CHAPTER IX

BEFORE THE GRAND OFFENSIVE (ARTOIS, MAY 1–8, 1915) _May 1._ Here we are near Arras, on the eve of returning to the trenches. We have had a long journey, in order to travel a very few miles; we left at night, of course, and arrived late at night at Saint-Pol. On coming out of the station we found before us a long train of autobuses waiting to transport us to the front. They were big goods trucks, very powerful, arranged with four seats each, on which there was room for twenty men. Then the companies were divided by turns into groups of twenty, and the men took their places. The officers had a very comfortable motor car. It did not take more than half an hour to get everybody settled; the swiftness was marvellous. Then this train that bore nearly a thousand men set out into the darkness. Not a light was lighted. Every effort was made to maintain secrecy. For two solid hours we jolted along at a lively clip over roads that were torn to pieces by the countless convoys which pass every minute of the day and night. We were literally shrouded in dust when we arrived at daybreak at Agnez-les-Duisans. There we got out, the companies formed once more, and we took a bite of breakfast by the side of the road while the quartermasters went ahead to look after billets. Ours was roomy and well supplied with straw; unfortunately, in the course of the day it was discovered that the straw was full of fleas, and the men had to move out and take refuge in cramped quarters. We are forbidden to go out in groups. A vigilance service has been organized as before. We have been watching the manœuvring of a captive “sausage” balloon, a kind of balloon that is shaped and ballasted in such a way as to prevent its being driven about at the mercy of every wind, like the spherical balloons. Our mess is well installed. My colleague R. always bestirs himself to find the right place, and he is lucky. To-morrow we return to the trenches. There is great massing of troops in this region. So this is where the great stroke will be delivered. _May 3._ Once more we take up the life of war. We have been in the trenches since last night. We had nearly lost the wont of shot and shell, though we are managing to keep up a good face. But how different this is from Champagne! Here it is comfortable, almost to the point of luxury, and the sector is as calm as calm—a few isolated cannon shots now and then just to let each other know we are here. Two of the four sections of my company are in the first line; the two others are in the support trenches. Between the two groups is the captain in a strongly sheltered dug-out, with the telephone near by. In front of the trench are two listening-posts, where two men and a corporal are continually on the watch, protected by a net from the enemy’s grenades. I am in a trench about eighty metres from the German lines. This trench is admirably arranged. A bench dug in the wall serves at once as a seat and as a place to fire from; the soldier who is about to fire mounts on it and fires through an improved loophole—large on the inside and smaller toward the enemy, so that the Boches cannot easily get a line on the person who is firing. The trench is about eight feet deep and in the sides have been hollowed out roomy individual shelters, a sort of niche with plenty of room for one man. There are two mines sunk between us and the enemy. I intend to go and see them. My dug-out has two stories, a bedroom containing a couch of earth covered with straw, and some planks for shelves; underneath, at a depth of eight or ten metres, is a dug-out containing cartridges and grenades. The main store of munitions is near the captain. The men, too, are comfortably installed. Each one has his own hole which he can make bigger or arrange to suit himself. Besides, in case of a heavy bombardment, it is possible to take refuge in the big mine galleries. Finally, two machine guns, carefully protected, guard the space that separates us from the Boches. And then, there are casks of water in the trench itself. Could anything be more unlike the trench at Perthes? The fatigues fill them daily from the well not far distant, and we can drink as much as we please. In order to keep the water cool, the casks are put deep in the ground. There are a number of round-bottomed metal bowls in the trench, the use of which was explained to us in the daily bulletin. On account of the great number of head wounds, it has been found advisable to adopt helmets in the French army. Meanwhile, these little bowls can be put inside the cap to protect the head. I tried one and found it heavy. But I shall certainly use it if there is any need. Our ingenious _poilus_ discover all sorts of uses for these bowls. They empty their pockets into them, put into them the supply of cartridges that every man is obliged to have by him at his loophole, thus keeping the cartridges free of the mud which clogs and spoils the guns. And I used one for a wash-basin, and helped myself to a little of the drinking-water to wash in. Although the sector was quiet, I did not sleep. The orders were that one man out of two was to be allowed to sleep. The arrangement of the trench did not permit taking one half-section for a certain time and then the other. That would have required awkward shifting about, so I hit upon another plan. I paired off the men according to the old principle of putting chums to work together. Either one or the other was to be always awake. They were allowed to arrange the details to suit themselves. Sometimes the one who was least tired good-naturedly kept watch and let the other sleep as long as he wished. I like to leave a certain amount of liberty and initiative to my men. It always pleases them, and the service is much better attended to. During the night we keep up a good deal of firing. This bothers the German workers or their listening-patrols and prevents our men from getting drowsy. I went to the listening-post, about sixty metres from the German trenches. It is hazardous to look out except with a periscope. The landscape is very nearly as monotonous as in Champagne: barbed wire, gray lines, and a few dead bodies lying between the lines, but the vegetation is richer and more luxuriant. In front of the listening-post is a mine. In case of attack the earth can be blown up twenty metres in advance, simply by lighting a bickford fuse. So the sector is perfectly clean, comfortable, and quiet. Very little work is done except at night, and even then, not much. At noon we are going into the support trench. _Evening._ In the second line. We are in deep dug-outs, well protected, regular cellars, abundantly provided with straw. I have been sleeping a little. Our food is brought to us at the captain’s. A warming apparatus makes it possible for us to have excellent hot meals. The men are well treated, too. The kitchens are much easier of access than in Champagne. We have been warned by telephone to be on the lookout for a probable German attack. It seems they have been throwing to the English numerous proclamations, all ending with:— “When is that French attack coming?” So they are expecting to be attacked, and perhaps they will forestall our offensive. In case of an alarm I am to betake myself with my men to the first line. Our position, of course, is settled in advance. At five o’clock there was a sort of commotion, a false alarm, cooked up by the enemy, doubtless, and we all hurried to our fighting posts in the first line, and then—marched back again. To-night we shall have to keep our eyes and ears open, and all the officers are to take turns in going the rounds. My hours are nine and two. _May 4._ Two more false alarms last night. A soldier thinks he hears suspicious noises, gets excited, and fires like mad. The panic goes churning down the line and raises a regular hurricane in its trail. In making the rounds, I went over the whole ground occupied by the company. From time to time a flash from my electric lamp showed me the way through the deserted communication trenches. Every one was at his post. The enemy could come on if he wished. To tell the truth, not a single shell was sent our way. The Boches had never been less troublesome. To-day it is raining, and I regret to see that the soil of Artois gets muddy easily too. Having nothing else to do, I asked an officer of the engineering corps for permission to go into the mine. He consented most willingly, and went down with me into the gallery. It is solidly built, and supported by heavy planks, for the brittle earth might easily stop up this narrow space. I had to crawl on all fours a long time before reaching the end, where the listening-post was. Two men were on duty there, standing with their ears close to the wall, in the yellowish light of a single candle. We were under the German trench. On listening carefully I made out a faint murmur of voices, very indistinct and muffled. I should not have objected to overhearing the conversation of those men who were in all likelihood to die before many days were spent. The large explosion chamber of the mine was to be stuffed with cheddite, and at the given moment, an electric spark would send that trench and its inhabitants on a journey in the air. It wasn’t at all pleasant down in that hole. The air was stifling, and I was glad enough, after another long crawl, to find myself in the open again, if the trench maybe called the open. In order to guard against gas bombs we have been given horrible, nightmarish masks, goggles set in a kind of pig jowl or snout made of rubber and containing a solution of ammonia. They make you look like a wild animal, and as soon as I got mine I put it on for the benefit of my _poilus_. They nearly laughed themselves into fits. But life in general is calm, too calm even. I am reading “Anna Karenina,” that came by mail yesterday, and smoking endless pipes. The men make lots of aluminum rings. As soon as a shell lands they start out to look for the fuse, of which they fashion very artistic little rings. My soldiers have given me several. I am on most friendly terms with them all. At odd times I have bought them little extras in the way of wine or sweets, and then I manage things so that they get their letters before any of the other sections. The letters come toward midnight, with the fatigue who brings rations. I am always on hand, and along with my own correspondence I take that of my men. It is the one great joy of the day, so why should it be deferred? To be sure, it is because I am so keen on letters myself that I like the men to share my pleasure. And if they have no light, they have permission to come to my dug-out, which is always lighted. They insist on my taking some of all their good things, candies, cigarettes, or what not, when a package comes. But I can find a way to even things up. I think I have my men well in hand. I shall be able to do some good work with them when the time comes. _May 5._ At noon, returned to the first line. After that the day was eventful. It was decided, by way of preparation for future offensives, to furnish the attacking sections with red and white pennons, which were to serve as signals to the artillery, and mark the first French lines. By this means the artillery will not risk peppering its compatriots in the course of an advance. To-day the order came to raise the pennons over our first lines, so that our artillery can get the range of the enemy’s positions. At two o’clock, therefore, they were hoisted. The astonishment of the Boches was promptly made manifest by a whirlwind of bullets which converted these common bits of cloth into glorious trophies. Then our artillery turned loose. It was our duty to observe the range and rectify it by telephone. One by one, with mathematical precision, big shells lighted on the German positions. There must be a formidable number of batteries, for without a moment’s pause or cessation shells poured on the Boche trench for three full hours. Meanwhile, very naturally, our friends across the way began to get peevish and sent off a few blasts of little 77’s, which afforded great satisfaction to the makers of rings. One could hear them coming very distinctly; first, the six reports of the battery, then a hiss, then a detonation, not very terrifying. I was in the middle of the trench with my eye glued to a periscope. Several shells landed near; one fell on a decaying corpse in the midst of the wire, spreading about for several minutes the horrible heavy odor that reminded me of the night we buried the dead in Champagne. Another stupid shell chose to fall in the passage that led to my dug-out. The bags of sand were tumbled all about and it took more than half an hour’s work before I could get into my quarters. My things were not at all damaged. And yet, at one moment explosive shells rained thick and fast, two or three on the parapet, blowing to bits several loopholes. The machine gunners, who were playing cards near their gun, shut their dug-out with a tent-sheet. It is a thing I have often noticed and proves that, after all, man is not so different from the ostrich. One has the illusion of being secure behind the most flimsy barrier, if only it keeps out the sight of the danger—a hedge, a plank, a tent-sheet. It is an insult to reason, but that doesn’t matter. Brute instinct knows no reason. So the sector that on our arrival seemed asleep has had a rude awakening. Everything points to a coming offensive. I certainly hope we shall have a share in it. _May 6._ Night calm. The Boches seemed non-existent. Our artillery quieted down. I was wakeful notwithstanding. The responsibility is too great. It is raining hard. There is water in the bottom of the trench, and it is impossible to move without taking a disagreeable foot-bath. But the aviators give signs of great activity. Since morning we have had the joy of watching several reconnaissances. The ’planes were hotly bombarded, but to no purpose. Their flight must have been successful, for no sooner had they returned than our artillery set up a terrible spitting at the German trenches. It was not hurried, but was a slow, continuous, methodical fire which must have been very deadly. From the second line we sent off the little winged bombs, the “cauliflowers” whose acquaintance we made in Champagne. They leap up, not very high, then hesitate an instant before they swoop down upon the Boches, exploding with a muffled thud which makes the ground tremble clear to our trench, while a spout of black smoke rises and floats a long time. In all the sectors where I have been, the superiority of our artillery becomes every day more evident. After dinner the question was telephoned: “What are the special points the different section commanders would like to see battered by the artillery in case of a drive?” I asked for the collaboration of all my men. I had the corporals explain to them the signs by which they could recognize the machine-gun positions: better defenses, loopholes bigger, bags of sand more numerous and more carefully arranged. I took my glass and observed minutely all the points of the German trench. I went to the listening-post, and with the help of a much-perfected field-glass periscope, which magnifies in addition to giving a view over the edge, I probed the German position. At the end of more than an hour’s work, utilizing the observations of my men, I was able to fix almost to a certainty the positions of four machine guns. I marked on the plan of the trenches that had been given us the exact points to be hammered, and the document was sent along the hierarchical paths and in due time reached the artillery. Then we indulged in a little distraction. As the rain had stopped, I went to two of my best marksmen and proposed a match. It is very amusing to try one’s skill in shooting. The objective point is a Boche loophole, that is to say, a piece of steel plate. If the balls touch, one hears a metallic ring and the hum of the ricochet. I made a good score, but I placed only nine balls out of ten, and was beaten by P. who got in all ten. The prize was a package of cigarettes. Everybody is in a good humor to-day. There is a great buzz of conversation. Some of the men are playing checkers, others cards. One man who is the happy recipient of an accordion is favoring us with popular tunes which everybody catches up in chorus. Really, it is very festive. This evening we go to the second line, in the shelters. Three of the four companies of our battalion are on the firing line, the fourth is in reserve. It is our turn now to be in reserve. _May 7._ We are in marvellous shelters, where we laugh defiance to missiles of all sorts and kinds, even the 420’s. Behind the second lines, galleries have been sunk, to which broad staircases give access. Around them is a sort of ditch which serves as a yard, on which the entrances open. They are vast tunnels, fifty feet underground, made by the engineers,—broad, supported by huge beams, and furnished with plank floors. They are about a hundred feet long, ten feet broad, and ten feet high, and are in every way comfortable. There are beds of straw, bags for pillows and candles for light. In the yard are supplies: grenades, wire, trench shells, and casks of water. We officers have a special gallery with two compartments, a living-room and a sleeping-room. The living-room is provided with a huge fireplace, a big table, several stools, and a superb lamp. The bedroom is less sumptuous—a large space covered with a thick bed of straw where we shall sleep soundly. There has been unusual activity along the front these two days. Staff officers keep coming and going. Men have been carrying to the first lines quantities of hand grenades, wire, and ladders. Aeroplanes are circling busily through the air. The artillery sounds like an orchestra tuning its instruments before the symphony. Important events are afoot. _Evening._ It’s coming! The grand offensive is to be launched over a wide area. In the whole of Flanders the attempt is to be made to pierce the Boche front. We are going to try to get out of these accursed trenches and fight superbly, face to face. About five o’clock, just as we were sitting down at table, I was called to the commandant. My colleagues had also been summoned and we received our orders. To-morrow, at an hour not yet indicated, the regiment is to attack, in concert with those of the nine army corps that are massed in this region. It is the grand offensive—victory, perhaps. We are to go forward and jump over four enemy trenches, previously battered by the artillery, not stopping until we reach a ravine that can be seen through the glass eight hundred metres from our first line. We pore over the maps, and make sure of our exact goal. My company is to march at the head in open formation and lead the drive. The commandant thereupon shook hands with each of us in turn, and told us that he counted on every man to do his duty. I went back to my soldiers to issue the command to get ready. Each man was to have two hundred cartridges, six grenades, and three days’ rations, and was to carry his blanket slung crosswise over his shoulder. But while I was consulting with my colleagues the plan of the German positions, a message came that all orders were cancelled. The sudden let down was not entirely pleasant, but we all shared somewhat the feeling of the sorry jester who said: “All right, that gives us one more day to live.” We count on coming out alive. But the nearness of danger is not without its anguish. We have been having a fine game of poker. I lost, so I shall be lucky. I am tired. My fellow officers have been asleep this long time. I am going to imitate them. The boom of our big guns is heavy and deep. _May 8. 10_ P.M. It is for to-night. We are to take positions in the first line at 3 A.M. The time of the attack is not yet fixed. I have written a great many letters. Perhaps I have given way to my feelings in some of them. I did not tell my mother. I wrote her that new movements of troops are predicted for the near future, and that she is not to worry if she has no news of me for awhile. But I told the truth to my little godmother and to my old friend * * * But sadness and farewells I have put behind me. Now I am all a soldier, and a soldier filled with the determination to fight and to conquer, and exalted by the work that is before him. If I die, and these are the last words I am destined to write, I want them to be _Vive—Vive la France._