FOOTNOTES:
[1] The Author was born in Brussels, in 1881, of Belgian parents. The two great-grandparents of Captain Capart were soldiers in the armies of Napoleon I.—Tr.
[2] French sailors. They wear a white hat shaped like those of our own sailors and a long flowing coat. On the hat is a large red tassel. In France this has given rise to the expression, "Les petites demoiselles aux pompons rouges," or the Little Ladies of the red tassels.—Tr.
[3] Author's Note.—I took the base of this shell the same evening to General Hély d'Oissel, who commanded the Division. Until this moment he was still undecided as to the caliber of shell the enemy had been using since early that morning.
[4] Surgeon.—Tr.
[5] Je suis la corvée.—Tr.
[6] The red tassel of his hat.—Tr.
[7] Vacations.
[CHAPTER TWO]
MALANCOURT WOOD AND ST. MENEHOULDE
This chapter adds a few impressions noted by the author during a very short trip he made to the Argonne in the month of July, 1915.
It was at this epoch the army of the Crown Prince undertook strong attacks to the north of St. Menehoulde.
This sojourn took place between the two periods spent on the Belgian front.
For the first time Sub-Lieutenant Capart took part in an episode in the war of mines.
After having visited Verdun, Douaumont, and made a series of reconnaissances in Malancourt Wood, that of Hesse, and also to the west of Vauquois, Capart left for the Flanders' front where he took up his unfinished work.
CHAPTER TWO
ALONG THE MAIN STREET, ST. MENEHOULDE.
July, 1915.
Cannon rumble in the distance——
Poilus go and come along the thoroughfare. There is a great bustle in the village. The Argonne is the only interesting sector at this moment.
"Pretty hot up there?"
"I should say! Just came out of it!"
"Did you advance?"
"Yes. They attacked in mass formation, shouting 'St. Menehoulde—St. Menehoulde!'"
"You replied?"
"Pigs' feet! Pigs' feet! and we ate 'em up, lieutenant!"[8]
AN EPISODE IN MINING WARFARE,
MALANCOURT WOOD.
July 7, 1915.
We arrived yesterday afternoon toward dusk, in an automobile, and in full view of the enemy.
General de Salins, who commanded the Brigade, found us at this moment on the edge of the wood and could not believe his eyes—Guéneau and I were bumping along, making very slow progress on account of the numerous shell-holes along the road made during the last bombardment.
What a magnificent afternoon! At this time of the year, Malancourt Wood is an exquisite sight. The lengthening rays of the sun easily penetrate the green foliage of the trees that completely surround us.
This sector had been active enough before, when the enemy for the first time attacked with flame-throwers. After that, save for the days when mines were exploded, the wood became one of the most quiet spots on the front.
We are heartily received by our sapper-comrades.
At night we all go together into the first-line trench, where there are but few soldiers. It is very black without. Not a rifle shot, not the sound of a cannon. What a difference from the sector in Flanders!
We leave the trench and go over, crouching, into No Man's Land, advancing with great precaution through the tall grass. When a rocket flares from our lines or those of the enemy, we flatten with our faces to the ground and remain without the slightest movement. Then we advance again, holding our breath. Finally we arrive at the enemy's barbed wire entanglements and hear them talking in their trenches.
I am close to Guéneau, who listens attentively while I murmur in his ear:
"Old chap, yesterday at this time we were drinking a whisky and soda on the boulevard."
We pass the night in a shelter placed at our disposal by Major Jouanic. We must assist in the early morning at the explosion of a mine under an enemy listening post.
We choose our time and it is yet night when we start out. Hardly awake, we look more like a hunting party: nearly all the sappers preceding us in the communicating trench are carrying clubs and might be taken for beaters.
Arriving soon at the first line, each takes the place that has been assigned. I look at my watch—the mine will be exploded at four o'clock.
It is near the edge of the wood and I gaze into the open stretch on my right. The sky is turning a deep rose and the birds are singing, as they sing at the break of a beautiful summer's day. All else is asleep in our corner of the earth, and for us who know, this silence is impressive——
Five minutes more——
I look in front of me. The mined spot is plainly visible—I see the German trench and the barbed-wire entanglement very well.
Farther to the right is the place where Guéneau and I had crouched the night before; I see the tall, yellow grass and the zig-zag path by which we had returned.
Two minutes——
My eyes do not leave the spot, where, in a few moments, human beings will be hurled in the air and disappear. They are our enemies, but one experiences that undefinable feeling that one is conscious of when looking at the guillotine about to fall before you. What silence!
Suddenly an enormous gust of earth leaps into the air—- One gapes with stupor—a heavy detonation—the earth is transformed into a vast volcano and black soil and stones are shot continually up!
Everything in the vicinity becomes animated and three large trees begin to incline slowly in different directions with sinister crackings——
At the same moment I see very distinctly a German soldier thrown high into space, his hands tightly clutching his rifle. He turns over slowly and then his gun goes off, having, without doubt, unconsciously pulled the trigger.
Then it is this column of earth which falls showering and covering us with a rain of stones and pebbles, thumping the ground loudly——
And then comes the waking of battle; the stupor is over and a heavy fusillade breaks out along the whole line; machine-guns sputter, and the artillery fire becomes violent——
We are so close to the enemy trench that we hear the cries of the dying and wounded. The mine exploded at a well-selected spot and the losses must be heavy.
These cries are soon transformed into heart-rending wails which portray the resulting terror and anguish, cries of men who have been startled out of their sleep to die.
Lieutenant Ducoux with the Magpie "Anatole" in Malancourt-wood.
Bullets whistle loudly and clip the earth around us—the leaves, the new and pretty leaves of the wood, flutter and fall in our midst like in the sad days of autumn——
Quiet comes again. A big German officer has the nerve to leap on the parapet of the trench very close to us, and shout:
"Well done, Seventh Engineers!"
His attitude seemed to imply: "You are in no danger now." He then jumps back quickly into his trench.
The wounded in due time are cared for and taken back——
Work is finished for the day!
THE MAGPIE "ANATOLE," MALANCOURT WOOD.
July 8, 1915.
"What a luncheon, major! It is too much—too much, a thousand times too much. You dine well in Malancourt Wood! Hors d'œuvres, roast chicken, chops. What a remarkable chef!"
"I agree with you—he is the former chef of the Lysistrata, the yacht belonging to Mr. James Gordon Bennett, himself!"
So saying, Major Jouanic filled his goblet with champagne to the brim. We are less than fifteen minutes from the first line and the weather is marvelous——
"Dessert is ready, Ducoux, you can bring in Anatole."
Ducoux got up and left table. He came back soon with Anatole on his finger, a young magpie who already had the air of an old maid——
Anatole is not well brought up—she is a little noisy. When one speaks to her of Madame Colette[9] she gives herself up to comic contortions, and what a sight!
She drinks greedily of champagne out of the guest's glass and becomes shamefully drunk!
Now she staggers around the table, making insufferable cries. She inclines her head, staring at us with one eye——
"You shame us, Anatole. Be quiet and let us hear no more from you."
Anatole flutters over, seeking refuge on Ducoux's shoulder, whom she likes best, and goes to sleep——
A WALK IN THE FOREST, MALANCOURT WOOD.
July 8, 1915.
This afternoon we have gone to inspect the sector. We arrived before the Poilu Cemetery——
The sun shoots great streaks of light through the trees and the spot appears to us like a mighty, luminous temple——
No one near the graves to weep and pray, and the souls of the dead untroubled——
THE WAY OF THE TEUTON, MALANCOURT WOOD.
July 8, 1915.
We went this afternoon to see one of our friends, a lieutenant of infantry, in the neighboring sector.
Bringing along a bottle of champagne, we drank it with him at the listening post, twenty-five yards from the enemy.
Naturally the empty bottle was hurled by a skillful hand into the trench of our neighbors in front——
The reply was not long in coming: three 77's which, by the gods, were placed well enough, but which, luckily, did no damage.
These imbecile boches always lack the proper spirit.