CHAPTER I

ARRIVAL IN THE ARMY ZONE—IMPRESSIONS BEHIND THE FRONT _February 12._ On the train, which at last is bearing us away to the war. My companions are asleep, wearied by a day and night of this endless journey. But I cannot sleep for joy. One thought possesses me. I am on my way to fight! If I had so wished I could have remained with the General Staff as interpreter, but what I crave is action—the intense, mad action of battle. The enthusiasm of the first days of the war has not left me, but grew greater during the long months I had to spend in training-camps, where I learned first to be a soldier, then an officer. As soon as I received my appointment to the grade of second lieutenant on probation, I asked for and obtained permission to start for the front. Am I cherishing illusions? Is it real, this glory of war that makes my head swim? But I am happy. The sadness of saying good-bye to my mother I have left far behind. The weight already began to lift when we made our triumphal departure from that little snow-covered town through which we marched, with the band at our head and the Marseillaise on our lips and in our hearts, amid the cheers of the people. Just now the train is going through a beautiful bit of country. Never has the valley of the Saône, that I know so well, seemed so fair to look upon. Truly, _La doulce France_ is a mistress we may proudly live and die for. Die? No. I have a conviction that I shall not be killed in the war; I feel sure I shall be able to do my duty to the end, and once my task is finished, return to my mother and my own life. _February 13._ We have just got out of the train. I am writing in the friendly warmth of a room some peasants have put at my disposal. This morning, in the fog and chill of early February dawn, our train stopped in the middle of a vast plain, grizzly and wet, whose monotony was unbroken except for a few clumps of trees. The bugler gave us the signal to detrain by playing our regimental march. Instantly the men streamed out, still heavy with sleep, and benumbed by these two days of travelling. I hurried to the cars of my section, lined up my men and stacked arms while waiting for orders. Fatigues were detailed at once to get rations and unload the cars. But where were we? No one but the commander knew our itinerary in advance, for of course it has to be kept secret. We had a vague idea we were bound for Champagne. The station bore a name I did not know: Cuperly. I looked on my map and found that this village was right in the field of Châlons, several kilometres to the south of the villages of Perthes and Hurlus, which have so often been mentioned in the dispatches of late. So we are to be launched in the midst of an offensive! What joy! I hastily scribbled a card to my mother and gave it to a trainman, who promised to mail it. As we stood waiting in the cold, our attention was drawn to the autobuses of a provision convoy going along the road phantom-like through the fog. And we noticed also a dull rumble like a prolonged roll of thunder. It was cannon. “Sling knapsacks! Take arms! Fours right! Forward! March!” And the battalion swung into a road that was broken up and covered with mud, a gray, filthy, liquid mud that seemed to flood the whole countryside. An artillery convoy came by and spattered us badly. It was cold. Two kilometres farther on we halted at the edge of a village where we were to breakfast. I promptly attended to the kitchens of my section; two men from each squad went to get wood, and before long four fires were burning merrily. Pans were brought forth from their places above the knapsacks, and soon the portions of coffee and sugar provided us with a “juice”[1] that was much appreciated in the dampness of the winter morning. I gave orders to warm some canned beef in wine for the men, and they had a real feast. While our soldiers were resting after their meal, we section commanders, together with the other officers, accepted the hospitality of some artillery officers, who made us welcome with several bottles of champagne. The festivity was at its height when the bugle sounded. It was time to start out once again. For what destination? We did not know. Footnote 1: _Jus_, soldiers’ slang for coffee. We marched two hours along the slippery road before coming to La Cheppe, where we were to await the return of the brigade that was in the trenches. We took possession of our quarters. My section was comfortably billeted in a large barn well supplied with straw, and I chose to make my abode among my _poilus_. I should like to be in closer contact with them and I am determined to make friends with them if possible. When the regiment left the training-camp I was able to procure a few little extras that they wanted, and this evening they came and invited me to dinner. The artful member of the third squad had succeeded in getting into the good graces of an old peasant woman, who gave him two chickens. The men insisted on my doing the honors, and I accepted with pleasure. We chatted together familiarly and I told them how glad I was to be at the front, and enlarged especially on the great things I expected of them. “With you, lieutenant, we will go anywhere,” said a corporal, and they all applauded. Of course I was much pleased. And then what a welcome the peasants gave us! My old hostess was determined to give up her bedroom to me, but I told her I would rather sleep on the straw with my men. At least I am making use of her warm kitchen where I am scribbling these lines in my diary after writing to all my family. But to-morrow? What of to-morrow? The roar of the cannon is very loud. An attack is to be made to-night and I shall have no share in it. But my turn will come soon, I hope. _February 14._ The booming of the cannon all night kept me from sleeping. However, I was snug and warm in my bed of straw beside my dear friend Henry. We are glad to be together at the war after being chums in college. I am on duty this morning with my section. We are posted for police duty at a crossroads, and we are instructed, in addition to keeping order in the village, to regulate the movements of the convoys which pass incessantly. What an infernal whirl! Not a minute passes without something going by—a great ammunition train, heavy cannons drawn by motor tractors, a regiment of infantry returning from the trenches, muddy but triumphant. The _poilus_ are radiant. We surround them. They give details. Good news! “Hot fight, all right, but the Boches are catching it like fun.” And then there go our old Paris autobuses, transformed into meat wagons. Some of them still flaunt their signs: Madeleine—Bastille, Neuilly—Hôtel de Ville, Clichy—Odéon. One is marked “complet,” and the places, if you please, are filled by huge cattle. O valiant autobuses of Paris, you forget your luxurious existence of Parisian bourgeois and jolt bravely on through the mud of Champagne, accepting these hardships to save your country. We take off our hats to you in your coat of mud, for you also are doing your duty. I went outside a moment to have a look around the village. It is very nearly intact, as it is out of range of cannon. The inhabitants are either peasants or refugees from the invaded districts. Every one is busied in some way with the soldiers. Many have opened little shops and sell provisions, underclothing, and various other articles. Wine merchants are not very numerous, and the sale of spirits is strictly regulated. It is necessary to get permission of the officers, and they occasionally give it, wishing to improve the army ordinary. But the commissariat is generous and each soldier receives a pint of wine a day. We officers have a special mess. We eat at the house of a peasant who has loaned us his rooms. Our cook has been a chef in the big hotels of Nice. He is excellent, and has just brought me at my post a most savory roast of mutton. Weather still lowering. I took out of my little chest my old volume of Rabelais and I occupy my leisure moments feasting on the exploits of Picrochole. I have brought along a few books that are easy to handle, mostly our great classics that I have been neglecting these latter years. I wish to keep up my intellectual life. _February 16._ Noise of battle in the distance. Convoys pass back and forth incessantly. This evening the battalion had manœuvres; the men must not be left idle. Not that any one wants to loaf. We are all burning to get into action. It is tiresome to be so near the fight and know only its echoes. After supper I went for a walk with my friend. Twilight and absolute calm brooded over the plains of Champagne. The cold, round moon, palely reflected in the mud and ruts, cast glints as of steel. Nature, so indifferent to the deeds of men, helped us to forget them for a time, and our talk grew intimate and turned on old times as we walked along in the silence of the night. _February 17._ The regiment returns to-day from the trenches. We are getting better acquainted with the peasants, who are the very soul of kindness. They have been telling us of their sufferings: how the Boches occupied the village,—without destroying it however, for they expected to settle there for a long time,—and then the endless files of Germans who kept calling out as they passed that the gates of Paris were open to them; finally, the return of these same Germans, shamefaced, pushed back by the irresistible thrust of our victory of the Marne. And these good people went mad with joy when behind the fleeing enemy they saw the first lines of the French with the bugler marching at the head, their native land coming back to them. We have just inspected supplies and equipment. Each soldier has twelve biscuit, cans of “bully” beef, coffee, sugar, and bouillon cubes, without counting his own provisions, which are plentiful. The reserve supplies are sacred; they are never to be touched except under express orders. Each man has also one hundred and fifty cartridges. All these material details have been attended to, but this is not the whole of our readiness. We are also filled to bursting with enthusiasm, determination, and eagerness to fight. We start soon for the firing line. _February 19._ We are ordered to go and join a different regiment; our battalion is detached and we are to fill in the vacancies made by the recent fighting. I hope I shall be able to stay with my men. It is my most earnest desire. _February 20._ This morning we left La Cheppe to go to S. S. Weather dry; landscape still depressing, a desolate, muddy plain with a few scattered trees. At Suippes we had our first real impression of war; the town is half demolished and the château and factories are dismal ruins—destruction wherever you look. And cannon thunder in the distance. A shell fell with a great crash on the railroad track near by, and a great mass of earth rose slowly into the air. The Boches are very fond of aiming at this track, but their _marmites_ will have a hard time stopping this enormous traffic. What an endless number of cars and sheds, what mountains of merchandise! And the procession of trains never stops. At last we reached S. S. and came in touch with our new regiment. I belong to the Eleventh Company and command the second section. I am to keep my men. The officers received us kindly. We are lucky enough to arrive at a moment of activity, and we shall not lack work. _February 21._ The village is largely in ruins. The church has been turned into a hospital. Its steeple is hidden by a covering of branches, and from a distance it probably looks to the enemy aviators just like the neighboring trees. A little farther on was a shower-bath, which was welcome, for we were pretty well plastered with mud. The cemetery, in the midst of the fields, is full of little wooden crosses. This evening I saw the funeral of an officer—a pine coffin followed by a bare handful of men—the regiment was probably in the trenches. A soldier priest with the military medal on his breast pronounced the benediction. We have no news of anything or anybody. No mail of any kind has come through yet. Shall I have to go into the trenches without receiving a single letter? I do not need encouragement, but I wish I could have had some word from home. Well, we start for the trenches to-morrow.