FOREWORD
Katharine Babbitt translation
During the long hours of idleness spent in the trenches or behind the front, almost all the soldiers write in their carnets de route. And the slender notebook which they keep constantly by them is their greatest friend. It is the confidant of their troubles and their joys, of their heroism and their discouragement, which they describe naïvely—the reflection of their innermost thoughts. As for myself, I tried to jot down my experiences as objectively as possible, bringing together the impressions and details that counted most to me. In so far as I have succeeded in depicting only myself, may it be remembered that my ego, if it is not the centre of the world, is necessarily the centre of this journal, written without any thought of publication.
When I visited America recently I came to realize the widespread interest in the European War shown by the citizens of the New World. To relieve the misfortunes that follow in the trail of war, they have brought to bear the great strength of their sympathy and of their xmaterial resources. But, not content with this, they give proof of a keen desire to know “just how they do things over there.” And the many questions I have been asked, and the earnest attention accorded to my accounts of the war, are my excuse for publishing this journal.
I was not a soldier at the moment the war broke out; I was called to the colors in the first days of August, 1914, and went through the training for the infantry. Then my university degrees, together with an examination, made it possible for me to join a training-class for officers. At the end of this course, I was given the rank of Second Lieutenant on probation and started for the front.
Except for a few trifling omissions, this book reproduces exactly the notes I took at the front, though the last two chapters were written rather a long time after the events they describe—the reader will understand why. Nor is the form finished: for how shall one point phrases to the tune of grapeshot? But the story is a true one, lived and lived intensely. In this fact lies the little merit the work may possess.
René Nicolas
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