CHAPTER VI

ENCAMPMENT—IN THE FOURTH LINE—FATIGUE DUTY—VISIT TO THE ARTILLERY And then we went off duty. I was determined to be clean before I went to bed. A soldier employed at the bath-house was obliged to scrub me all over with a stiff brush. Not a spot on my body had escaped the treacherous mud. We had two days to rest and clean up and put our clothing and arms in order. The men were allowed entire freedom. My billet is comfortable. I even have a real bed—a bed with sheets—that I share with my friend H. Joy and delight to be able to take off one’s clothes and crawl into bed between sheets—a luxury we have not tasted for a month. And such a month! This morning there was drill. Not very interesting, but according to theory, the men must not be left idle. I suggested that we organize games and the idea was approved. Peace-time manœuvres afford little amusement to men who are just back from the trenches. Our mess is very jolly. We officers get together and chat, play cards or have music. I often go and play the little organ in the church. A priest who is on the hospital nursing staff has asked me to play during services. I consented with great pleasure. There is a service every evening which many soldiers attend. They sing the hymns of the liturgy. I accompany and I amuse myself playing some fugue of Bach or of my beloved César Franck. The organ is nothing to boast of, but I get a good deal of satisfaction out of it. _March 18._ We start to-night for Cabane-Puits which forms the fourth line of our positions. We are not to go to the trenches, it seems, but will remain four or five days in reserve. Furthermore, we shall be assigned fatigue duty. My company is flag escort. _Evening._ We left B.-le-Château toward noon. The ceremony of departure was beautiful. The third battalion had the flag and my company was chosen to escort it. The battalion formed in line of masses, my company being posted directly in front of the colonel’s house. At noon, bayonets were fixed, and at the moment the flag appeared on the threshold the band and the buglers saluted and played the Marseillaise, while every man presented arms. We defiled through the village with the flag in the middle of the company, just behind my section. Then the flag was folded into its black sheath, and we began the march. The road was better, much better. We met a regiment coming back from the trenches, and it made us realize what we ourselves had looked like a few days before. Cabane-Puits is very curious—a village of primitive tribesmen made up of half-buried huts of earth and branches. These dwellings are very comfortable, however, with their fireplaces and thick beds of straw. There are also dug-outs for each section. For myself I have a private apartment which has been comfortably arranged by its various occupants. There is a bed made of woven wire hung like a hammock about twenty inches from the ground, a rough table, shelves, and a fireplace of big stones. The baggage-wagons of the regiment have come with us up to this point, so I have my chest and can profit by my books. Rabelais and Montaigne have promptly been given the place of honor on the shelves. There is a shanty for everything here. The infirmary is very well installed; the offices of the various companies have packing-boxes for desks. The kitchens are in the open air. Above the fires, hanging on a stick, great kettles boil and bubble everlastingly. We had tea this evening, but sad to say, there wasn’t enough sugar. Letters come through with more or less regularity. I have made friends with the baggage-master, who scolds me all the time for being one of those who give him the most trouble; for I have a correspondence of almost ministerial dimensions. Take it all in all, this is better than the trenches. _March 19._ A delicious existence. Weather fine. Nothing to do. I read a little, write a little, chat a great deal with my friend H. or with the _abbé-infirmier_, a man of extraordinary intelligence and a heart of gold. Last evening after going to bed, H. and I lay awake a long time and talked, with the splendor of the spring flooding in upon us. The cannon in the distance were raging, and in spite of ourselves we rejoiced in our comparative security. “Suave mari magno.”[2] Perhaps Lucretius was not so far wrong. But this kind of selfishness is conceivable when one thinks of the sufferings of the week just past. Footnote 2: “Sweet it is when the winds are ruffling the mighty surface of the deep to witness the grievous peril of another from the shore.” _March 20._ A very busy night. My section was detailed to clean out the communication trenches near Perthes. The mud had dried and filled them in so that they were no longer deep enough. We started at 9 P.M. along Hill 181. At the entrance to the trenches, sheltered behind a hillock, are the headquarters of the commander of the sector, and likewise a toolhouse. Picks and shovels were piled up waiting for us. We took an equal number of each alternately, and proceeded to the trenches. A guide showed us the way. They were in a very bad state from the point of view of protection, but oh, so easy to walk in. The sector we were to put in order was about two hundred metres long. With the aid of my sergeants and corporals, I measured off the exact space for each pair of men. Every one set to work with a will, and at the end of two hours the job was finished. Partly to keep warm and partly to set the example, I took a pick and worked here and there. We deepened and broadened the trench and put bomb-shields every twenty-five or thirty metres, so that a bursting shell could be effective only on a limited area. Moreover, the trench was wide at the bottom, and the walls were near enough at the top to give less purchase to shrapnel. I had the satisfaction of feeling that the work had been done rapidly and well. At 1 A.M. we arrived at quarters. I gave the men a swig of brandy to warm them up, and we all turned in. An enemy aviator was brought down this morning. He ventured near our lines and was subjected to a lively bombardment. Swarms of white tufts circled and unfolded around the ’plane, which made a yellow spot in the lens of my field-glass. Suddenly I saw it dip, nose downward, and dart like an arrow to the ground. Meanwhile the smoke of the shell that had done the deed spread majestically through the sky as if content with its handiwork. The aviator fell too far away for us to go and see him. The Russians have taken Przemysl. The news was announced in this morning’s bulletin. It seems the booty is enormous. To celebrate the event every soldier has been given an extra ration of wine. It is one of the first bits of war news we have had. We are narrowed down to our own sector, and know practically nothing of what is happening outside. Not much probably. But surely something will be doing before long now. Every one thinks the grand offensive will take place in the spring—the decisive blow that will pry the Germans out of their holes in the ground and bring us the fight in the open for which we are all longing. And then—victory! I find myself yielding to the charm of our life here. It is, indeed, the return to nature and simplicity; it is almost physical, almost animal. The primitive instincts of the race have full sway—eating—drinking—sleeping—fighting—everything but loving. Lacking this, Rousseau would have found his idyl complete. But however much we are sunk in savagery, memory still is living. As well ask the spring not to be green as keep one’s thoughts from wandering among cherished images, kept fresh by almost daily letters. Beloved little godmothers, precious are your letters and welcome your delicate gifts to those who fight. We are glad to fight for you. But at times, the thought of you makes the chains of war very hard to bear. However, I am determined not to let my mind grow rusty. I read a great deal, write quantities of letters, and I have two or three friends with whom I can converse intimately. What is more, I have a most interesting study in psychology always close at hand—the study of my _poilus_. I think I am beginning to know them better and to be their friend; they tell me their secrets and their adventures, their little family affairs and their love affairs. Some of them want me to read their letters, or show me photographs. All this makes it easier to approach each one of them in the right way to make him do his best. I have grown very fond of them, for they are fine fellows; they can even be heroes when duty requires. I passed the evening out of doors, lying sprawled in the grass, smoking my old pipe, companion of all my adventures, and chatting with my friends. The sound of the cannon was scarcely audible, and over the unruffled air came whiffs of music. We recognized the “Russian Hymn” and the “Marseillaise” and “God Save the King.” It was a regiment encamped behind us, celebrating the fall of Przemysl. It is late. I have loitered outside in the marvellous night, keeping company with the spring. The air is laden with perfume as I write. But “_Sat prata biberunt._” _March 21. Sunday._ This morning mass was said in the open air behind a great rock, a soldier priest officiating. Stones served as an altar. On it were two candles without candlesticks—an old-time simplicity. The gathering was large, and we sang canticles to the deep accompaniment of the distant cannon. Nothing has happened to-day, except that a few prisoners filed by. This evening several men of the company go on fatigue duty to carry wire and shells to the trenches. I examined the shells. They have tiny wings and are fired from a cannon in the trench itself, and are very deadly, it seems. Our _poilus_ call them “cauliflowers.” My section is on duty, for of course we have to take turns keeping guard. The service is very simple. Three sentries suffice, one near the station and storehouses, one near the colonel’s cabin where the flag is, and the third near the carriages. _March 22._ Another uneventful day. The battalion had manœuvres in the woods. If only this gives promise of the fight in the open! A little alarm—several shells fell on our position. A kitchen was destroyed and a cook wounded. It is very unpleasant to be bombarded when you are off duty. In the trenches, it is part of the day’s work, and for that reason swallowed down cheerfully. Besides, the trench is a protection, but in encampment where, by the very definition of the word, one has a right to feel secure, it is annoying. Those Boches have no manners. _March 23._ Last night I was detailed with half my section to bury the dead. The task was not a pleasant one, but it was accomplished without reluctance or hesitation. Having to do the work at night made it a shade more lugubrious. A guide conducted us to a little thicket all laid bare by grapeshot, south of Perthes and about three kilometres from the first lines. There was no moon, and it was very nearly pitch dark. Trench rockets streaked the sky here and there, and from the distance came the crack of musketry. Shells went laboring by with the heavy breathing of wild beasts in a rage. A little trench was made into a large one to receive the bodies, and then we set out in search of them. They had been lying there for a very long time, and it was only the recent advance of our lines that made it possible to bury them. With some difficulty we managed to make out these motionless heaps on the ground. It was necessary to search the pockets and take out papers, money, etc., also to unfasten the identification badges that are worn on the arm like a bracelet. It was not an easy thing to do. In this, also, I was obliged to set the example. I had to put my hand into the pockets of a foul mass that fell to pieces at a touch. I found nothing but a pocket-book and diary. The men then took courage and overcame their aversion. The bodies were not offensive until they were disturbed, but the least jar brought forth an odor that choked you and took you by the throat. Among them were three Germans. They were all carried in a tent-sheet to the trench and laid side by side. The articles found on them were kept carefully in separate packets. Out of twenty-seven, we succeeded in identifying all but three. When our task was finished, the _abbé-infirmier_, who had accompanied us of his own accord, stepped to the edge of the grave and said a blessing. And that priest, standing out against the darkness, lifting his voice above the noise of battle in a last solemn duty to those pitiful fragments, was truly very fine. Every man of us, whether moved by religious conviction or not, felt the impressiveness of the moment, and knelt to hear the words of forgiveness and of life. This evening I went to S. S. by the little train to have the death certificates made out. The tiny mementoes had to be sent to the families—letters, purses, notebooks, watches. On one of the bodies was a letter bearing the inscription: “Will the person who finds my body have the kindness to send this letter, together with the exact description of my grave, to the following address....” I took the letter, and wrote a few words to the family. I did my best to make a drawing of the spot where the poor fellow was buried, and told them about the blessing that had been said over his grave. And into the same envelope I put that sacred letter, bloody, smeared with mud, ill-smelling,—a letter from the dead. _March 24._ An artillery officer who was at the village with me yesterday invited me to go and see his battery. After the daily muster of the company I started out. I had marked on my map the exact position of the battery and found it without difficulty. The captain received me in his dug-out, a regular palace compared to the squalid quarters of us poor infantrymen. Twenty feet under ground, well supported by planks, it contained all sorts of modern comforts—a real bed, a table, chairs, besides a quantity of knick-knacks that indicated a prolonged stay. Pinned up on the walls were the delicious women of Fabiano, of Nam and of Préjelan, taken from “La Vie Parisienne”; a violin was hanging in one corner, and on a table lay the sonatas of Bach. There were a number of little objects on the shelves made from fragments of shells. My host gave me tea in china cups. All this luxury enchanted me. A telephone on the table connected the dug-out with the battery, the first line, and the colonel’s headquarters. I could not resist asking him to play, and this pupil of the Polytechnic executed for me, and executed well, the famous saraband. “Now, after the chamber-music,” said he, “I’m going to let you hear the grand orchestra.” And he conducted me to his battery. The four pieces, all draped in foliage and well covered with earth, were silent. But they remained fixedly aimed at their invisible objective, a trench some three kilometres ahead. Thanks to the hydro-pneumatic brake, the 75 does not need to be re-aimed after firing. To please me, the captain ordered three shells fired from each piece. I even fired a shot myself. Finally I saw the little valve that has only to be manipulated in a certain way to render the piece useless in case it falls into the hands of the enemy. The gunners are under orders to attend to this. I took leave, with many thanks to my host for his kindness. I was gratified to have penetrated a little into the sumptuous domain of the artillery. On arriving in camp I learned that the captain had sent in my name for promotion to the rank of second lieutenant, because of what happened last week. I am very much pleased. _March 25._ This morning to our great surprise we were told to return to S. S. We reached there toward six o’clock. Same quarters as before. I noticed in passing how rapidly the cemetery has been growing of late. _March 26._ Review of our brigade this morning. The two regiments assembled by sections in columns of four, with flags and music. The general passed along our front at a gallop. Then we defiled. The impression of strength is immense when one stands in the midst of all these glittering bayonets above which float the bright colors of our flag—the wall of steel that is holding back the enemy and will crush him when the hour strikes. With it all comes the consciousness of one’s own rôle, which is humble and yet great. For that wall of steel is made of glittering, separate points, and I am one of them. It is joy untold to be able to say to one’s self, “All my struggles and all my sufferings count for something in the great action of the whole.” The general then went along by the different companies. He stopped to speak to me, and told me that from to-day I shall rank in the army as second lieutenant. Naturally, this event had to be celebrated. I treated my colleagues to champagne. Just as festivities were well under way, orders came to start at once for the trenches. Here is the programme for the next few days:— Two days in the first line. Two days in reserve, Hill 181. Two days in the second line. It is rumored that this army corps is to be laid off a whole month to recuperate. Lots of rumors float about, fantastic and otherwise. It’s what they call “kitchen gossip.” But this one is perhaps true. Meanwhile we are buckling on our things, and in two hours, off we go. I am going to write to all my people to announce my promotion.