Front matter (continued 6)

Playoust had them all under his thumb. He was certainly smart, the rascal! I had been finely taken in at first by his look of a Paris street-urchin. He worked his open-handed, happy-go-lucky appearance, which makes the type so attractive, for all it was worth. And all the time he was as slippery and vicious as he could be. He hardly ever risked anything more than a casual piece of insolence on us, and he was the only one of the lot who continued to say good-day to us or to shake our hands, while, privately, he never ceased to stir up his acolytes against us. It must be noted too that he made game of them, cynically letting them in for endless fatigues. I bore him all the more ill-will for it, because, for a long time, I had thought I recognised a kindred spirit in him. Nothing had awakened in him—a proof that there was nothing lying dormant in him. What a hideous vision he afforded me of what I might have been.

Let there be no mistake about it. What annoyed us most about them all was the sight of their flabbiness and slackness. Since Spincourt they had chucked the whole show and were continually saying that they didn't care a blow what happened!

Their corporals were decent fellows and partially succeeded in making up for their deficiencies. Their men were no worse than most. But in spite of it their lack of authority came nigh to being disastrous on several occasions. To begin with, it was an admitted fact that in their platoon they might get drunk with impunity. I remember the stink of wine and vomiting which rose from the stables where their men were billeted. How could De Valpic's have escaped the infection? Ravelli, who had been put up to it by the others, was always down on him. Playoust was charmed when the soldiers and the inhabitants were at loggerheads with each other. He tacitly encouraged the foraging and marauding that went on. Some of his poilus were mixed up in the rows at Béthaincourt.

Here is another occurrence which will serve to illustrate the different attitudes of mind. One grilling afternoon when we were passing the train of company waggons, the captain took it upon himself to give the most exhausted men permission to put their packs in the waggons. Our men were too proud. Their packs! They were quite capable of carrying them themselves, thanks! In the first platoon the N.C.O.'s were the first to unballast themselves; first, ten, then fifteen, then thirty of the men copied them. When that waggon was full, what should these fine gentlemen do, but set to work calmly to fill the next one that came along, which belonged to No. 20 company. The commanding officer, when he heard about it, came rushing up, inquired into the matter, bellowed like a bull and cancelled the permission. Our men chuckled over the occurrence. The others were furious: He'd better not bully them! Get away with him. They were fed up!

As the retirement went on the "set" kept up a stream of grumbles. The marches were too long. Poor reservists, we were being killed! Why did we halt so far from any well? Was it true that all the filth was thrown into them? Why was our company always given the most disgusting quarters? It was not surprising! Our captain didn't get on with any one! Who had to pay? We of course! And the baksheesh? Who got the baksheesh? As there wasn't even a ration of brandy every day.

After "Beauclair" things got even worse. We only caught scraps of their declamations because they put on the soft pedal when they saw us coming, just as they did with the officers. Playoust among others was particularly good at posing as an excellent fellow who was never put out by anything. But out of the reach of "tell-tales" and "busy-bodies," their evil tongues wagged busily.

It was sickening! they declared. The commanding officers were the outside limit! According to them our brigadier-general, an old Colonial, drank. The colonel was the kind of man to get us all hacked to pieces for the sake of keeping up his reputation for bravery. They gave us to understand they were delighted to see him wounded, and they would have been even more so if he had not been replaced by that old "dug-out." For that matter, you only need look at the result in order to see what our leaders were! Hopeless! If we weren't done for we deserved to be. Marches and counter-marches, bad management. We could hold the Bosches when we got them to grips. There was nothing to beat a French soldier! But as for preparation. Blimey! The slackers who had to look after that! Descroix cast up his eyes, swearing that those responsible would be found among the old ministers and present deputies. He foretold retaliation in the shape of lawsuits, or riots. Why was there such a lack of heavy artillery, of machine-guns, of searchlight apparatus, and armoured cars? Why did we see nothing of the aeroplanes whose praises we had had drummed into our ears for years?

We were getting near to all the senseless recriminations of 1870. But they were not quite so serious this time, in spite of everything. They did not accuse Poincaré of having been bribed, or Joffre of being a traitor. They did not even go so far as to say that this war was absurd or unjust. We had to defend ourselves, after all! The most bitter complaints were of incompetence, and of the lack of foresight. Enough to be demoralising!

They made tremendous fun of Ravelli and his fears, which they shared at the bottom. Especially the spies! They passed on their superstitious terror to their men. There could be nothing more depressing for them than to feel they were surrounded by a vague throng of enemies. It was like asking for hysterics. I remember how on the morning we were guarding part of the Meuse, a group of refugees from Montmédy came up, a family of five, including two children who implored us to help them across. They were fortunate in finding us. We showed them a ford and had them taken to the C.O. A little farther up the poor wretches had come across some men out of Playoust's platoon, who had insulted them and threatened to shoot them.

And then there were the false reports, the pseudo-news, invented or rumoured, but always bad: Italy entering the lists against us, or England's dilatoriness. We should have to pay damages! Or else, one way of getting out of it would be to leave our friends, the Russians, in the lurch. Not a thing to boast about, perhaps! But it would cut short this war, and they were fed up with it!

I am not exaggerating. They descended to these depths of ignominy. They were more at ease with De Valpic who slept with them, and he reported similar conversations. It did not do to attach too much importance to it. There was probably a good deal of "side" about it. They were so jealous of us. Or perhaps they thought it fine to pose, on their side, as people who were not to be humbugged, or again it might be simply the inconsequence of men who did not quite realise the situation, or the meaning of their words. Each of them egged the others on.

And to think—De Valpic inclined to the idea—that they were without doubt excellent Frenchmen, who, when it came to getting killed, would do the thing in style!

In any case nothing exasperated Guillaumin like their attitude. He announced his intention of going to the C.O. to get him to put an end to the scandal, at least twenty times. We restrained him, being opposed to all tale-telling. We endeavoured to prove to him that their wild talk had no effect. Playoust had had the reputation of being a wag ever since the beginning. None of the men would take his nonsense seriously.

Guillaumin did not give in:

"You'll see!" he said. "You don't realise that all that eats away and undermines.... It is bound to show itself in time!"

It was true enough! What a difference there was in the morale of the two platoons.

In ours, for instance, nobody ever reported sick unless he was suffering tortures. They made it a point of personal pride. In theirs, on the contrary! One morning, Guillaumin, who was sergeant of the day, had put down eight men for medical parade. A mere trifle! He calmly undertook to cure them all by suggestion. His chief argument was that they would have to foot it for about five and a half miles, to reach the Medical Officer. Five of the men had their names scratched; the rest stuck to it. It happened to be one of Bouchut's bad days and he sent them all off with a flea in their ear.

And when we stormed Beauclair, what a tragic exhibition they gave of themselves. When we left the wood in extended order, ready to charge, we looked round for No. 1 platoon, which was to support us on our right. Not a sign of it to be seen. It made a cruel impression on us just as we were starting off with fixed bayonets. At last we saw Lieutenant Delafosse come out leading a handful of men, among them De Valpic and his half-section. Behind, a long way behind, was Humel. We charged and saw no more of them. In the uproar which followed upon the occupation of the village, the incident passed more or less unnoticed. But we learnt that the C.O. had rated Delafosse for it roundly. The latter, throwing off his reserve, frankly laid the blame on some of his N.C.O.'s who lacked go.... That was putting the case very mildly! De Valpic assured me that he had heard Descroix putting the drag on his men's eagerness. "Don't hurry lads! The first lot will be napoohed!"

Here again no penalties were inflicted; they would have been too terrible. The well-known sentence for every weakness in military law is: DEATH.

This leniency was perhaps to be blamed. Who can say what an ill-omened influence our comrades exercised during the days that followed? It was the most gloomy period of all. We abandoned first-rate positions without fighting. It was impossible to rely on any favourable information, however slight. Rumours circulated, and were added to, concerning our reverse in the North. The replenishment of munitions which had up till then been well-organised was failing. We were, as I have said, repeatedly in danger of being cut off, or of getting under fire from the pursuing batteries. Villages blazed behind us, or even on our flank—a palpable danger for our retreat. The ditches too were filled with soldiers, belonging chiefly to the regulars. Who could blame them for it? Boys of twenty, worn out by four weeks' overdriving, sleeping there, by the roadsides, for days and nights on end.

It was a bad example though. The temptation to copy them was so great. There were no more mounted police on the heels of the stragglers. Even they were fighting, so we were told.

That was how our numbers dwindled. We had realised the danger, and our efforts were combined in preventing any men from staying behind. We kept on urging them: "Come along now! Only a few miles more. You surely don't want to fall into the hands of the Huns!" And we laid to their charge abominable atrocities surpassed by reality.

At last we reached our goal. We lost only five men out of the platoon during that week, two of whom were ill, and two wounded. What leakage there was in No. 1 company! We got the exact figures from the quartermaster-sergeant, who had to draw up the numerical returns each evening. Breton stormed, excellent fellow that he was!

"Hang it all! Poilus are too precious to lose!"

One evening in Descroix's platoon only twenty-nine men were left, out of thirty-five the day before, and Breton cynically sneered: "Six more done a bunk!"

CHAPTER VI

THE POILUS

Yes, Guillaumin had been quite right! Ever since we had rejoined at F—— his one care had been the morale of the men! On that, indeed, depended the fate of the country, united with that of the present campaign. And this morale, in its turn, depended partly on us, in view of our responsibility.

A task which was quite new to me. I have said how, at our departure, I could not conceive myself taking an interest in these dolts. Yes! But had I not felt them quiver as they marched at my side through the horror of the fire? The praise surprised on their lips that evening had made my heart beat—reciprocal esteem—and I had dreamt of something more.

During the long parches I took steps to get into touch with them, to overcome their shyness, the remains of their distrust. I was not afraid of showing a few of them what was in my heart. One of these was Icard, the miller, a steady, quiet fellow, whose good sense had struck me on several occasions. Under the present circumstances, the footing we were usually on, I said, was not enough. Complete harmony of mind and heart between us all seemed to me necessary for our common safety.

"We're fond enough of you, already, sergeant!"

I smiled.

"Fonder than you were at the beginning?"

"Yes, then we weren't exactly struck on you."

I think he was speaking at his comrades. Their instinct must have made them realise my friendly intentions. They quickly became more familiar and expansive. The last barrier had fallen.

I again appreciated Guillaumin's perspicuity. According to him these people dreaded betraying whatever tenderness and delicacy was aroused in them, by putting it into words. They were shy of talking about themselves, and expanded more willingly on a thousand and one abstract subjects. I had resigned myself to listening to an endless flow of words and pointless tales. They were flattered by my attention, and I was surprised to find them ten times less childish and narrow in their talk than many drawing-room conversationalists. It was the taste, innate in the French, for discussion and reasoning. Penetration and logic are ordinary qualities in them. Icard laid before me his views on the questions which impassioned him: agricultural economy, modern implements, the introduction of new crops, the causes and consequences of the population of the country districts, the remedies to be applied to it—all problems of vital importance to the nation. I who claimed to be so eclectic had to blush for myself because I had never considered them.

With him, and with some of the others, I took a delight in broaching the subject of socialistic doctrines. We were at one in our premises. Starting from that point I used to get them to talk, curious to see how much electioneering patter they had retained. More than mere words, in any case! Some of them were imbued with the party point of view. Each of them, for that matter, followed wherever his temperament led him. Prunelle, the jeweller, favoured the view that the state should interfere as little as possible with individual enterprise. Icard, for his part, was a staunch advocate of a sort of dominant collectivism: of the most perfect organisation of society, down to the very smallest details, by its chosen representatives. He said to me:

"Look at the Bosches. They have it in a sense. That's what constitutes their strength. It's sad to think the poor brutes have to work for the King of Prussia!"

I tried, too, to probe their inmost convictions. Were they really keen about this struggle which would determine the future of their race?

It did not take long to convince me of it. Their patriotism was not an abstract quality: it was more than that—a tradition, almost a physical need. A free France was just as vital to them as eating or breathing. I had the opportunity of admiring the moral unity accomplished by the work of centuries of history. The Prussians had done these Beaucerons a personal injury in violating the distant Eastern frontier. No peace for them before these brigands had been sent back to where they came from! The question of Alsace-Lorraine affected them in a lesser degree. It was a long way off—almost an accomplished fact! But nevertheless it must be won back, if only as a matter of personal pride, for "swank"!

Their memory of the other war had not been at all obliterated, as I should have expected it to be. Most of them had heard from their parents what vexations and devastations their province had had to endure in those bygone days. They had before their eyes the ravages of the present war. Hang it all! If only the Bosches did not advance too far! We mustn't be beaten again.

And then as Corporal Bouguet very neatly expressed it, considering how long we had been pestered by having to put in two or three years' military service, we should be dolts not to give them a good thrashing once and for all, for the sake of gaining a quiet life!

Their spirit in fact was marvellous. It must not be forgotten that we were still retreating! There was never a sign of real discouragement. It was sometimes upsetting, certainly, to leave superb positions without firing a single shot. But if it must be! If, as was still rumoured, it was for tactical reasons to lead the enemy into a trap! The fantastic exploits attributed to the artillery still continued to fire our imagination. Once or twice we met convoys of prisoners. Halloa! Things must be on the mend! And then, why attempt to give any explanation? Things went well, because they went well. Even in the first platoon there was never any serious trouble, the bad seed did not bear. There was nothing worse than a little slackness, rather less energy.

There was plenty of marching. Yes, but nothing dismal about it most of the time, especially when we thought we were getting near to the enemy when there would be a volley of witticisms:

"Halloa! Trichet!" Guillaumin exclaimed. "I suppose you think Prunelle's sight too good, and that's why you're sticking your gun into his eye?"

They laughed; the jeweller was short-sighted and wore glasses.

The men were generally allowed to sing. When I saw they were beginning to flag, I shouted:

"Strike up, Bouguet! Let's have one of your songs."

"Which shall it be, Sergeant?"

The corporal who was the songster of the platoon turned to me gaily. We were on excellent terms now.

Voices were raised demanding:

"The Ace of Diamonds!"

"The Miller's Wife!"

The corporal struck up.

"Miller, miller, she betrays you!..."

They exploded, nudging each other, and nodding in Icard's direction who was the first to appreciate the joke.

Or else it was the Crocodiles, doggerel brought into fashion by Lamalou, and which they never tired of:

A crocodile—on going off to war Said "Good-bye, Kids"—but not for evermore. His great tail—looking very elegant He started off—to fight the elephant!...

Then the refrain!

Everyone joined in the chorus.

Oh the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-cro-cro-, the cro-co-di-iles, All along the Nile! They have vanished, we'll say no more!

Childish songs, with a good swing to them. Fatigue was forgotten. Mile followed mile in the heat and dust. A refrain of that kind swept right along the column. While we drew breath, snatches of couplets reached us from the distance.

"Like nothin' on earth, those caterwaulers!" Judsi exclaimed.

Oh, that Judsi! What a type he was! The incarnation, the flower of the race. In each platoon of France's army, from end to end of the campaign, I bet there was a Judsi. A street-urchin, from Paris or elsewhere.... An apache yesterday, perhaps—it was quite possible—but ennobled to-day by circumstances!

He was an admirable source of good-humour. Made to cheer up the others. He chatted without ceasing for hours and hours at a time, accumulating eccentricities of mimicry and expression. Nothing pleased him so much as to see that we were listening. That was the time when we played up hardest. I swear that by the unexpectedness of his sallies and the inflections of his hoarse voice, he often attained a pitch of drollery which was quite priceless. His slightest absurdities gave rise to fits of hilarious gaiety. The men pressed round him, as if on parade. It even interfered with the marching order. What should he do but organise relays! Every quarter of an hour, he said to his neighbours:

"'Ook it lads! Send some other pals along now, an' we'll see if I can't raise a smile out of 'em."

They gave up their places without any sour looks.

"Ain't 'e a caution!"

"Fit to make yer split, the blighter!"

He was never in better form than when we were in the tightest places, when all the others were down in the dumps. On the "Beauclair" evening, when we had to retire, he was worth seeing as he went off shouldering his rifle, with a Uhlan's helmet, picked up in some house, in his hand, and the air of a gentleman who had just put an end to the war in the most brilliant style, and was on his way home where his little wife was waiting to welcome him with open arms! Or again on the next day.... A hail of shells, which was beginning, had just set fire to a little bit of a house. He asked the cook's permission to make the coffee, carried off the camp kettle, collected some brands from the beams, and boiled the water on them at the window. The shower of the "Black Marias" continued. It was a miracle that he was not killed. But his luck, our luck, held.

What endless queer characters there were! Lamalou, Bouguet, Gaudéreaux. We've seen them all at work—one might go on naming them indefinitely. And Bouillon!

He had come one morning to ask my advice as to how to send money orders.

I had taken it as a joke:

"Send them, my dear fellow? This is more the sort of time to receive them!"

"It's for Marie," he said, "who's stayed behind with the kid!"

"Your kid?"

"I don't know about that!"

He explained that he had lived with a girl, a rag-gatherer like himself. They had struck up acquaintance when plying their hooks, and made love across the dust-bins—and they had come to an understanding. So far, so good. But then at the end of eight months—eight months exactly, that was the annoying part!—Marie had gone to Boucicaut for the birth of her child, a little duck, as pretty as could be! The point was not so much to find out who its father was, as to rear the little brat! It used to be quite a paying job—but then the great Trafalgar had come, and Blimey! ever since then there hadn't been none too much to be scratched up out o' them dust-bins—so he thought that as he had a bit o' cash he'd better send some to Marie, if it weren't more'n ten francs.

I realised that he must be economising out of the little tips he got from me. I was much touched by his story, and promised to make inquiries.

The matter would depend on the baggage-master. He did not put in an appearance just then. Bouillon asked me about the matter again. I mentioned it casually to Henriot who sent me to the captain. He greeted me affably, and I laid the matter before him. He called me back. He had learnt, he said, of my brother's death, and he expressed his sympathy for me. He added that he had watched me at work. "I'm glad to see you've been making yourself useful."

As for the money order, he undertook to see that it got to its destination, solemnly took the girl's address, and handed me a receipt.

When he got it, Bouillon turned it over and over, and asked me what it meant.

The little sum had been doubled by me and doubled again by the captain.

His tanned face contracted; and tears glistened in the corners of his big eyes. He stammered in his effort to thank me.

"Oh! R-r-rooky!"

I gave him a smack on the shoulder, and told him—and how sincerely I meant it—that we owed him a hundred times more!

CHAPTER VII

SOCIALISM

Useful! I was making myself useful! The captain's words rang in my ears.

I remembered how I had wondered quite lately what use my life was, and who in the world would have suffered by it, or missed me if I had disappeared. Instead of which I filled a place well, to-day. My death would have been a loss. I certainly exaggerated the importance of my rôle, but the satisfaction each evening of having kept intact or added to the strength which was given to me, was so sweet to me.

It did me more credit, perhaps, than some of the others. I had always professed not only a lack of curiosity about all manual labour, but a disgust of it. It was the stupidity of a young intellectual inclined to consider everything which did not show off the superior play of thought as a vulgar task. Who would dream how far I carried this detachment? The farthest I ever got, towards the end of my term of service, was to do up the buckles of my pack,—Guillaumin always had to help me. I had begun to realise during the last few days what grandeur may lie in the fulfilment of humble duties. A leader of men, especially in the modest sphere in which I gravitated owing to my lowly rank, has no right to shirk any subjection. He does not get into touch with his subordinates, or inspire them with complete esteem and confidence, unless he succeeds in proving to them that even in the field of everyday tasks, he is cleverer, better informed, and more expert than they are. The complete man calmly considers all the difficulties which may arise, from the most trivial to the most serious, and being unworthy of none of them, considers none of them unworthy of him.

So I no longer avoided, but rather sought, occasions to expend myself. I followed Guillaumin's example, and drew on all I had read and remembered. To speak the truth, when I tried, inexperienced as I was, to put my ideas into practice, my advice was not very much to the point.

Bouillon doubled up with laughter when I told him to damp the case of his water-bottle, or again when we got to our quarters that rainy evening and I advised him to stuff his boots with dry straw.

"Go an' teach yer grandfather! Just take a look at yours, an' see if I 'aven't done it!"

The last of my poilus could have put me right on endless questions of a practical nature. Quite so! But I could be useful to them in other ways. Once when arms were being cleaned, Gaudéreaux had seen fit to take his repeating apparatus to pieces, and came to grief over putting it together again. He called me to his aid. It was a difficult problem. Guillaumin certainly offered me his help, but I refused it, anxious to find out how to do it myself. It took me a long time, but I succeeded at last, which was satisfactory.

There was a large field open to me. I had retained the knowledge I had acquired as an instructor of recruits. It was not a question of worrying the men with theories, but they willingly collected to have friendly chats, and ended by enjoying the séances, where one evening, after having explained the principles of orientation to them, I taught them how to recognise the Great Bear and the Polar Star. On other days we went into other matters: to do with the advance under fire, of the artillery and infantry (we knew all about that!), of the supply of ammunition and the commissariat; or of subjects vaster still—Germany's ambitions, and the causes of the present war. When we were marching we organised competitions in judging distances. We picked out a tree or a house, and then each one had to calculate how many steps he expected to take, and count them afterwards to see how far out he was. Lamalou proved to be extraordinarily gifted in this respect. He was never more than twenty yards out. We would find a way of making use of that.

After a few tentative ventures, I found my bent. I had always been interested in medicine. A handbook on hygiene, which De Valpic lent me, completed my sketchy equipment. The next thing to be done was to put it into practice. The soldiers suffered chiefly, as usual, from sore feet—a crop of blisters and sores. I preached cleanliness first, and methodical greasing. But the sore places, some of which were septic, must be cured. Most of the men seemed entirely ignorant of how to treat a blister. Guillaumin and I arranged a demonstration one evening with great success. Once having won their confidence, we treated them for various little ills—diluted tincture of iodine did wonders.

One great danger was the water, which caused a great deal of diarrhœa. It was not always possible to boil the contents of our water-bottles. I had some permanganate of potash; a few crystals placed in the water-buckets assured a relative sterilisation. Our platoon made it a point of honour to have as few men as possible at sick parade. We only had two in a week. Trichet, who sprained his ankle, wept with rage at leaving us.

My little cures were appreciated. Men came to ask my advice now, even from No. 1 platoon. I had some idea of massage and set up a surgery. The men appealed to me in doubtful cases. One evening, I remember, the party sent on ahead to choose the camp had picked some mushrooms on the way. Breton insisted on their waiting for me. I really was not very well up in the matter. However, I did not quite like the look of the valvular formation at the base, and ordered them to throw them away. They obeyed without protesting. I learnt shortly afterwards from De Valpic, that it had saved a good many lives.

How much joy I got out of my disinterested efforts! Not only that of useful labour accomplished. The incessant contact, our conversations, the services rendered mutually, made me fonder of each of my companions every day. I was getting into touch with the people again. I no longer considered, as I used to, that it would satisfy me to live in the bosom of a restricted caste of beings brought up in the same way as I had been. I suddenly once more became aware of the ascendency of certain doctrines.

Social morality had always seemed to be a poor morality for those on the right side of the barrier, as I was. Now I realised my mistake. There should be neither oppressors nor oppressed, neither dominators nor dominated,—alliance and not confusion of the different social classes. "Each for all and all for each," as the old saying is. Were we not all co-operating with the same heart in the same work? If between these soldiers and me there was a dissimilarity in education and disposition, if I, at their head, was exempt from the most thankless fatigues, did that prevent reciprocal collaboration and esteem, or stop any one being satisfied with their fate? No, no. Prunelle agreed; the chief thing was that each class should know the other, then it would not be long before they appreciated each other, and recognised each other as brothers, and not such very different brothers either!

This idea, in particular, clung to me. Disparities due to education and upbringing, to the style of life, are, to a certain extent, exterior. How little they count for in comparison with the tongue, the customs, and disposition which are shared in common by the sons of one nation and which draw them together. Between the people and the aristocracy the difference is simply that which exists between youth and ripe middle age. The people are like a young and lusty lad, who only asks to be allowed to grow! What were the common sense of an Icard, the animation of a Judsi, the self-denial of a Bouillon, if not the deep-rooted qualities of our soil and race? There is enjoyment in breathing them, when one also exhales them!

CHAPTER VIII

A TEMPTATION

How tired we were that evening. Really absolutely done. We had been marching for twenty-four hours, almost without a halt. We were wandering in the middle of Argonne in that part of the Chalade, and the Four de Paris which were to be mentioned so often in the communiqués later on. The worst of it was that we had nothing to eat, except the remains of some bread crumbling at the bottom of our haversacks. We regretted having wasted the biscuits with which we had been so liberally provided two days before.

There was a prolonged halt in the forest. At one time we caught sight of two motor-buses which cut across, following a transverse roadway. Our rations? We took it for granted and rejoined accordingly. But perhaps the conductors had not seen us. Several minutes went by. The commanding officer blew his whistle, and off we had to go again! Another march on an empty stomach!

A blast of recriminations blew from No. 1 platoon. They could put up with being knocked on the head, but at least give them something to eat. They were being cut down every day now. Yesterday there was no meat! Without rot, there was nothing more to be done but to "get down" to it. A snooze is as good as a meal. It would only mean that a few would be taken.

They went on all the same. There was not a murmur among our men. Judsi still tried to cheer up his companions, but they weren't in the mood for it. Bouguet struck up with a song, but they joined in the refrain only once. He couldn't sing on an empty stomach either. And the rain began, heavy rain which soaked us through to the skin in a very few minutes.

"Rotten luck!" Gaudéreaux jerked out.

We went on without a halt, through the downpour, against the wind. We were on a by-road which soon got spoilt and broken. We slithered through the slush. Gusts of wind beat against us, water was dripping down our backs, freezing the sweat on our skins. That lasted for another two hours. A dozen miles or so without a pause. No one protested, each step must be bringing us nearer to shelter. There was only one question we asked ourselves, in an agony of mind: Should we get anything to eat?

At last they stopped us, two companies of us, in front of a farm. The rest of the battalion went on. The buildings already sheltered some gunners—four batteries of them. I remember their greeting which was anything but cordial. Oh, we were the last straw! As if they weren't packed like sardines already! Dirty foot-sloggers too! (I have already mentioned the antagonism between the different troops which was exasperated at such times.)

Our quartermasters quarrelled. But the first comers blocked up the coach-houses, their officers backed them up, the commanding officer had quite rightly reserved the only bed for himself. We stood in the yard for a long time, haggard and numb with cold. We were finally penned in the stables—piggeries, in an indescribable state of filth, and reeking pestilentially. Someone went to get straw—a handful per man! We could have put up with everything if only we could have got a bite. But it was getting dark, and in this weather all hopes of the ration train hunting us out were dwindling. The gunners had hastened to lay hands on anything that the farm would produce in the way of eatables, bread, milk, eggs, a real raid. They finished swallowing these provisions under our very noses.

I can see us in that filthy stable. De Valpic had just lain down alongside the wall. He was worn out, and wanted to sleep, but the fits of coughing which shook him made him reopen his eyes. He was shivering. We all had faces mottled by exhaustion and starvation. Lamalou suddenly got up with an oath:

"Oh d——!"

There was a crack in the roof, from which drops were falling. A stream of water was soon trickling down.

Guillaumin came back. He had been to have a look at No. 1 platoon. There was schism in the Playoust "set." Hourcade and Descroix, it seemed, were still in possession of some "ruti" and a cheese. Descroix resigned himself to sharing it and favoured Playoust, but Hourcade turned a deaf ear. Little Humel would get nothing out of him—or the sergeant-major either. They neither of them demanded it, though they were both deadly white and worn out.

Guillaumin winked:

"If only we could find some way! I say, are you frightfully done up, to begin with?"

"Fit as a fiddle, I don't think! Why?"

"Look here."

He confided in me that he had interviewed the farmer's wife. There was not a village anywhere near, the nearest was nine miles away, and had been crammed with troops for the last week.

"Well?"

"But there was another farm much nearer, a rich one, quite hidden in the woods. Suppose we went to see?"

I raised some objections, for form's sake, but the adventure attracted me. A word to Bouillon. He at once wanted to join us. We told no one else; permission and success were equally uncertain. So we started off. It was getting dark. What a road it was! The mud was eighteen inches thick in places. Torrents of rain still, and the gloom was deepening. To begin with we forced ourselves to look where we were putting our feet, but we gave it up as a bad job. Squidge, splosh! We stoically followed in Guillaumin's tracks. We sank in half-way up to our knees, and came near to losing our balance or getting stuck.

When we had walked for three quarters of an hour, Guillaumin began to get worried. Half a mile the woman had told him.

We were lost? We thought of retracing our steps when he bumped against a gate in the dark.

"Ow! As if my nose wasn't thick enough without that!"

We began to make out the outlines of an obstruction. But everything seemed to be shut up. No light. We went to knock at the door. Not a sound. We knocked louder.

"Done!" I said.

"We'll soon see!"

Guillaumin raised his voice:

"Two petards of melinite to blow up your house!"

A few seconds passed. Then a window squeaked.

"Who's there?"

"France."

"What do you mean? France."

"France, that's quite enough."

"Wot d'you want?"

"Someone to open the door to us."

"We 'aven't got nothing."

"That's a fine story!"

"An wot abaht the Proosians?"

"Will you let us in, confound you!"

The man appeared to be frightened, and muttered: "'Arf a mo' till I gits into me breeches."

He came and undid the bolts.... A bent old peasant, carrying a candle in his hand.

"'Ello, on'y three of you! Might 'a bin fifty by the shindy you kicked up!"

He seemed to me to regret having given in so easily. We went into a low room.

"Well now," said Guillaumin, "What can you give us to eat?"

The old peasant looked us up and down. I could read in his face the mistrust and avarice of bad breeds.

"'Aven't I told you there's nothin'?"

Guillaumin shrugged his shoulders.

"What do you live on? Air?"

We certainly looked like marauders. I interfered to reassure the man.

"We'll pay you all right!"

Guillaumin whispered:

"Don't know so much about that."

I had my own idea. I opened my purse to show the silver and gold in it.

The old fellow considered me. He looked from my hands to my eyes where he tried to read my intentions.

"For you three?"

"For us, to begin with."

"Hm! Would an omelette do you?"

"With some ham?"

He would see.

We sat down at the table. The man went to call at an inside door.

"Louise!"

A young country girl appeared, with a hypo-critical expression and heavy features. She lacked real grace, but was built on a generous scale, her waist well-marked, and her bosom firm beneath the dress which she had popped on hurriedly.

"My eye!" murmured Bouillon.

The old man said a few words in patois and the girl knelt down in front of the grate and began to work a bellows. It was not long before some flames sprang from the dying embers. In a hand's turn she had laid the table for us. Five minutes later a frothy golden omelette was dished up for us.

We had never been so ravenous. We simply guzzled. We had taken off our great coats, which were stiff with rain. When his first pangs were assuaged, Guillaumin began to cheer up.

"A pretty good idea of mine, what?"

With a glance at the girl I made some joke under my breath, about the servant girl being, perhaps, the old man's mistress.

Bouillon was eating too gluttonously to take a part in the conversation, but he laughed continually for no reason at all, pouring down bumpers of some rather poor wine which the old man had brought us with many sour looks. His face was turning purple, his dog's eyes glistened. How I loved him, taking his share of our animal contentment.

The peasant seated at the end of the room had lit a pipe and was watching us out of the corner of his eye.

"It's stupid to pay!" repeated Guillaumin. "Let's give him an I O U."

His funds must have been coming to an end.

"Don't worry! This is my show!" I said.

In order to avoid any trouble, I had made up my mind to pay whatever the old fellow claimed.

Guillaumin ventured to suggest:

"I say we ought to take something back to De Valpic."

"And to our poilus!"

I called the old man, who got up slowly and came to us looking rather anxious but crafty too.

"And now what about something for our pals?"

"They ain't comin', are they?"

"That depends."

"Wot does it depend on?"

"Upon what you give us for them."

This seemed to upset him. He sniffed and stopped talking.

"When I say give," I corrected myself, "I mean sell."

"'Ow many of 'em is there?"

"About forty."

The peasant threw up his arms like a clockwork figure.

"Forty. Jokin', ain't you? Now if it 'ad a' bin five or six, p'raps we might 'a managed some'ow!"

Guillaumin rapped on the table, and assumed a threatening air, which was rendered even more grotesque and terrifying by his great nose.

"You'd better take care we don't bring them along! I've an idea they'd manage to find something!"

The old man's face hardened. I again intervened.

"I tell you we'll pay. Now tell me the price of a chicken."

"Ain't got none!"

"What, not in your cellar?"

"Ain't got none."

"Will you take ten francs apiece?"

"Ten francs?"

He rubbed his hands.

"That's talkin',' that is!"

Guillaumin exclaimed:

"Five francs, not a halfpenny more. It's pure robbery!"

I continued:

"I should want several!"

"How many?"

I looked at the others interrogatively.

"Eight or ten—a dozen if you've got them!"

"A dozen chickens at ten francs? That's a hundred and twenty francs?"

"Yes."

"I'll just have a look, but I won't promise nothing!" he said as he went off.

When he had gone out, without bothering about the girl who was leaning against the chimney-piece, and watching us slyly, Guillaumin slated me. Ten francs apiece. He never heard of such a thing. Was I crazy? A hundred and twenty francs! No. It couldn't be allowed. I should want the cash some day or other. I didn't realise.... The old chap was sickening. It would serve him right if we cleared him out of everything and left him an order payable at the end of the war. So that was settled? What?

But I shook my head, and stuck to it. I had spent a relatively infinitesimal sum up till now. The chance was too tempting!

The peasant reappeared. He brought the poultry back with him, tied by their legs. They were squalling hard and were certainly very fine birds. His forehead was wrinkled; he must be afraid we might give him the slip and be off with the booty. His face cleared when I laid the purse on the table. But when I pulled a hundred-franc note out of my pocket, the old fellow waved it aside, and pointed to the purse.

"None o' that now! You've got that amount in solid gold!"

"Take this note?" I retorted.

"Give me gold, gold!"

"Why on earth should I?"

I had not foreseen this pretext for cavilling when I had flattered myself on avoiding a scene. I refused to give in. The old chap kicked against the pricks. Paper-money? Wot good was that to any one nowadays, you wouldn't get a hunk of bread for it!

He obviously distrusted me. I was on the point of losing my temper. Guillaumin angrily dubbed the old man a robber and a blooming Bosche. The latter got annoyed and made as if to take back his poultry. Bouillon kept his eyes fixed on me, and was only waiting for a sign to hurl himself upon the old man.

For a fantastical instant I was tempted to let him have his way. I was enraged, and disgusted. More than that, I was suddenly seized with a longing to loot. It would be a wonderful opportunity. What risk should we run? None at all. It would simply be one more picturesque scene to add to our store of memories.

At that moment, the servant girl happened to cross the bottom of the room. Her dress fell into lines which suggested the rounded form beneath. Bouillon was looking at her too, and Guillaumin also. His big red nose was quivering. The blood rushed to my head, and desire took possession of me. We all three exchanged a look of feverish bestiality. Plunder the old man, violate the girl. Nothing could be easier—some strange madness urged us on—the beast in us was raising its head.

A vision of Jeannine passed through my mind, but it held no power to restrain me, for was it not purely a physical impulse? It did not count in my eyes. No one would ever know anything about it, I repeated to myself. Why not indulge this whim? It was a sinister moment. We had each taken a step towards the girl, whose face contracted.

CHAPTER IX

AT PEACE WITH MYSELF

And then, after all, something stopped me, something I had never experienced before. Was it prejudice? Or moral restraint? I had no time to examine my feelings. Was it self-respect? Yes, that, without doubt. No one would ever know anything about it, but I should know about it myself!

"Make up your mind!" I said to the man.

Had he an inkling of the danger he had been in? In any case he acquiesced without a word, and took the note, to which I added a louis.

I commandeered the rest of the bread, and three dozen eggs, which the girl was to boil till they were hard. She bustled about, but it took some time.

I paid for everything at three times its value, without turning a hair. The old man got a second louis, and to show his satisfaction, threw in a packet of salt!

I will not dwell upon our return journey. Bouillon had hung a cord round his neck with the poultry dangling at each end of it, in two bunches. They struggled and made a deafening din and twice over almost tripped him up. He gravely warned them:

"If you do that a third time, I shall lose my temper!"

Thirty yards farther on, he stopped.

"Got a pin?"

I handed him one without understanding why he wanted it.

He turned away. I became aware of a wild flapping, and then a faint rattle. "Next please!"

"I'll learn 'em not to be so bloomin' fond o' flies!"

He pricked them behind the head, one after the other, sighing.

"If only they was some o' them Bosches!"

When he entered the stable in front of us half an hour later, with the chaplet of chickens round his neck, the men were stupefied. Then an uproar arose.

"Oh! the cannibal!" cried Judsi.

"Good biz; grub at last!"

The men who were asleep had to be shaken and roused up. Their faces broke into broad smiles, their eyes lit up. Things went very quickly when once they were all up. Some of them had already been told off to pluck, to light fires, and do the roasting. Everyone hurried into the yard. Guillaumin and I slipped down beside De Valpic and told him all about our pranks. Guillaumin gaily gave him an account of the longing which had seized us, to despoil the old man, and violate the girl. It was a tremendous joy to have a conscience clear enough to be able to joke about it. De Valpic smiled in response. One felt how his whole being was yearning for the nourishment of which he had been deprived for nearly forty-eight hours.

We went to supervise the cooking. In the twinkling of an eye the men had built up piles of branches, and succeeded in lighting them, though the yard was soaking. The chickens had been plucked and dressed and were roasting fast, threaded on to bayonets which willing volunteers were turning conscientiously under Gaufrèteau's direction. By his orders, too, bowls were put under them to catch the fat dripping from them. In half an hour's time, he pronounced the birds cooked to a turn. We presided over the division. Nothing was to go out of the platoon!

The battalion sergeant-major came and hung about.

"Halloa. Some looting been going on!"

"No," said Bouillon, "the sergeant paid, and a good price too."

Ravelli stood in the mud near by, and sniffed the good smell. But a remnant of dignity forbade him to beg. We ended by taking pity on him, and offering him a fine fleshy bone, which he set to work to gnaw like a dog.

I was tormented for quite a long time—poor wretches that we are—by the paltry fear that the men might not realise to the full to whom they owed the windfall. They had quite cheered up, and I saw them grouped round the fires which still flickered, and lit up their delighted faces, chewing the remains of their bones and munching their eggs. Perhaps they imagined that the company's mess-balance had paid for the feast. In any case their gratitude to my companions was just as great as it was to me. I should have liked to monopolise it!

Then I shook off this paltry thought. What was all this about benefactors and debtors. A lot there was to be proud about, in having paid, when I had the money to pay with. One felt that the good fellows would every one of them be capable of a similar action, rather than surprised at it!

Candour, simplicity of soul. Another effort. I was pulling myself up to it.

Guillaumin and I had reserved one whole chicken for ourselves. We took the best half of it to De Valpic. Alas! his appetite failed after the first mouthfuls, and he had great difficulty in getting through it.

We had decided to offer the captain a wing. Guillaumin, who had undertaken to be the ambassador, soon came back. Ribet had refused it—oh, as nicely as possible assuring Guillaumin that he needed nothing. If we had a portion over, let it be for one of his men, who had their packs to carry!

Henriot must have got wind of this reply, for his was identical. The third one, Delafosse, we knew nothing about him; nobody thought about him. But Breton, when he was invited, did not turn up his nose at it, and came to revive himself by us. He congratulated us:

"These bachelors knew how to look after themselves—and no mistake!"

And what about the Playoust set. De Valpic having timidly suggested that we might—Guillaumin exploded:

"Never! Low-down cads like that! Why they'd let us starve without turning a hair."

I backed him up, and De Valpic said no more.

We three each put part of the remains on one side. It was rather shocking, I admitted to myself, to be thinking of our future hunger, when comrades at hand were suffering the pangs of present hunger.

But after all! I had done enough for others to last me for one day!

I had gone out into the yard again. It was almost deserted now, but I came across Humel. He pretended not to see me. His cap, which was cocked over one ear, gave him a cheeky look, but I caught sight of his haggard face and sunken cheeks by the light of one of the bonfires which was still smouldering. I turned round:

"I say, Humel!"

He stopped, and aggressively snapped:

"Well? What do you want?"

"You've had nothing, have you?"

"Had nothing ... what do you mean?"

"To get your teeth into!"

He hesitated:

"A lot you care!"

I went up to him, and put my hand on his shoulder:

"Like a bit of chicken?"

He made a movement as if to free himself, and then thought better of it, and said more gently:

"Have you got some left?"

"Yes, and a hard-boiled egg. Wait a bit!"

I went back into the piggery, and very stealthily—I did not want Guillaumin to see me—took out my mess-tin, which contained my provisions for the next day, then I rejoined Humel.

"Here you are."

We went and sat down in the shade on the curb of the well.

"You can use my mess-tin."

The poor boy began to eat hurriedly, and in silence. I told him, in a joking tone, the story of our expedition; and meanwhile stealthily examined his thin profile. He was a mere boy. A younger brother, this lad too, younger not only in years.... He was thirsty. I pulled up a bucket of water for him and we drank out of the same mug.

Then making a violent effort to get over what I think was timidity he said to me:

"Thanks very much."

I replied:

"Look here, old chap, don't you think we ought all to be pals?"

As he nodded in agreement, I ventured on to more ticklish ground. With all sorts of precautions, and wordy extenuations, I let him see how necessary it was, in the present circumstances, not to let the men's morale be shaken. It was for us in particular, who mixed with the troops to preach it to them, and to practise what we preached. There were so many shining reasons to hope. Complaints were so harmful.

It was a dangerous subject, I repeat. Humel was already chafing under my remarks and beginning to protest—(Where is the man who will submit to being taught his business?)—I went off at a tangent, just in time, and roundly abused Playoust and Descroix—Humel I affected to accept, to consider that as far as he was able to, he tried to react against a troublesome state of mind; I considered him the only N.C.O. who counted in No. 1 platoon, as De Valpic was too ill but I hoped that he would redouble his efforts!

The most transparent ruses were successful. Humel gave up rebelling. I do not know whether he flattered himself that he was like the portrait I drew of him, but he nodded approvingly. When you catch people doing wrong they are so grateful to you when you do not humiliate them.

We shook hands heartily when we separated. I kept his youthful fist in mine for a minute:

"Au revoir, my lad!"

"See you to-morrow!"

One more on our side, perhaps!

I went to lie down on our dung-heap. My companions were already asleep. I looked affectionately at Bouillon and Guillaumin for a moment—then I scribbled a few lines to Jeannine, and lay down at peace with myself.

BOOK VIII

September 2nd-7th

CHAPTER X

NEWS AT LAST!

The next day reinforcements arrived from our depôt. There were forty men for the company, one of whom was an N.C.O. called Langlois—seven men for the section.

The poor wretches were very much depressed. They had been detrained at Bar-le-Duc, and sent off to find us, in charge of a subaltern. They had been wandering about for three days, with little or no food. They were worn out when they joined us. Their feet were bleeding, and in their eyes was the reflection of horrible visions. Oh, those fields of corpses! And the smell! Several of them were sick once more at the mere recollection of it. Or again, in other places—those bodies buried in haste—the arms and feet sticking out of the ground! And then, on the second evening they had suddenly found themselves in the firing line. Bullets whizzed past their ears—Zzp, Zzp—and shells surrounded them. Several of their men had already been killed.

It must be added that these men left F—— five days before under a gloomy impression. News had just got through of our regiment of regulars who since the very beginning had been fighting a few miles away from us, though we had never come across them. And what news it was! Leaving Longuyon on the morning of the 21st, engaged that evening at Ethes, and thrown back on Tellencourt, they had been, so to speak, volatilised, during those two days. Their losses had been enormous. One battalion had been wiped out and another was missing—the only hope was that the whole of it might have been taken prisoners—the third had been saved by the self-possession of a company commander.

When one thought of the recruiting, to a great extent local—The regulars! All the young harvest! The flower of the country! A great many of our poilus had a younger brother, sometimes two or three, among these troops which were said to be exterminated. They were to be seen with anxious eyes, and quivering nostrils, hazarding some name or other, in an agony of suspense. Details were generally lacking, but a trenchant reply would sometimes come:

"Killed, killed!"

"Killed?"

"Exactly."

What a blow it was. Some of them staggered, but most of them bowed their heads and said nothing. Then seized with compassion, I would go up to them.

"Poor old chap!" I soothed them with a vague hope—how many of the missing would turn up again?

What I was more anxious about than anything else was, as may be imagined, the general situation. What was happening? I feverishly questioned Langlois.

He was a school-master too, but from Paris. Playoust's set had immediately tried to get hold of him, but he made it quite clear that he intended to remain neutral, on good terms with us. He had an interesting head. He was sunburnt, and had intensely blue eyes, a big nose with a narrow bridge, and a determined chin. Besides that, he was slim and muscular, and had a graceful carriage. There was a look of a musketeer or condottiere about him—a look which was deceptive for that matter, as I soon realised. He was a good sort, but nothing beyond that. His intelligence was limited.

During his weeks at the depôt everything seemed to have rolled off him, like water off a duck's back, without making the faintest impression. He was eager for news, no doubt, but he was far from attaching to it the tragic and capital importance which clothed the least occurrence in this hour of our history.

It was disappointing and exasperating to me. I would have given a lot to meet Fortin and have a talk with him. We had just heard that he had become a humble private again, and was with the reinforcement detachment.

However, I set about extracting all the news from Langlois, bit by bit, and finished by attaining my end.

To begin with, the period of optimism had continued. The enemy had been intercepted on the Meuse, and at Liège, Namur, and Dinant. Our offensive was developing at Mulhouse and towards Morhange. That had gone on until Friday, the 21st. That day's communiqué still gave a favourable picture of the situation. There were two shadows on it, however: the day was described as having been "less fortunate" in Lorraine, and the occupation of Brussels. The next day, there was nothing very new. A huge battle was going on. The guns were talking.

Complete silence for two days. On the third—it was Tuesday—the communiqué announced, in terms very flattering to our troops, that the attack had had no decisive results and that we had fallen back on our covering positions. The casualties were heavy on both sides. One paper claimed to see a second Valmy in the engagement.

But since then things had been going from bad to worse! To how great an extent? I pressed Langlois, and implored him to try and recall the smallest details—the text even of the bulletins. We were holding out? Apparently. Towards Nancy our luck seemed to be re-establishing itself. In the North? Oh. Langlois admitted that he really knew nothing about the North. I pretended to be as calm as possible in order to encourage him. Come along! The daily reports? What did they point to? They were perplexing—"The English have lost a little ground on our extreme left...." "We have had to bring our line slightly farther back...." What else? Ever since the day following "Charleroi" they had talked of German patrol parties venturing right up to near Douai and Valenciennes. A note which had an official twang about it had appeared on this subject. There was no cause for alarm! Merely isolated instances! That was all very well! But the same day we read in the socialistic manifesto that "Our richest and most cultivated regions are invaded."

"And what about the Russians?" I asked. "Haven't they come in yet?"

"Yes—things are going all right down there apparently."

There were no details, of course.

The detachment had left F——, Langlois continued, at midday on the 29th,—the Paris dailies had just arrived.

This time there was a communiqué which was undeniably odd. Even he had been startled. He quoted the exact text: "The situation on our front, from the Somme to the Vosges, is exactly the same to-day as it was yesterday."

From the Somme to the Vosges! It was my turn to get a shock. What! Then the Huns were at Amiens! Yes, everything went to prove it. Even nearer perhaps? They had heard a rumour on their train journey, of sanguinary engagements at Bapaume and at Peronne. Other reports were circulating. Soisson and St. Quentin were said to have been cut off, the Compiègne forest on fire.

I would not believe it all. I clung to the communiqué of the 27th. But in any case it was a terrible awakening. Even Guillaumin, who joined us, was not incredulous, for once. An orderly had just confirmed the news of the investment of La Fère. We put this fortress down as being about half-way between the frontier and Paris. Was the capital in danger? Not yet, after all! We pictured a huge force barring the way to the intrenched camp.

What worried me most was public opinion which, with us, is so nervous and impressionable. There was good reason to be calm about the morale of the army. But the departments in the background. We were given a gloomy reflection of the spirit reigning there now....

And the government especially? I had a vague dread of some faltering, some lack of real energy in this coterie of middle-aged bourgeois, who had grown up amid the dejection which had followed the defeat, and had been softened by forty years of enjoyable egoism. Would they hold out? What did we know of it? We had got no more letters since the game had been played and lost in the North.

Certain facts which I learnt from Langlois were not calculated to reassure me. The cabinet had been modified! Socialists in the Ministry. If it should mean the road to some humiliating pact? There was still a fear of civil war, in which France would drown herself in a fratricidal struggle or, worse than all else, fling herself into the arms of the infamous wretch who would speak of peace!

I kept my anxiety to myself in my continuous endeavour not to shake any one's courage. I watched my poilus with delight as they exerted themselves to cheer up the new-comers. The Judsis and Lamalous laughed at their glum looks.

"Like to know wot they'd say, if they'd seen any real fightin'!..."

They pulled their legs, inventing fantastic feats of prowess by the regiment, or the company. The taking of "Beauclair" for instance! Judsi often returned to the subject of that exploit. They had found more burnt and spitted Bosches in there than you'd believe possible. A carpet, no a pile, of them rising right up to the first storey. Maddening for the ground-floor people of whom there was not a sign to be seen.

The audience was greatly tickled.

"Now you'll do. W'en a man knows 'ow to laugh, 'e'll make a soldier!"

Thereupon, news arrived. We had been attached to the 4th Corps again, and were to be entrained. What for? Paris. We were to form a part of the troops constituting the mobile defence.

There was general rejoicing. Paris! A certain number of the men came from the city or the suburbs, and even for the others the magic syllables evoked endless delights. What ho! for the picture palaces and the pretty girls, in their first free hour....

It opened up a perspective of repose for everyone, after so much toil.

CHAPTER XI

THE CATHEDRAL

The notice had reached us at seven o'clock in the morning. At five o'clock in the afternoon we arrived at St. Menehould, of which we saw nothing but the station. At six we were in the train.

Just as it was getting under way—I was looking through the ventilator—there was a sudden panic on the platform. Employees and foremen began to run, flinging their arms up. What was it? There was a noise, I understood. A Taube was flying over the station. The men crowded to the doors. We had no time to distinguish anything. A tremendous explosion flung us on top of each other, and a certain number fell on to the floor of the waggon.

A bomb had just fallen thirty yards from us. There were instant yells and a torrent of smoke. A waggon was pulverised on one of the adjacent lines. Three men killed, and six wounded we heard. And two hours' delay for us.

So we did not get away till night. The beginning of our misfortunes! We had not been going twenty minutes, when we pulled up with a violent jerk. An avalanche of rifles and packs—contusions and confusion.

The lantern was shivered, and went out. A chorus of imprecations exploded in the darkness. We struck some matches. No serious damage done. Prunelle's face was bleeding, and his glasses were broken. He had a splinter of glass at the edge of his eyelashes. He was lucky. He might have lost an eye.

And outside? We leant out. Shadows were swarming on the ballast, some limping, others frightened. Bouchut had been sent for and came up in a fury shouting at the top of his voice. An orderly was standing in front of each waggon inquiring in a surly voice:

"Any casualties here?"

A commonplace stoppage. The tail carriages had turned over, and the last one which contained among other things the officers' equipments was reduced to atoms, to the great glee of the men.

"We'll lend 'em our tooth-brushes!" said Judsi.

They were not so delighted about it, when they heard that some more men had been killed there, four or five apparently, including Sépot, the chief laboratory man, a good sort, whom everybody loved.

"If this sorter thing goes on," Lamalou said, "there won't be many of us by the time we gets to Paris!"

The stoppage was prolonged. I got out and walked up and down for a little while. The sky was overcast, and there was no moon. I got back. Our train hooted dismally in the darkness, like a ship in distress.

I fell asleep, and we started off again, and went bumping drowsily on our way.

We woke up at dawn to find we had halted again, and were not to go on for an hour at least. The cooks were getting coffee ready. There was an autumnal feeling in the air. It was bitterly cold, and we stamped our feet. It was a characteristic landscape, with its billows of bald hillocks studded with little woods of conventional shapes.... The surroundings of the Camp de Châlons.

De Valpic was shivering and stayed in his waggon. Guillaumin said to me below his breath:

"I wonder—if I'm dreaming?"

"Why?"

"I thought I heard...."

"Well?"

"Firing!"

I listened attentively. No, there was nothing. I chaffed him on his hallucinations! Was he profiting by Ravelli's teaching? Firing indeed! An excellent joke! We had left the enemy more than a hundred and thirty miles behind.

Guillaumin did not persist. The time which had been fixed passed by. Then we were told that we should be there for another two hours.

I left the railway lines and went off into the open fields.

I noticed that our convoy was not the only one which had been stopped there. The black line stretched away as far as eye could see, bordered with a swarm of uniforms, and smoking bonfires. The line was badly blocked.

As I had plenty of time before me, the idea occurred to me of climbing the nearest hill. I followed a chalky path.

I had imagined that this crest was quite near by, and that I should reach it without any difficulty. I only breasted it after twenty minutes of breathless climbing.

A violent north wind lashed me, up there, and dried my perspiration. A vast panorama lay before me: a series of desolate-looking humps covered the ground, some of them bristling with vine poles, supporting the good Champagne grapes. I took my bearings. Just to the south, I made out the blue ridge of the more important hills, a sort of promontory where I thought an army might have got a good hold. I turned towards the west, a lifeless, colourless stretch of country. The railway line with its telegraph posts disappeared between two low hillocks on that side.

But I thought I could make out the haze and dust rising from a big town. Yes—when I looked harder—there was a purple phantom, the silhouette of a building, hardly discernible in the mist, which little by little grew more distinct—those towers superb in their grace and strength. In my wonder, I named it aloud—Rheims Cathedral.

By some strange chance I had forgotten that this Presence was so near at hand, though on getting into the train that day before, I had vaguely hoped that fate might lead us to it.

My veneration for this most sacred of all shrines dated from my earliest childhood when I had admired a picture of it reproduced in my prayer-book. Abbé Ygonel, my first teacher, had sung the praises of its magnificent harmony in striking terms. I had made of this erection the centre round which gravitated the whole of our history, enchanting as a legend.

I had only once been to see it. I had gone to Rheims for a football match, and before and after the game had left my comrades, and had gone all alone to reflect on the faith which reared the poem of this portal and these towers.

I unconsciously picked up the thread of that meditation again now. The coronation cathedral! It was there that all the kings whose names were landmarks in our annals, from Philippe-Auguste to Louis XVI. had come, with bowed heads, to receive at the hands of holy men the crown and the unction which made them more than men.

Detached from the present, I once more began to rejoice at this glorious realisation—when my meditation was disturbed by an almost imperceptible wave of sound—a distant echo. A storm beginning or ending? I considered the sky. It was clear and serene. Again there was a stifled rumble. This time I ceased to entertain any doubts. Guillaumin's ears had not played him false. My heart contracted at the first echoes of firing to awaken Champagne. I listened. I wanted to find out ... the pale horizon guarded its secret. I looked again. The bewildering part of it was that this rumbling seemed to come not from the borders of Argonne, where we had left our trail only yesterday, but from the opposite direction, stretching westwards towards Paris. Was the enemy there? Could it be possible? Already barring this route!

I had mechanically turned my eyes towards the cathedral again. What was I seeking? I believe it was help and comfort, from thee, the representative city,—vision worthy of exalting us.

Why, on the contrary, did this unbounding sadness worm its way into my heart?

What did this proud edifice declare? The power of Royalty, the glory of the Catholicism.... The soul of ancient France, which was incarnate in these living stones, had crumbled more quickly in the blast of modern thought, than they had in the wear and tear of time. What bound us, the sons of the twentieth century, to these traditions for which our ancestors had lived, and piously lavished themselves in such attestations?

Other thoughts obsessed me. Rheims, the heart of the country. This city, which held such an illustrious place in our annals, to-day was threatened, almost lost. How many of our ancient possessions had lately fallen into the hands of the enemy? In 1871, Strassburg and Metz. This time the downfall was more rapid—Flanders and Artois, Picardy, so many treasures and marvels, our patrimony of art and land. The impious tide was advancing. And what fate awaited these august arches, under which our princes had prostrated themselves, the nave which had echoed to the sublime chants of our religion? Would they become a Lutheran church which we should be allowed to look over for the consideration of a few pfennigs? Or was there a worse fate in store for them? I dared not put it into words ... the crushing presentiment of ravage and crime, fire and sword, devastating this miracle of human hands. I only know that filling my consciousness with the gorgeous picture I secretly bid it farewell.

What was to be done? Resist? No doubt. But so many legions had burst from the Germanic reservoirs. What if it was the barbarians' turn to spread across this corner of the world? An unwavering law—why not? France would perhaps die away—the most civilised nation, ruined by her intelligence, by her scepticism revolting against that which had formed her grandeur. I glanced at the string of stationary trains below. Should we ever get any farther? Were we not more likely to fight where we were? An ironical fate to perish in sight of these towers, symbols of our whilom virtue, of our repudiated creed!

It must be noticed that I was still convinced that we should all do our utmost duty. We should merit the respect of those who would build on our ruins. I closed my eyes. I almost wished that the hour of our noble passing would strike as soon as possible. It seemed to me that, wounded to the death, I might have closed my eyes, unregretfully, on my race and on myself since we had achieved our destiny.

And yet compunction pursued me among these gloomy speculations. Where was my dauntlessness of yesterday? Why did I suddenly flinch? I sought for the torches which lit up my path. A dazzling beacon stood forth: My love! Jeannine—Jeannine! I still adored her, but what fears interposed themselves, chilling my hope. I counted the days, how many was it, five or six, since I had heard from her. Our one chance of happiness was exposed to so many risks.

What was happening over there? If there were strikes and riots, and the attendant train of outrages? A fair-haired victim...! Would not our future fall to pieces with the future of our nation? Or again—other thoughts assailed me. The turgid surge of uncertainty. Had I deceived myself? Had I not relied too much on a few friendly letters? Had the exalted tone of my missives suddenly alarmed her?

And then I took pity on myself. So that was the only cause of my depression. The delay in our correspondence. But was there any one round me, never mind who it was, more favoured than I? I tried in vain to bring about a reaction.

I went back into the valley. Guillaumin was watching for me and greeted me by asking:

"Well, are you convinced now?"

Yes, it certainly was firing. It could be heard quite distinctly. The men had recognised it, and seemed exhilarated by it.

Judsi announced:

"Boom! There now! We missed the band!"

Primitive souls, who did not know what anxiety was.

CHAPTER XII

PESSIMISM

Towards midday we set off again, but to our surprise, went slowly backwards, accompanied by the shrill blasts of whistles. The line beyond Rheims must obviously be cut, or just about to be cut. Where were they taking us to?

There was a new halt, near a branch line, which lasted for an interminable time. Then we laboriously got under way again. The evening was already falling.

How long did that journey last? Two nights and two days? Or three? It was enough to make one lose all idea of time.

I doubt whether, after leaving Châlons our speed could have exceeded eight miles an hour. Every five minutes we pulled up, sometimes only for a few seconds, sometimes for two or three hours. To begin with the men in command of each truck had instructions to see that no one got out. But as the comedy continued to repeat itself, the orders were soon relaxed. It was better outside than in.

At Châlons and at Troyes we found cold meals prepared for us. In between times the men spread over the neighbouring fields in search of carrots, beans, and potatoes, and generally reaped a fruitful harvest. They hollowed out ovens along the line, but the train often started off just as the camp-kettles had been put on to the fire. The first time or two, panic ensued, the men seized the material, burning their fingers, and crammed their mouths with half-cooked vegetables.

But they gradually got to take things more calmly. If the train wanted to do a bolt, let it, by all means! They'd catch it up all right. Or if not they would jump on to the next one that came along, that was all! There was a procession of convoys on our down line.

The most hilarious merriment spread from one end of the chain to the other. It was occasionally chilled by meeting an ambulance train carrying its terrible load of suffering. We were shunted and the other passed us. It was heart-rending, and unpleasant too, to have to stay in the wake of it, where there floated an unsavory smell. But the rest of the time—high jinks! The poilus had taken a fancy to this fantastic excursion. Peasants did a trade in eatables along the line. We bought eggs, cheese, jam, and black puddings and sausages from them—good cheer, in fact. And wine most of all. There was a great run on some frothy wine of an inferior quality sold at two francs a bottle. The men clubbed together and there were great drinking bouts which ended in some of them being distinctly "binged."

It was no use trying to interfere. The N.C. O's were giving way everywhere. Some of them even joined in. Among our lot I at least succeeded in putting into force this rule: that whoever felt squeamish, should not get back into the truck, where he would make everyone uncomfortable. It was strictly observed: some of these excellent fellows meekly dragged their wish to vomit along the ballast for a livelong day.

I was far from partaking in this atmosphere of gaiety, and was, on the contrary, bored and depressed. I did not get out half-a-dozen times, but stayed in our truck in almost complete isolation. Chance had separated me from Guillaumin on this journey, and thrown me with Langlois, who was not a very inspiring companion.

De Valpic was feeling the effects of his recent fatigue, and lay down the whole time. Humel twice came to pay me a short visit, unknown to the rest of the "set." Henriot was nowhere to be seen.

I have said that we stopped for a moment at Troyes where we turned off on to the main line, Belfort-Paris. We soon saw the effect of it in the change of speed. Two of our gay spirits again took advantage of a halt, to rag in the fields. The train started off at full speed without whistling. We did not see them again until two days later.

We arrived at Pantin at night. The men's persistent gaiety made me singularly cross, and I was much relieved when the captain lost his temper and exacted silence. We detrained in pitch darkness. All the lamps in the station had been put out for fear of Taubes and Zeppelins.

I longed and feared to learn what turn things had taken. I questioned a foreman who confided in me:

"You're lucky, you're the last to arrive! To-morrow the system won't be working. It's already cut at Meaux."

They hurried us along the platform, weighed down like human live-stock. On leaving the station we turned into an unlighted avenue, and marched for half an hour or fifty minutes.

The men demanded a halt.

Everyone was so firmly convinced that we were being brought back to rest here. We would have given anything to lie down, if only on bad straw. Our backs were sore all over from those seventy-six hours in the train.

The streets were deserted. At long intervals there was a sentry, or patrol-party. We went on, half dozing. With my head nodding, I urged myself on to certain arguments, which were comparatively reassuring. Don't throw the helve after the hatchet. A besieged town is not a captured town. Paris, in 1870, had held out for more than four months. The defensive works in those days did not approach those of to-day.

Henriot was walking beside me. I unbared my thoughts to him. He retorted:

"Oh rot! They'll get in as easy as look at it!"

"Do you really know anything definite about it?" I asked, a little nonplussed.

"I know as much as everyone else! Nothing's ready. The forts in the west are not worth a pin. They won't hold out any more than those at Namur!"

He added:

"And then you know, when we no longer think of anything but defending ourselves...!"

There were two lanterns in the middle of the road, and forms coming and going. It was an intrenching party—some Zouaves digging a piece of trench, and a machine-gun was pointed there.

Judsi turned round.

"A bit beforehand, ain't they?"

Their zeal was rather overdone! That was the general impression. I, on the contrary, felt that it might come in useful no later than to-morrow.

I repeated to myself Henriot's half-finished remark, "When we no longer think of anything but defending ourselves...!" And I followed the thought to its conclusion. I remembered the teaching of my military education, a certain crude phrase in the regulations, "A passive defensive is doomed to certain defeat!"

Pray what were we doing but running to shut ourselves up in a camp? How many sad precedents there were for that? Metz, Port Arthur, Adrianople ... I recalled the changed attitude of those of my companions who were capable of reasoning. De Valpic, prostrate. Was it due only to weariness? Guillaumin was taciturn and reserved, and the officers silent. The captain? We had seen very little of him—once or twice gloomily gnawing his moustache. What baleful influence was in the air? I was suddenly suffocated by it.

Where were they taking us now? It was Prunelle who put us on the track. He recognised the country, it was in the neighbourhood of Neuilly-Plaisance. There was a tiny village there where he went every Saturday evening, and quite near by, a topping place for fishing. May I be hung if he did not begin to prate of perch and roach?

There was a halt at last. I took a turn. A shadow was silhouetted in front of me:

"Sergeant!"

"Who goes there?"

Oh, I recognised him....

"That you, Donnadieu?"

It was my corporal, the voluntary casualty of Mangiennes!

"I've come back, Sergeant," he said. "Sergeant...."

He stopped, choking....

"Did you tell the others?"

"Tell them what?"

"How I ... was wounded?"

"No." I replied coldly. "I told no one."

My glance mechanically sought his hand. He explained:

"Two fingers gone, that's all! I've asked them not to discharge me, as I can hold my rifle! I've been waiting for you here for two days...."

He began again:

"Sergeant, I was watching for you ... I wanted to see you before the others ... because ... because...."

He swallowed:

"If the thing had got about ... I should have put a bullet through my head!"

His tone was abrupt, and sincere. A man who would recover himself. Why could I not find a hearty word for him?

"Where were you looked after?"

"At the field hospital.... A dozen or so out of the company were there."

"Do you know what became of...?"

He read my thoughts....

"Sergeant Frémont?"

"Frémont, yes?"

"He died ... in two days. They couldn't move him."

I left him. Little Frémont dead! It seemed impossible, and yet I had foreseen it. The tragic destiny weighed on us all! Again I saw him, this comrade of my youth, seated on the bench in the garden, beside his love, with the clear eyes....

I went back to my companions. Guillaumin and De Valpic were together, and Humel not far away. I called him, and told them the sad news, in an under-tone.

"It's quite certain then?"

Humel fixed his eyes, in which I read anxiety and terror, on me. Poor boy! He, especially, needed a comforting word. I could not furnish it. We were all four silent.

Then De Valpic tried to dispel the gloom, by referring to some incident or other on the journey. He adopted a joking tone. But his strength failed him, his cough put an end to his story. And the order came to start again.

We met again during the next halt. No one had the heart to say a word. Each one of us felt capable of mastering his own distress, but if they all came to be fused and strengthened by each other, there would be nothing for it but to sob....

CHAPTER XIII

A CHANGE FOR THE BETTER

We were billeted in a school, a pleasant change after the wretched holes we had been given in Argonne. I slept until it was broad daylight.

When I awoke, our poilus had been up for a long time. Judsi was parting his hair, and talking of asking for leave to go and see his lady friend. I went on lying in my corner for quite a long time. I was haunted by the gloomy speculations which had attacked me the day before. I thought of you, Jeannine, and wondered if you were thinking of me....

De Valpic appeared at the door and glanced round the room. He caught sight of me and came up.

"Good morning, old chap!"

He sat down beside me.

"This Paris air does buck one up. I'm in the 'pink' this morning!"

He coughed.

"And what about you?"

"Not so dusty."

He continued:

"You did look cut up last night. Directly I got up, I said to myself, now it's my turn to go and cheer him up!"

I smiled.

"Awfully decent of you, but did I need it as much as all that?"

There was a moment's silence, while his warm gaze probed me. Then he put his hand on my shoulder:

"We aren't getting letters," he said, "but it doesn't mean that they have forgotten us, old man!"

He had accentuated his words, with the intuition of a generous heart. How cleverly he had seen through the almost unconscious yet ever-present motive of my bitterness. I hoped he would continue—but he did not force my reserve. Simply and quietly he began to open his heart to me again, as he had the other day. I learnt that his betrothed was named Anne-Marie, and he told me her family name too, an illustrious one, as I had supposed. The last card he had had from her had been sent from Laon, he said.... Yes, she was down there with a detachment of nurses.

De Valpic spoke slowly, in his expressive, caressing voice. He told me what strength and stoical tenacity of purpose he had drawn more than once, from the tender daily letter. Without this assistance he would have faltered and fallen at the beginning. He considered that now was the time, when he, like me, had been deprived of all news, for so long, to stand fast, to show himself worthy of her, to put forth all the strength which she had inculcated into him.

It was a confidence which seemed to prompt mine, or take it for granted, a new bond between us. All he told me of his fiancée, I could attribute to Jeannine. Valiant children, they were both alike in their attachment to us, in their task of inspiration. I too invoked a certain passage in one of the recent letters, buttoned up in my tunic, where courage and patience were preached to me, where I was implored never to despair of happiness. Stick to it, then, by way of homage, in proof of manly devotion. I fervently forbade myself to let despondency get a hold over me. Ah! If only I could have made enthusiasm my daily bread.

"I've just been writing," continued De Valpic. "Sent from here, perhaps it will arrive. Won't you imitate me?"

I asked him to excuse me for a moment while I scrawled a few lines. I told Jeannine that fate had deigned to answer my prayer, and bring me near to her.... Nothing more than a smiling testimony to our faith and hope.

On reading it over I laughed and said:

"Well, if she is not cheered up by that!"

"You know," he said, "that Paris is showing a most admirable spirit."

"Really? How can you judge of it?"

"Come along!"

He gave me a hand by which to pull myself up. We went out. In the street I was at once struck by all the windows decked with flags flapping in the wind, the serenity written on the faces of the people walking about, the tranquil hum. I had seen the city look like this during the mobilisation.

"Has there been—a victory?" I murmured.

"It will come all in good time!" De Valpic said gaily. "Don't be in such a hurry!"

Bells were beginning to ring.

"It's Sunday," he continued. "What luck to be here on a Sunday!"

We took a few steps. It was a clear, spring-like morning; a gentle breeze made the sunlit tree-tops quiver. A troop of little children ran up brandishing sticks and spades.

"Hurrah for the soldiers!" they cried.

They had the attractive, wide-awake faces common to Paris boys. They nudged each other.

"It's the 3rd ... just look!"

"My big bruvver's in the 302nd."

Some of them gazed into our eyes saying:

"'Ad a 'ard time, 'aven't yer, but we're sure to wop 'em, ain't we?"

"Wop 'em—rather!" De Valpic retorted joyously.

The passers-by smiled at us, or gave us a friendly wave of the hand. The City greeted us, not as her saviours—Paris did not admit that she was in any danger,—but simply as good children who had suffered for her sake.

The rare trams which were running, began to turn out numbers of Sunday excursionists. A great many had come with their families either on foot, or bicycling, to enjoy the air of their beloved suburb. Not one of them showed the least trace of terror. They were marvellously light-hearted. It was amusing to see the fathers pointing out the preparations for defence to their offspring, the trenches and barricades made of trees placed at intervals along the avenues, and supplying the explanations in a serious or amused tone of voice. The little brats enjoyed the unusual sight. Their eyes were often turned skywards, a Taube was the only thing wanting to make their joy complete.

De Valpic pressed my arm. He was triumphant.

"Well, what do you say to it?"

Two pretty young women, who were crossing the road, came up to us. They were attractive and distinguished-looking. They both had baskets on their arms, and we noticed their brassards. They gracefully offered us cigarettes, cakes, and packets of sweets tied up with ribbons. I helped myself discreetly. De Valpic would only accept a flower, which he stuck in his cap.

"And what about your comrades?"

We called Bouillon who was passing. He was still only half-clothed, as he had been washing at a fountain. At last he made up his mind to it and they made a great fuss over "the brave poilu."

Having stuffed him with dainties, they began to question him. Where did he come from? From Paris, really! And what quarter? Grenelle. One of them exclaimed that she lived in that part too. Bouillon was stammering in his embarrassment.

I took it upon myself to give them "Marie's" address. The young woman promised to go and see her, no later than to-morrow, and she would take something for the baby.

I think that they had recognised De Valpic and myself as belonging to their world. Just as they were about to go on their way, they turned round once more.

"Perhaps you have some letters to send?"

"Yes, indeed."

We gave them the missives.

"Good luck to you!"

They held out their hands to us, with a pretty gesture.

Directly they had gone, I said to De Valpic:

"What we ought to have done was to ask them for some papers!"