sunday, 23rd august.

this morning we started in the direction of belfort. about midnight the whole of humes was peacefully sleeping when the bugler sounded a prolonged call, repeated all over the village. in a twinkling we join our squads. it appears that the regiment at the front urgently needs reinforcements of five hundred men.

the complement—no longer contingent—has mustered in the dark. after the roll-call we are summoned to the office for the last time. distribution of rations and small loaves.

at six o'clock the five hundred are ready to start. our chief is a lieutenant of the reserve—a schoolmaster in civil life. each man has picked a few flowers on the roadside to fasten a bunch to his rifle. the whole depot is present. verrier and reymond give me a vigorous handshake. really the whole scene moves me, though for nothing in the world would i have it appear so.

"look out, there! number! form fours! right wheel! forward!"

the column begins to move, and we thunder[pg 29] forth the marseillaise with the utmost enthusiasm. i turn round to wave a last farewell to my friends.

they return the gesture and shout, "au revoir!"

at langres station we enter the train, which rumbles off in an easterly direction. i again have the luck to find myself in a second-class carriage. the same atmosphere and gaiety as when we left paris for the depot. almost all my companions have gone before their turn. they are convinced they will come back and see the end of the business. and they wish to be in at the victory. the heat is terrible.

perspiration trickles down faces already bronzed by a fortnight in the open air. there are ten in the compartment; all the same, at nightfall, we manage to drop off to sleep.

monday, 24th august.

daybreak. the road is blocked; we advance but slowly, stopping several times in the course of an hour. we almost run into a locomotive and three carriages that have been overturned, the result of a recent catastrophe.

during the night we have changed direction: instead of continuing towards the east, gerardmer and the schlucht, at laveline we were shunted on to the line of saint-dié—lunéville, across the vosges. in the distance to the right we hear the roar of the cannon.

raon-l'etape. all change! it is noon. to[pg 30] the east of the station is a semi-circle of mountains. in the direction of the donon the cannonade is incessant, though it no longer forms a dull rumble: each shot is distinct from the rest. of their own accord the men load their rifles. we fall back upon rambervillers.

it appears that things here are not progressing at all well. the 13th corps, the van of which had reached schirmeck, is now retreating before enormous forces. we see regiments file past: men and beasts look grimy and thin; there is a feverish look in their eyes, beneath the grey lids.

the artillery pass along so exhausted that they totter in their saddles; they have their ammunition-wagons behind them, but no guns.

jokingly one of our men calls after them, not thinking what he is saying—

"well, well! where are the cannon?"

then they give us black looks and shrug their shoulders. some one jerks his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the enemy. we insist no further.

the men of the 13th corps, who have been under fire for a fortnight without a break, see from our blue muffs, which still retain their colour, and from our comparative cleanliness, that we have just come on the scene. they call out to us—

"you new ones there have come at the right moment. you'll find plenty to do!"

an endless file of inhabitants fleeing before the invasion; they have heaped their goods and furniture on to great carts drawn by oxen, whilst[pg 31] they themselves follow behind, laden with baskets and bundles of all sorts.

for a few minutes a young woman walks along abreast of our section. she is carrying a little girl, whilst another hangs on to her dress. on a perambulator, which she pushes along, are piled up clothes and various odds and ends.

all these poor folk, seeing us proceeding in the direction of the west, know what it means: their homes abandoned, to be pillaged and burnt by the enemy.

women cry out to us—

"this is the direction you should be taking, not that."

and they point eastwards. they even add—

"are you running away?"

the road mounts and descends through woods of fir-trees. a lieutenant of dragoons is sleeping on the side of a copse, his arm linked in his horse's bridle. to the right is a dense mass of smoke, occasionally broken by red glares of light: baccarat is in flames. a pitiless sun beats down on all this misery and sadness. the cannon roars incessantly. a sound as of thunder is heard, doubtless coming from the fort of manonvillers. night falls, and the sky is lit up with flashes of light. an aeroplane darts past, quite close to the ground. without waiting for the word of command, the whole detachment fires at it.

rambervillers is now in sight. we halt on the road. prolonged discussion between the lieutenant and a staff officer.

[pg 32]

the lieutenant comes up to us—

"we are on the wrong track; all the same we shall lay in a store of provisions and spend the night in the barracks of rambervillers."

it is now quite dark. we wait in a barrack yard, until finally the lieutenant says that we may enter the buildings. meat is passed round. i have not the heart to cook and eat a piece. since the previous morning, twenty-four hours on the railway and thirty kilometres on foot, in the heat of the sun. however new and fresh we may be as troops, a little sleep is more than welcome.

each man busies himself in finding quilt and straw mattress. the cannon are silent. for supper i dip some bread in my wine. it tastes good.

tuesday, 25th august.

three in the morning. everybody is up and about. how i should have liked to sleep a few hours longer! in the yard, by candle-light, the lieutenant presides over a distribution of coffee, haricots and potatoes. our gamelles must be taken down, filled and replaced on our haversacks.

what is the direction we are to take? the east, in all probability. we halt at dawn by the side of a wood and make some coffee. fires are lit and the pots begin to boil. some of us make an attempt to roast a piece of raw meat at the end of a stick, when the order comes to start off once more. we swallow the burning liquid. the lieutenant informs us that the de[pg 33]tachment is to be linked on to the left of the 105th. the cannonade is intense. in a few moments we shall be within the line of fire. everybody is in the best humour imaginable.

now we are led along in a general movement, the purpose of which we naturally understand nothing; we have only to obey and keep our eyes open. though full of spirit, we are quite bewildered and dumbfounded. in the first place, we expected to link up with our regiment; it appears that this regiment is fifty kilometres away. then again, we are without officers: before leaving the depot, the detachment was divided into eight provisional sections of sixty men each. several of these sections are commanded by a corporal, or even—a still more serious matter—by two corporals; it is so in our own case.

we traverse a hilltop and look down into a valley. the sections advance at intervals of thirty paces, in columns of fours. so far everything has been as regular as at an ordinary drill. the lieutenant sends an order that we are to halt and lie down. good! it is fine, and the sun is beginning to make itself felt. soon the entire section is lying stretched on the ground.

in front, a hill behind which the battle is being fought. the panting of the mitrailleuses may be clearly distinguished, by reason of its regularity, from the intermittent rending and tearing of musketry discharges. suddenly a shell bursts, a distance of two hundred yards away. the cloud of black smoke rises and disperses almost im[pg 34]mediately. then come other shells at regular intervals. are we the enemy's target? no. his object is to reach a village on our right and a wood of fir-trees on our left; the black clouds appear in turn over a house in the village, near the church steeple, over the wood. suddenly, from the edge of the wood, four thunderous claps go off. shouts of joy, as the section exclaims—

"those are our 75's replying!"

they are speaking now in all directions. we are greatly excited, for every one is delighted at the spectacle of a real battle obtained so cheaply. no one is afraid. not a single heroic word is uttered; merely rapid interjections.

"ah! what a pity! there goes the steeple!"

and indeed, the steeple falls crashing to the ground as though it were no more substantial than a child's toy. it must surely have been made of cardboard to have crumpled up so quickly.

still lying at full length on the grass, i pick a couple of flowers and place them in my pocket-book as a souvenir. are we to spend the whole day basking in the sun?

the other sections rise and advance; we do the same. we make our way towards a wood over the hill opposite.

we skirmish along a road, beneath the firs. near a tree, a dragoon, his breast bare and feet firmly planted on the ground, is having his back examined by a major; on his shoulder-blade is a large gash, from which the blood is dripping[pg 35] as from a tap. on the ground, by the wounded man's side—this is the first wounded soldier i have seen—lie his helmet and his arms, his coat and shirt.

the roar of battle increases; it is as though invisible hands were beating away with huge sticks on a number of carpets. we think we recognize the enemy's mitrailleuses by their tacotacotac, which continues for several seconds; whereas ours stop, begin again, stop once more, in less mechanical fashion.

the roar of our 75's may be distinguished amid the deafening crash; they go off in fours, with a sharp, clear crack.

the lieutenant arrives. we ask him—

"where are the others?"

it is not his mission to tell us, but rather to send us over to a battery which is calling for infantry support.

the four cannon are close at hand, small, and with mouth pointing upwards. they have not been marked, fortunately for the gunners and for ourselves as well. the lieutenant is on the watch a few yards away, and we hear the words of command. the enemy is drawing nearer; a short time ago he was 2,400 yards away, then 2,000, and now he is within 1,800 yards.

soon the captain of the battery gives the order—

"bring up the limbers!"

the horses are a little to the rear, in a hollow of the meadow. the guns are now silent; they are fastened to the carriages. in a few minutes[pg 36] they have all left. it is ten o'clock. and what of ourselves?

an artilleryman passes along on horseback at a walking pace.

some one asks—

"why is the battery going away? are we beaten?"

he flings at us the mild though superior look of a horseman for a foot-soldier.

"the germans are firing at us from a distance of twelve kilometres with their 210's. it's right enough waging war, but not when the advantage is all on one side."

and off he goes. i look back and see him tossing his head.

a staff officer comes up at a gentle trot.

"what are you all doing here?" he asks.

"artillery supports, mon capitaine."

"don't you see that your artillery is gone? you had better do the same. we are falling back."

from the crest the section descends into a smiling valley, through which winds a stream. a hostile aeroplane flies right above us; it drops a fuse in the form of a smoking serpent.

ironical exclamations—

"what's that filth? just look at it!"

five minutes afterwards violent explosions are heard just overhead. the german artillery is peppering our retreat. why is no one either killed or wounded? i cannot tell. a shell bursts right in the middle of a group of hussars, who dis[pg 37]appear in the smoke. when it lifts, we see that both men and horses have been thrown to the ground, but they rise intact. then every one within a radius of three hundred yards laughs.

we cross the river one by one on a plank. a couple of stretcher-bearers carry off a light-infantryman all covered with blood; his face is livid, beneath the dust and perspiration. his head shakes loosely about on the stretcher, and his eyes wear a dull, indifferent expression.

a few splinters fall harmlessly around. assuredly the germans are firing too high. i hear the remark—

"their artillery is no good, and they aim no better than a peasant could do."

noon. an implacable sun in a sky of crude blue. a glorious summer, really!

the 75's begin again. their silence was somewhat disturbing.

we have been retiring for a couple of hours, and now we come to a halt. why is this? if the germans have beaten us, why do they not follow up their advantage? but then, in war a foot-soldier must resign himself to the fact that he may not know why he advances or withdraws. he sees only his immediate surroundings, nothing of any consequence.

the guns are silent. not a shot is heard. the order is given to pile arms. we proceed to a neighbouring stream to quench our thirst and refresh ourselves by dashing a few quarts of water over our heads. no shade anywhere to be seen;[pg 38] we shall have to lie down in the full glare of the sun. each couple shares a box of tinned meat, which is spread between pieces of bread. a refreshing drink is followed by a good smoke.

a hussar, galloping towards us, exclaims—

"castelnau is here. we shall soon have them caught as in a vice!"

"good!"

for some moments the lieutenant has been in conversation with a general. he now comes up and gives the order to pick up our arms. our turn has come at last.

the general approaches.

"you are fresh troops," he says, "and i rely on you to do your best to capture the positions we lost this morning. reinforcements are announced. what we have to do now is to gain time."

we ask for nothing more than to march forward. from time to time i catch the general's orders to the lieutenant: "cross that village ... pass the bridge ... reach the heights ... make sure that the wood on the right is not occupied by the enemy ... do not lose contact with the main body...."

we advance in fours. each section moves along in the same direction at intervals of a hundred yards. the lieutenant—the only officer for these five hundred men—marches at the head of my squadron.

on reaching the village mentioned, we find a peasant quietly leading three oxen to the watering-[pg 39]place. a little farther along two children, hand in hand, watch us file past. the houses are empty.

once again the open country. passing under an apple-tree, i pluck an apple and eat it to quench my thirst.

we cross a bridge. there are three roads before us. the lieutenant hesitates for a moment and then takes the middle one. no firing anywhere; perfect calm and silence.

on reaching an elevation, we are greeted with a storm of bullets.

i hear the orders to form a skirmish line, and to set our rifles at the 800 yards range.

very soon we are being fired at from the front and from both sides. the lieutenant runs the entire length of the skirmish line. he brings the men forward in tens, according to regulations. i watch him and feel certain that he will be shot. no, he continues his course right in the thick of the bullets.

if only we could see the enemy! but he is safe in his trenches or hidden in the wood, and is able to fire at us as he pleases.

lying flat on the grass, for the first time we hear the bullets whistle past. the enemy's fire, too well directed, sends the earth leaping into the air all around me. i imagine my head to be as large as a pumpkin. what a target! whilst reloading, i notice an ant right in front of me, scaling some cartridge cases, and the thought comes to me—

"what an advantage to be quite small."

[pg 40]

hearing a cry, i turn my head and see a poor fellow with the blood streaming from his hand. the wounded man groans—

"aie! aie! just what i expected!"

then he stands upright. he feels that he has paid his debt and is now out of the game. it no longer interests him, so off he goes. he proceeds about a dozen yards towards the rear, and then, of course, falls dead to the ground, riddled with bullets.

the soldier on my right says—

"now i'm hit!"

"where?"

"a flesh wound in the arm. nothing serious."

i am inquisitive enough to ask—

"does it hurt?"

"i don't feel anything. for the moment there was a burning sensation. my arm is quite stiff."

it is the turn of his other neighbour to ask—

"shall i dress it for you?"

"no, thanks. i had better get back to the rear."

"in that case, hand me your cartridges."

"of course. i was forgetting."

the wounded man turns over on to his side, and with the bullets hailing down, quietly begins to empty his cases. his wound troubles him considerably, and he apologizes for his awkwardness.

"how numb my hand feels!"

rules are rules, and regulations are regulations. both soldiers have learnt, long ago in[pg 41] barracks, that sharpshooters advance in couples. they know that when one is wounded, the other must dress the wound, if possible, and in any case take the wounded man's cartridges. they think this is an opportunity to put into practice what they have learnt in theory. but what they do not know—and assuredly i am not going to undeceive them—is that the regulation they are following out was repealed over two years ago.

a comic interlude. a man, in a panic of fear, refuses to advance. a bugler, who has just been ordered to take command of the section, addresses him as follows—

"forward! or you shall taste the butt-end of my rifle."

groans and lamentations.

then the bugler rises to his feet and says—

"join your comrades ahead."

the other, utterly cowed, begins to crawl along the ground.

"no crawling! on your feet at once; i'll teach you to show the white feather!"

"you want me to be killed!"

"if you don't go at once, i'll kick you."

he gets up, whining and blubbering. the bugler accompanies him right to the line.

"now lie down!"

the bugler, too, sinks to the ground. it is a miracle they were not both killed.

meanwhile, the german artillery is beginning to find its mark. we pay heavily for every step forward; soon all advance is impossible. we[pg 42] are even compelled to retire when the mitrailleuses are directed upon us.

after our leaps forward we now have to leap backward. a few yards in a declivity afford us a moment's respite, the balls passing over our heads. taking advantage of this, i open my musette, hoping to enjoy a drink, and find that a bullet has smashed the bottle to pieces. now we have to climb some rising ground, the german bullets following us all the way.

the command is heard—

"fix bayonets! the enemy is in the village. we are outflanked!"

is this to be a hand-to-hand encounter? nothing of the kind; the village is empty. the bayonets are sheathed.

flinging our rifles over our shoulder, we turn away, firmly persuaded that, after traversing another hundred yards and finding ourselves once again in the open, we shall all be shot.

a wounded man, who has preceded us, calls to us as we pass. he is on his feet, though pale as death. his head is bandaged; there is a fixed glare in his eyes. the death sweat streams down his face, as he says hoarsely—

"you're not going to leave me here, are you? take me away! i am wounded in three places."

"come along, then; we'll carry you into this farm."

"no, no! they'll come and finish me. please don't leave me behind."

one cannot tell the poor fellow that he will[pg 43] be dead before the germans arrive. it is courting death for ourselves also, sure enough, but we take him tenderly by the arm and drag him away with us. very speedily the end comes, and we leave him lifeless on the ground.

it is six o'clock. what remains of the section is crossing a field of oats. the bullets still follow us, also occasional bursts of artillery firing. we have to pass in and out of the projectiles like ants making their way between drops of water trickling from the rose of a watering-pot. the man by my side falls to the ground and lies there motionless.

behind me i hear the snort of a shell.

"that one's for me!" i say to myself.

instinctively i hitch up my haversack over my head. the shell explodes, and i am lifted into the air. then i find myself flat on the ground. a stifling feeling comes over me; i tear off my cravat, coat and equipment, and i know no more.

it is night before i regain consciousness. where am i? i stagger to my feet, but immediately sink to the ground like a drunken man. rain is falling, thin but penetrating. the ground on which i lie stretched is a veritable quagmire. i perceive that my shirt and trousers form my only covering. my senses are quite confused; surely the whole thing is a horrible nightmare!

i am shivering all over, and my mouth is full of blood. what am i doing here all alone in the middle of the night, and half undressed? i feel myself all over; not a scratch. my watch and[pg 44] knife are in their place. after all, i am not dreaming. then memory suddenly returns: the skirmish-line, the withdrawal under fire, the shell. i look around: everywhere on the horizon flames are to be seen. an occasional boom of cannon in the distance. i must have fallen between the lines.

forward, straight in front of me, come what may. i cross a wood, and fall into a stream, where i remain for some time in an almost fainting condition.

the rumbling of carriage wheels makes me prick up my ears. i blindly feel my way in the direction indicated; i have lost my glasses. a short-sighted person without his glasses is in the mental condition of a drowning man. i am at the end of my tether. for three hours i have been crawling along; the rumblings draw near. soon i hear the sound of voices; my heart stands still! what if the language is german! a good french oath reaches my ears. i run forward; the ground slips from beneath my feet, and i tumble headlong down a steep path into the midst of a convoy of stretcher-bearers.

they bundle me into a pair of blankets, as i am now quite helpless. i ask what time it is: three in the morning. i must have been unconscious from six o'clock till midnight.

wednesday, 26th august.

at daybreak we reach rambervillers. a major procures for me a képi and an odd coat, and sends me to the hospital.

[pg 45]

my one object now is to find a pair of spectacles. the streets are almost deserted. a few groups here and there, in one of which i notice a man wearing an eyeglass. going up to him, i speak of my difficulty. sympathetic and understanding, he takes me to an optician. all the shops are closed: for one reason, because it is seven in the morning; for another, because, as i am informed, yesterday's battle did not turn well for us—i suspected this from what happened to myself—and the germans might enter rambervillers to-day. here is the optician's place; he has left the town, and his wife is on the point of abandoning the house and following him. she is quite willing to find me a pair of spectacles, and offers me a grog in the bargain.

i reach the hospital.

"what am i to do with you?" asks the major. "you will simply be taken prisoner if the germans advance. there is an evacuation train at the station. off you go!"

this train is still almost empty: a few vans, some of which are fitted up with stretchers for the more severely wounded, and a number of third-class or second-class carriages.

i enter one of the vans: three rows of forms, two against each side, and one in the middle. between the two sliding doors is an empty space. i lie down and watch the reinforcements, announced yesterday, pass by. the men march along gaily and in perfect order.

desperate fighting is going on a few kilometres[pg 46] away. wounded soldiers now pour into the station; they are being brought up direct from the firing line.

ha! here comes a man of my own squadron. he is wounded in the arm. on catching sight of me, he exclaims—

"what! were you not killed?"

"no, i am still alive, you see."

"but you are reported dead. some of the company saw you fall, hurled to the ground beneath a 210 shot."

"is that all?"

the van fills up, but the stretcher-bearers continue to bring others.

"there is no more room here, i suppose?"

"there are already more than forty of us."

"close up a little. we must find room for every one."

we do the best we can; i lean against the form in such a way that the sergeant seated in front of me places on it his two injured feet which have just been hurriedly dressed. it is a shell wound, and the wrappings are speedily soaked with blood.

there is a man walking to and fro the entire length of the train outside; his head is bandaged, and his arm in a sling. on being told to enter the van, he makes a violent gesture of refusal, and continues his walk along the platform. a maddening performance, though necessary to numb his terrible sufferings and enable him to retain full consciousness. and this goes on for four hours.

[pg 47]

more stretchers, each bearing a pallid and grimy sufferer. not a cry or scream, though occasionally some poor fellow, on being involuntarily hustled, utters a long-drawn-out "ah!" and clenches his teeth. a quite young infantryman lies outstretched between the doors, both legs swathed in wadding. on asking how he feels, he feebly whispers, "bien mal," and shakes his head.

another squeeze to make room for fresh arrivals. one of these exclaims—

"what numbers of germans have been killed! they're paying for this, i can tell you!"

from every corner exclamations are heard approving of the sentiment.

at two o'clock the train begins to move. ever since dawn the boom of cannon has been heard without a break. a feverish sensation comes over me, and i close my eyes.

how hot it is! to obtain a little air and leave as much room as possible for the more severely wounded, i sit down by the side of a sergeant-major on the edge of the truck, my legs hanging outside the carriage.

the firs of the vosges file past in a seemingly endless procession. at each station red-cross and volunteer nurses bring milk, bread and tea; frequently also cakes, eggs and preserves. those of us who can walk serve the rest, leaving the van and returning with hands full of provisions.

at nightfall i fling myself on the floor, under a form close to the wall. out in the open country,[pg 48] stoppages are frequent. from time to time the engine-driver's shrill whistles keep the way clear.

thursday, 27th august.

the infantry sergeant has stretched his legs and placed his feet on the form under which i am lying. on awakening, i notice that the blood from his wound has been streaming over my hair and neck.

about nine o'clock we reach gray. the men-attendants remove a few severe cases which must be operated on without delay. one part of the station has been transformed into a hospital. there are any number of majors about, and they find plenty to do.

i request permission to return to the depot; since i have no broken limbs, why should i stay on at the hospital? accordingly i am sent to chalindrey, where i have two hours to wait for the langres train.

i wonder if i can find a chemist's shop. one is pointed out to me. the chemist looks me over with considerable suspicion and mistrust. a shapeless képi, a dirty, threadbare coat, and an unshaven face all covered with mud are not prepossessing features. he asks—

"my dear fellow, what do you do in ordinary times?"

respect for the journal causes me to hesitate somewhat. but then, this war excuses everything, and i confess—

[pg 49]

"i am on the editorial staff of the figaro, monsieur."

"indeed? you don't look like it!"

he laughs heartily, introduces his wife, and ... invites me to lunch.

my hosts have three sons at the front; they attend to my wants as though i were one of these. then they motor me back to humes. i cannot find words to thank them, nor do i know how to tell them that i will not forget their kindness.

the h?tel girardot and père achille at the door! he recognizes me.

"a ghost!"

everybody comes running up.

reymond, from the loft, thinks he hears my voice. he clambers down and stands amazed at my cadaverous appearance.

"can it be you, dear old fellow?" he asks. "well, well, you are a pretty sight!"

he grasps my hands; still i can find nothing to say. then he carries me off to the lieutenant, the commander, the major.

"is there a bed for him?" asks the latter.

"yes."

"well, let him have it at once, and don't let him be moved. if no complications show themselves to-morrow, he will be on his feet in three days."

they hoist me into the loft. "the spy" has left, and so i take possession of the folding-bed. verrier, who has come running up, tucks me in.[pg 50] a corporal, who knows all about drugs, briskly rubs turpentine into my skin.

"anything fresh here?" i ask.

"i should think so. two days after you left a new detachment was sent out, including 'the spy,' raoul, and lefranc."

lefranc was first violin at the colonne concerts. he would sometimes come up into our loft and play ravel and stravinski for us. down below in the stable slept a couple of muleteers. they shouted out—

"haven't you nearly finished up in the loft? how do you expect us to sleep with all this squeaking overhead?"

thereupon lefranc played a slow drawling valse, and the muleteers calmed down.

reymond continues—

"roberty comes here every day now. it will soon be our turn to leave. within a week humes will probably see no more of us."

"do you belong to class 4?"

"yes."

"then i must make haste to get well, in which case i may accompany you."