CHAPTER VIII

A MONTH AWAY FROM THE TRENCHES (For a month our life is spent in marches and more or less prolonged stays in various encampments in the region of the Meuse—a calm existence, without many events of interest. My journal relates only a few scattered incidents.) _April 3._ First stage. Left Cabane-Puits this morning at three, and reached here at eight. Little village partly destroyed by the Boches, barbarously, when they were obliged to fall back at the time of the battle of the Marne. I am billeted in the house of a peasant woman who has told us many tales of their atrocities. The church is in ruins. It seems they locked up in it a very old grandmother and then set fire to it. A striking thing in the midst of the ruins of this church is a statue, still standing,—the only one,—a statue of Joan of Arc made of plaster, her sword broken, her face blackened with smoke, her banner half gone, but proud and erect, truly a stirring sight. What a fine subject for an article for Maurice Barrès! That virgin symbolizing our will to conquer, France wounded and bleeding, but still valiant and undaunted and full of faith. I am told the statue of Joan of Arc at the entrance to the Cathedral of Rheims has not been touched by shells either. It is as if the soul of our country, incarnated in our superb heroine, wished to manifest itself thus to its defenders. There is a rumor that we shall go to the Dardanelles. What luck that would be! Perhaps I could rejoin my brother who enlisted at eighteen and has just started with the expeditionary force. _April 6._ We have been on the march for three days. I cannot quite make out the reason for all this marching. Certainly we are not on the way to fight, for then we should go by rail. It isn’t rest, either, thirty kilometres a day of rather hard marching. And then we march in broad daylight. Perhaps it is to throw the enemy off the scent and simulate extensive shifting of troops. We have crossed the rich pasture lands of the Argonne and the deep, thick forests to the north of which the fighting is in progress. The sight of all this wonderful vegetation has suddenly made me realize that spring is here. The desolation of Champagne—a real desert, with a few clumps of mutilated pines—had given scarcely a hint of its coming. Here there are perfumes and flowers, gayety, pleasant sunshine, birds. But not everything is gay. We have come through many a wrecked and desecrated village—one especially in which not a single house was left standing. It happened that a sort of wooden shed just outside the village hid the ruins. The band was marching with our battalion that day. The band-master, as usual, had them play a march, and we prepared to file into the village at attention. Then, in our proudest trim, with clarions and flourish of trumpets, we entered suddenly upon a blackened, blasted street between two long heaps of rubbish,—not a house, not a living soul, only chaos and emptiness. A strange contrast—that sparkling music with those ruins. But was not this also an act of faith—a promise? As a rule we set out about eight in the morning and at one o’clock make a long halt. A rolling kitchen for each company has been included in our regimental train since our departure from the trenches. When we arrive, generally rather tired, we have hot coffee and soup. In the evening on reaching encampment we salute the flag and every one gets settled in his quarters. Villages in ruins for the most part. There has been no fighting here, but, when they left, the Germans set fire to things everywhere. At B.-sur-A. is a marvellous Gothic church in the purest style very nearly wrecked. Oh, destroyers of cathedrals! It brings freshly to my mind the great grief I felt on learning of the burning of Notre Dame de Rheims. Since that moment I have sworn hatred to the Germans. To kill men is, after all, the business of war and it can be explained, even if it cannot be excused. But to try to kill the soul of a whole epoch, the sublime and imposing spirit of the Middle Ages, which had put into its cathedrals all its faith, all its aspirations, all its life!—The Germans are jealous of the splendor of our country, and they who have raised their Gothic monuments only in the school of France—for Gothic was born in the Île de France—they who have had the wit only to imitate are determined to be first and foremost in the art of destruction. And they know very well that the French will not make reprisals and that Nuremberg and the Wartburg will still be standing after our victory. _April 9._ On the banks of the Meuse between Verdun and Saint-Mihiel. The taking of Éparges has just been announced to us. It is a great success, and great in consequences I think. We have been brought here as an army of reinforcements to be used in case of need. But our comrades took the mountain without us. We rest, we exercise mildly. I have been boating a little on the Meuse. At night I like to climb the heights above the village, where one can see the search-lights of Verdun sweeping the sky. I play a while at the church every day. The band of our regiment gives a daily concert at four. Much bustle and stir. Endless convoys pass; Boche ’planes come along from time to time and are driven off by our artillery. _April 14._ We are kept continually on the move. Now we are headed south. A splendid ceremony yesterday—the decoration of our flag. Our regiment received the _Croix d’Honneur_ for its conduct in Champagne. The whole army corps was massed in a vast area of untilled fields. Bluecoats everywhere. It was very beautiful. The generals arrived and passed along our front, while we all presented arms. Then the flags of all the regiments were placed side by side, with their escort of honor. Three of the number were to be decorated, and were set a little in advance of this splendid group of shimmering rags floating triumphantly in the wind. All the bands together played the Marseillaise. I could not see much, I was so far away, but I did see the general kiss the flags which seemed to droop toward him, and I clearly heard the swelling notes of our national hymn flung to the sky by the bands and by our hearts. Then the whole army corps, bayonets and sabres bared, defiled. With our beloved standard we returned to cantonment. The colonel made us march before it once more. The glory of our flag was reflected on each one of us and we were very proud. _April 20._ Continual marches. Springtime. Rest. Very uniform life. On reaching a village, after lodging my men, I always sally forth to find the church and play the organ. It is my great joy. The other day we had execution parade. Two soldiers of the regiment were courtmartialed for refusing to go to the trenches and hiding while the others were fighting. They were condemned to hard labor. In the morning the regiment assembled in a hollow square. Three battalions formed three sides; the fourth was made up of the machine-gun corps, the sanitary corps, and the band. On the arrival of the condemned men, who were dressed in the chestnut brown costume of the convict, their heads shaved, without the slightest vestige of anything military, the colonel ordered us to fix bayonets and shoulder arms. The prisoners were brought into the middle of the square under the conduct of four soldiers with fixed bayonets. The drums beat a ruffle—a long, low roll followed by complete silence. Then a sergeant-major read the sentence. The drums rolled once more, after which the two men passed along in front of the ranks—supreme ignominy for those who are unworthy to bear arms. Then they were handed over to the gendarmes and we all dispersed. _April 22._ Reached the banks of the Marne-Rhine Canal, along which I have had so many beautiful walks near Nancy in the old days. We are going to entrain. For what point? For Alsace, perhaps, or the Dardanelles. _April 25._ Neither Alsace nor the Dardanelles. The secret was well kept. We did not know where we were going until we actually arrived. To the Somme, not far from Amiens. Our journey was a long one. Leaving Bar-le-Duc at 3 A.M. we did not get out of the train until 11 at night. It was a bitter disappointment when I found I was turning my back on Alsace. I began to follow on my map the branch lines leading toward the south. There were two. We passed them by. We were going in the direction of Paris. We followed the battle-field of the Marne—Cézanne, Terte-Gauche, La Fère-Champenoise, Coulommiers. Along the railroad tracks were trenches, and individual shelters, shell holes, and graves,—graves everywhere, either big, common graves decorated with flowers and inscriptions, many-colored, or else separate graves. But over them all waves the bright tricolor, joyously. They lie in the midst of a veritable flower-garden of flags, those who have died for our country. We met an armored train run by marine fusiliers. The big guns are graced by the names of women: La Joconde, Josephine, etc. The marines made friendly signals to us as we passed. And then, toward evening, we reached the outskirts of Paris, in all the adorable beauty of springtime and blossoming trees, to say nothing of its houses, real ones, big, beautiful, luxurious. We had come so near forgetting what they looked like. And the women smiled, and waved to the soldiers who were going off to defend them. Very near Paris we stopped for two hours, so near that half an hour in an omnibus would have brought us out at the Opéra. We stayed there a long time, with our eyes fixed upon the Capital, and many of us were sad at being so close to those who were dear to us when they so little suspected it. The bugle for departure brought me back from my reveries, and we plunged once more into the night. At 11 o’clock we detrained and marched until about 2 A.M. Before daybreak we were under shelter. Orders had arrived. We were forbidden to go out in the daytime except when it was possible to keep out of sight. It was essential for the enemy to remain in ignorance of our presence. A very strict watch was instituted against enemy aviators. Patrols provided with field-glasses were stationed on the heights; beside each patrol was a bugler. As soon as an aeroplane was sighted, long, slow bugle notes indicated that every one must hide. Staccato notes meant that the danger was over. There were numerous alarms,—Boche ’planes going to throw bombs on Amiens, also several French ’planes. By way of precaution, the bugle is sounded for every kind of air-craft and the short notes indicating “danger past” reëcho as soon as the sentry spies on the wings of the ’plane the tricolor cockade. I am billeted at the house of a cheery and charming peasant woman who is kindness itself. She dotes on officers and treats us royally. I wish it might last, this life of peace and comfort. But something is brewing. The storm will burst before long. Of that much I am certain. _April 27._ Delicious _far niente_. I am enthroned in idleness like a pasha. We are not allowed to show ourselves, so our rest is absolute. But we are well taken care of, and I am not complaining. Meanwhile the commander calls us together each day to expound the principles of the new tactics. There are not to be any more little local attacks, like those in Champagne, but big attacks, and the unit of combat will be the company and no longer the section. The goal we must aim at is to take at a single blow all the enemy’s trenches, so as to push him back into the open. First, the artillery will hammer the Boche trenches; then we shall have to jump over them, while crews of “trench-cleaners” follow in our wake to put in order the trenches thus conquered. The men of the crews are armed with revolvers and knives. Decidedly the war is daily growing more terrible. There are other principles, too, that have reference to working in concert with the artillery. But I think it is lunch time. _April 30._ We start this evening. There is to be a grand offensive. Some great stroke is being prepared. Will it be the decisive one? I still dream the same dream that haunted me in the training-camp; the grand entry into Berlin, Unter den Linden, but especially the triumphal return to Paris, under the Arc de l’Étoile, down the Champs-Elysées. I am rather sorry to leave the life of comfort and good cheer I have been leading these days. But thanks to this respite I shall be all the more ready for work, I think. It is a month since I left Champagne. For a month we have been going about from village to village, from Champagne to the Meuse, from the Meuse to Lorraine, from Lorraine to Flanders. I have seen many countrysides. I have lodged in many villages. Everywhere we have had a marvellous reception, of a kind to make us forget the hardships that are past, and grow strong for those to come.