jokes.

Sometimes the train stops for a couple of hours in the open country. Men go off into the fields for the sheer pleasure of disobeying orders and stretching their limbs; when they see the train once again on the move they come running up like madmen and soon overtake it, for the driver carries us along at a jog-trot pace.

A comic alarm during the night: sudden firing in the neighbourhood of Troyes. Is the train being attacked, in the way we read about in a schoolboy's romance? Our valiant men, leaping up from sleep, immediately cram cartridges in their rifles and jump out on to the track. Simply a few petards exploded on the rails. Now we can sleep.

_Thursday, 10th September._

Corbeil. Six hours' forced inactivity! We make some coffee along the track. A train full of wounded enters the station. We hurry to the doors of the vans and find that they are packed with soldiers of all sorts, lying _pêle-mêle_ on the floor, arms, legs and heads intertwined. The uniforms are unrecognizable and in rags, covered with dust and blood.

And we, who are proceeding to the firing line, gaze open-mouthed on those who have just come back from it. Evidently there is terrible fighting going on, but the wounded have little to say. With a shake of the head they remark--

"Yes, yes, things are progressing ... but it's a tough business!"

"We are winning, are we not?"

"Yes, but it takes time!"

Bayonet charges, frightful whirling gusts of shot and shell, fields and woods strewn with dead, the moaning of the wounded; such is a summary of what each man has witnessed, just a tiny corner of the battle. No clear general impression. Unshaken confidence in the final result, along with a consciousness of the difficulty of the task.

A carriage filled with German prisoners. We elbow one another to catch a glimpse of them. One of them, his shoulder and arm all twisted up, asks--

"Are you reservists?"

Some one nods assent.

"I, too, am a reservist like you."

Anxious to create a feeling of sympathy, he exhibits his wound.

"_Mon garçon_, you shouldn't have gone to war."

No sooner has one train left the station than another steams up; for several hours the wounded file past without a break.

At five in the evening the lieutenant, after a long conversation with the station-master, announces that the detachment is to cross Paris. Delirious joy.

We reach the Gare de Lyons and, shouldering arms, proceed in columns of fours to the Gare Saint-Lazare.

Our men hail every taxi-cab driver they see.

"I say, old man, just go and tell my wife ... or my mother ... or my sister, will you? She lives in such a street, such a number. Hurry up and bring her along."

Off goes the chauffeur. Half an hour after he is back with the whole family, and, amid the emotion and excitement of so unexpected a reunion, slips away without a thought of payment.

Halt in front of the Cirque d'Hiver. We pile our rifles and take off our haversacks. The crowd collects around and proves very emotional. Useless to say to one's friends or relatives--

"Don't carry things too far, we are not coming back, we are only going!"

The good-natured public will listen to nothing; they give us credit and treat us as heroes just the same.

A second halt at Rue Auber. The crowd around grows larger and larger. It appears that Paris has been really threatened. This morning's communiqué, however, states that the enemy has retired a distance of forty kilometres.

At the Gare Saint-Lazare more than two hundred out of the five hundred men belonging to the detachment have their family around them.

At nine the train is waiting and we have to leave. We embrace and shout, laugh and cry, promise to return soon and to write.

Roberty, Reymond and I have made up our mind to travel first-class. In one of the compartments a very stylish, gentlemanly-looking individual has installed himself. Strapping my helmet under my chin, I assume a tone of voice at once firm and courteous, and say--

"I beg pardon, monsieur, but you are occupying a seat reserved for the chief."

The gentleman, abashed, vaguely stammers some excuse or other, hurriedly snatches up his valise and travelling rug and looks for another seat.

When he has gone, I remark--

The three of us sprawl at our ease over the six seats, posing as well-to-do persons off on a holiday.

We walk along the passage. A wounded corporal, belonging to Class 12, promises us victory, and is intoxicated at the prospect.

In reply to our questions, he says--

"You ask if we have got them? We're simply sweeping the ground with them! I killed one this afternoon, a sergeant. Here's his shoulder tab and his belt clasp. Read the words on it: _Gott mit uns_. What brazen effrontery!

"Just think, he was running away. I caught him up and gave him a dig with my bayonet between the shoulders. Then, do you know what the cur did? He actually turned round and wounded me. I gave him another thrust and finished him off.

"I could never have thought it would give one so jolly a feeling to kill a man."

After a moment's reflection--

"After all, this is an ugly cut in the thigh. He might have maimed me for life."

"That's perhaps what he wanted to do."

The wounded man sinks into a meditative mood. All through the night we roll along until we reach our station, when we descend and march away for the front.

_Friday, 11th September._

About noon we enter the devastated zone at Dammartin: the telegraph lines have been torn down. Right and left of the road trees lie stretched on the ground; heaps of ashes are all that remains of the hayricks. In a ditch lies a corpse in red trousers and blue coat. Most of the men of the detachment have not yet been in the fighting line, and this is the first dead man, left lying on the ground, that they have seen. They are considerably moved, and even surprised.

We reach Nanteuil-le-Haudouin. The station has been destroyed. A convoy of provisions and supplies passes, escorted by cuirassiers. A glorious sunset.

A prolonged halt in front of the _mairie_. The place is full of troops and the mayor is at loss where to put us up.

"Go to Wattebled's farm," he says to the lieutenant.

This is a fine farm, though situated at the farther end of the town. The farmer is serving. Officers of the enemy have lodged in the building and have left the place in a dreadful condition. All the cupboards and wardrobes have been ransacked, and the contents flung about the rooms. The cellar is empty; broken bottles lie in every corner.

The beds, however, have been left intact. We quickly stretch ourselves at full length, delighted to rest after travelling for two nights and three days. The dinner has been nothing to boast of--neither bread nor wine, and scarcely any light.

_Saturday, 12th September._

Whilst awaiting fresh supplies, which postpone our departure several hours, we explore the district. Those stores whose proprietors were absent have been methodically pillaged; whatever could not be carried away has been broken to pieces. In the wine and tobacco shops nothing but the walls are left standing.

On the doors, chalk inscriptions indicate which German troops were quartered there. The inhabitants are still somewhat scared; they can hardly believe in their good fortune at finding themselves safe.

We obtain as much rum and wine as we want from a wholesale wine dealer! The Germans had had time neither to remove nor to destroy his barrels and hogsheads. The news spreads like wildfire through the quarters.

Each squadron delegates a man laden with cans slung over his shoulder. They press around the barrels in an endless file. An artillery officer wishes to prevent the infantry from approaching the wine store, especially his own men. Howls and protests. Lieutenant Roberty has to intervene before we can enter the place.

Meanwhile, the stores have arrived. Whilst the pots are boiling we improvise a lunch for twenty-five in the large dining-room. The manager lends us napkins and a tablecloth, plates and glasses, and even a _jardinière_ for putting flowers on the table. Our ordinary fare includes a fillet of beef and we have bought three fowls. Each man brings his own wine and bread.

This sybaritic life, however, cannot last indefinitely. At two o'clock we make our way through a district which has witnessed terrible battles. Arms and equipments, _képis_ and helmets and cloaks strew the ground. The smell of decomposing bodies passes in whiffs; it proceeds mainly from dead horses, still unburied, rotting away, their bodies all swollen and their legs rigid. By the side of a stack of hay three German corpses await the services of a grave-digger. Their greyish-green uniform seems to harmonize with the colour of the hay.

At the halt, in a carriage left behind by the enemy, we find Berlin journals telling of victories in Belgium, along with a confused mass of note-books, night-lights--very convenient articles, these,--a broken phonograph, and German postcards all containing wishes that the recipients may have a good time in Paris, etc.