FOOTNOTES:
[8] St. Menehoulde is the center of the "pigs' feet" industry.—Tr.
[9] Mme. Colette is a well-known French author. Her works about birds and animals have gained her an enviable reputation on the Continent.—Tr.
[CHAPTER THREE]
RETURN TO NIEUPORT
After his short trip to the Argonne, the author spent the last days of July in the Flanders' Sector, where he remained until the end of September.
CHAPTER THREE
MOVING, NIEUPORT.
July, 1915.
My poilus were disagreeably surprised this morning. The proprietress of one of the villas occupied by a certain number of my men arrived at Nieuport this morning accompanied by a Belgian gendarme. General Hély d'Oissel, commanding the Division, had authorized the latter to make a search for some wine she had left in the house.
This is what is extraordinary: it is true the wine was there, but imagine and understand the despair of the poilus—they did not suspect the existence of the treasure! Some good pinard[10] was placed in a hole under the stairway, into which one descended by means of a trap door, also skillfully camouflaged by a morsel of linoleum.
And to think they had slept several months over this precious pinard without knowing it!
Luckily the good woman's carriage could not enter the city on account of the barricades, and other defense works, so my good-natured poilus profited by it, and aided her in moving. In this manner they saved a few bottles, which probably would have been broken by the jolting of the conveyance.
THE MAN CUT IN TWO, THE TRIANGULAR WOOD.
July, 1915.
This cursed road is terribly torn up.
When one returns to the city of Nieuport by automobile it is necessary to go at top speed along there. The road is almost obliterated by shell-holes and the bombs which fall there incessantly. One must "fly" past the Triangular Wood.
This trip is impressive enough, because it is rare that one is not circumvallated by falling shells. It is very exciting!
One day when I was returning to Nieuport, the bombardment was extremely violent. I was sitting alongside the chauffeur. We had regulated our speed with that of a motorcyclist who preceded us by two hundred yards.
At the moment when we were leaving the Triangular Wood and had about reached the outskirts of the city, the motorcyclist was in a strange manner literally yanked from the machine by the force of an explosion and cut in two. He disappeared in a great cloud of smoke and dust. The wind was blowing rather hard and it cleared away quickly. We saw a Territorial on duty and he signaled with his rifle to stop at the side of the man who had been killed. The time and place had been well chosen, but there was nothing to do but obey, so my driver set the brakes.
The poilu said very calmly:
"I stopped you to tell you that you've got to go very fast along here. You see that man cut in two. It's a wicked spot. I've been here for two hours with instructions to tell that to everyone who passes here. That's the order!"
THE FOURTH ZOUAVES' BATHTUB, NIEUPORT.
July, 1915.
For several months I lived among the ruins of Madame S——'s villa, having my quarters on the first floor. My orderly replaced the shattered window panes with bits of linoleum. Opening on the sea, the rooms were only partially destroyed. When Commandant Peigné left for Oostdunkerke, he turned this sumptuous apartment over to me.
From every angle, in my opinion, it was certainly the most comfortable spot of any in Nieuport-Baths, and particularly in the villa: the rest of it having been more or less wrecked by bombardment.
On the ground floor there was a grand piano which could still be played.
The furniture in my bedroom was still in place, also there was a magnificent bathtub, of the portable kind, which certainly had not been used for a long time.
One fine day I discovered with chagrin that the bathtub had disappeared from the apartment! Immediately I inquired every place, besides protesting vehemently against this inexplicable theft. As we had our mess in the house, I could not help but believe that someone had entered my rooms without the knowledge of our cooks and secretaries and taken my one luxury.
Finally I had an explanation of this mystery. One day, very early in the morning, I was in a first-line trench, held by the 4th Zouaves, and was preparing to go into the cantonment for breakfast, when one of my comrades stopped me and insisted that I wait for jus,[11] which would soon come up, and have some with him.
It arrived shortly, boiling, carried by two men, in milady's exquisite bathtub; and she would have blushed to the roots of her hair could she have seen those scoundrels——
THE BRICK BRIDGE, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
July, 1915.
Why is this wooden bridge called the "Brick Bridge"?
The latter is not exactly the right name. Perhaps it is because the little wooden bridge thrown over the evacuation canal at some time has been taken for one of brick by an officer of the Intelligence Corps while studying the map, and he has so baptized it.
One afternoon, I was sitting in a communicating trench at the side of Reymond, a few paces from the Brick Bridge.
It was a bright, sunny day and the boches were bombarding us with 105's. The shells passed ten or twelve feet over our heads, whistling loudly and exploded in the brickyard 200 yards on the other side of the Passchendael canal——
"If they lower their fire we are gone," said Reymond.
The sport lasted an hour and they did not change the elevation of their artillery, fortunately. I was prepared that day to await calmly anything that came. One gets accustomed, progressively, to chatting unconcernedly and without a trembling of the voice when waiting for a mocking death that does not come——
"But I have it," said Reymond. "I know why it is called the Brick Bridge—because the brickyard is opposite——!"
So we were satisfied that day.
THE QUEEN'S FLAG.
July 21, 1915.
To-day it is the anniversary-fête of the independence of Belgium, and as we are at the extreme point of the Allied line of defense, on Belgian territory, a captain of the 8th Tirailleurs and myself had the idea of raising a little Belgian flag on the listening post at the Great Dune.
The enemy's listening post faced us and was only fifteen yards from our own. It was there we exchanged, in ordinary times, bread, packages of tobacco, newspapers, hand grenades and rifle shots——
We went to search for a flag that was red, yellow and black, at the dugout of the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, who had ornamented the altar of his chapel with French colors and those of the Allies.
The breeze was fresh enough and our little flag waved haughtily in the face of our adversary.
All day the Germans, as if enraged, fired volleys at our flag. The cloth was riddled with bullets, the staff itself split in two pieces. When it fell one of our Tirailleurs went crouching out and replaced it.
That night I took it down myself, rolled it up and carried it back.
The following day I sent the flag to Dr. Depage at La Panne. A few hours later it graced the boudoir of Queen Elizabeth.
"Ah," said our Tirailleurs, "it brings him good luck, this souvenir of July 21—she has kept it!"
MR. VEDOVELLI'S BOXES, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
To-day the sun is atrociously hot and the river Yser and the canals exhale nauseating puffs from decaying bodies and carrion flesh which are not very agreeable to the nostrils.
Toward nightfall I found an ideal spot to rest: the Sub-commandant's Post North, on the road to Lombaertzyde.
I am comfortably seated in a wicker armchair by the side of Commandant Martel and we have seen the penumbra deepen as darkness falls. Jupiter sparkles in the heavens; in the distance vagrant flashes of fire appear like a lingering hunting party.
We are waiting for a squad of Territorials to bring up several portable storage batteries (Vedovelli's system) to light the commandant's post. They were contained in cumbersome boxes and the good man had provided adjustable handles in order to make the work easier for the men. These he had shown to us.
But I was not a bit surprised when my Territorials did not arrive at the appointed time, because, in spite of Vedovelli's "handles," the boxes were so heavy as to be scarcely movable.
Finally I saw two of them coming, dripping with sweat, puffing, their eyes bulging, equipped naturally with their packs and with warm winter clothing for the approaching winter campaign.
At last they arrived. Letting the box with the adjustable handles fall brutally, they cried in unison as if compensated for the load:
"Nom de Dieu de tous les noms de Dieu, I hope this damned box with its dirty handles bursts in the inventor's stomach!"
A SHELL IN MY HOME, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
I am just about to start writing in my room, when suddenly, a boche shell explodes some place in the house.
A loud detonation—smoke—shell fragments and debris strike around me—a little dust on my uniform—that's all——
A horrible cry comes from the ground floor—I descend in jumps——
Our corporal-secretary lies in a pool of blood, gravely wounded in the thigh.
The "little fellow," shod in his sandals which he never has off, is already at his side. He believed it was I that was struck. With him I carry the wounded corporal into the kitchen where Simyan, the king of cooks and cowards, turns white with fear on seeing us enter——
AN IDEA OF JEAN GOUIN,[12] BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
August, 1915.
Just now Reymond and I are sharing breakfast in a first-line trench——
Richard in the midst of his comrades.
A Marine Fusilier conceived the drôle idea of unscrewing from one of the abandoned coaches in Nieuport one of these little notices that the railroad company places under each window to warn travelers of the dangers of poking their heads out. The little enameled sign had been nailed by him on a plank in one of the first-line traverses, where one could read, with profit, this notice:
"It is dangerous to stick your head out here!"
RICHARD'S GOD-MOTHER, ON THE YSER.
August, 1915.
"Listen, Richard, a pretty marquise has requested that I find her a god-son! Do you want to be elected?
"You are a husky lad like all the Marine Fusiliers, your behavior was good at Steenstraat, you are also good-looking, in short you have all the required attributes that go to make up a perfect god-son."
"With pleasure, lieutenant, thanks——"
"In that case I will take your photograph immediately, in the midst of your comrades, so that I can send one to your god-mother. She will be carried away! I forgot to tell you that the Marquise de R—— is charming and you will be spoiled as no one else——"
Some days after I sent Richard the picture which he slipped in a letter addressed to his god-mother—a very nice letter and well written.
A few days later the young chap told me that he was going on his vacation.
"Don't fail, Richard, to call on your god-mother," I cautioned, adding with a smile, "and don't forget to kiss her for me."
It was only a short while before I received the following letter from the Marquise de R——:
"You have sent me a charming god-son, but the day of his arrival he seized me in his arms as if with all his strength and planted a sonorous kiss on both cheeks, saying, 'On behalf of my god-father!'
"It appears that you are his god-father! I am still thrilled by it. I pardon you this time because this brave boy has lifted a small corner of the great veil that hangs over Paris and which hides your sufferings. You are bold, he told me—do not expose yourself uselessly.
"The life in Paris is once more the same as ever. I am sending you some Parma violets, since you like them. They are all that I could find. I seldom go out. It is quite a long time since you have written——"
CORRESPONDENCE WITH THE ENEMY, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
August, 1915.
On arriving at the "Brick Bridge" to-night, I found everyone in great spirits. There was a group along the edge of the canal—in the middle was a boche prisoner.
The big lumbering cuss had the air of complete bewilderment. Our marines were all talking to him at once and harassing him with a thousand questions. An officer approached.
"Quiet, men! Two men to conduct this fellow to the Brigade Headquarters, and lively!" They took the road, followed by the German, who kept at their heels like a pet dog.
The officer explained that for several days his marines had maintained correspondence with him. They placed their messages in a bottle which drifted along with the current. The boche had written:
"My wife has advised me to surrender, but you are terrible soldiers—you certainly would massacre me."
Some hours later the reply of the marines came to reassure him that everything would be all right.
This tableau lasted several days and "Jean Gouin" ended by believing that it was a ruse of the enemy and ceased to write. Finally a message came to them, drifting along in the bottle:
"To-night I will come along the slope of the canal. Do not shoot at me. I am the father of four children."
And so, when night fell, they saw a big, black mass creeping along the edge of the bluff. Our fusiliers were ready to spring, but he was alone.
With his two guardians the deserter was taken a roundabout way. They passed along the whole first line of the north sector because the two Marines wanted to parade the boche before their comrades.
They were proud of this capture and gave their prisoner cigarettes, and bread, and one of them had the generosity to slip a box of singe[13] into his pocket!
They led him farther, almost to the road to Lombaertzyde, to show him to the Zouaves, and finally took the road for Brigade Headquarters.
In the sector held by the 2nd Regiment of Marine Fusiliers they discussed this incident for a long time.
FOR THE COOK'S TOURISTS, IN FRONT OF ST. GEORGES.
August, 1915.
Boche torpedoes are decidedly disagreeable to listen to. The spot which seems fated to receive more than its share is the small fort north of St. Georges, 350 yards from the "Brick Bridge."
The Fusiliers have written on the sandbags: "Go easy—a dangerous bend!"
PETITES MARMITES,[14] ON THE ROAD TO LOMBAERTZYDE.
August, 1915.
Commandant de Jonquières invited my comrade, Guéneau, and myself, to luncheon at the Sub-commandant's Post North—a spot that had a villainous reputation. The house is riddled with bullet and shell-holes.
A room is still habitable and there is found, admirably prepared, the commandant's table, with white linen napkins properly placed at each plate like a metropolitan restaurant.
What a menu! The Marines dine well. The second course has been served when a loud explosion occurs in the vestibule: a 105 has burst in the house and the dining-room is filled with dust and smoke.
Commandant de Jonquières without rising from his chair cries out:
"Anybody hit, men?"
A Marine investigates and replies:
"Nobody, commandant, but there is some plaster in the cream. Shall I replenish it?"
"Call the chef."
The chef, a big, robust individual, comes in immediately.
"Commandant?"
"Listen. You have forgotten to write 'Petite Marmite' on our menu. Another time don't forget it. That's all!" And, turning to us, he said, as if nothing had happened:
"You know I saw a movie in Toulon that was absolutely amazing, but I have seen better in Paris, some months before the war——"
THE SADDEST THING IN THE WAR, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
August, 1915.
A listening post between the Passchendael and Evacuation canals. It is night—a night very black and without moon. I find a group of Marines seated on the ground chatting and I listen——
"What is the saddest thing you have seen, you?"
"It was at the beginning—we were in Belgium. It made me cry to see the burning towns, the poor people fleeing with everything they could carry, and that was not much. It was sad—and it gave one the blues! It hit them hard so suddenly—poor people——"
"And you, Pierre, what's the saddest tale you know of?"
"The death of Commandant Jeanniot, at Dixmude——"
There was deep silence, for they all recalled it. A man, aside from the others, had listened closely without speaking—the others turned toward him:
"And you, le vieux, what would you say?"
"The saddest? Allons, you have forgotten then our friend wounded between the lines who babbled 'mother' all night, and whom we could not rescue; the same whom we put out of misery!—when at dawn he called to us, 'Kill me—I suffer too much!'"
"And you shot him?" I asked.
"Yes, lieutenant, we killed him—but it is the saddest thing in my war——"
Tenez, it seemed to be a night just like this and I could almost hear the cry "mother" in a plaintive voice that grew farther and farther away——
THE RED LANTERN AT THE FIRST AID STATION, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
There were casualties to-day. I am waiting for Thiébaut, my sergeant, and a squad of men, with whom I am going into the cantonment to-night at Nieuport.
We are to meet at the First Aid Station and a few men are stretched out on litters moaning. There is one particularly, who is suffering terribly: he has been shot through the stomach and the surgeon says in a hushed voice he will die on the way to the rear. Poor chap, his breathing is labored. They are waiting for an English ambulance to carry them, which will arrive soon, I hope——
The odor of ether and dressings, mingled with the smell of blood, sickens me——
I go outside from time to time, to see if my men have not come up. A company of Fusiliers are being relieved and they file past me. One hears the hurried shuffling of feet. Then an artillery duel starts up. It is very dark in the street. The lantern hanging there casts sinister shadows on the men. Intermittently the sky is brightened up by enemy star-shell. Their lines are less than a mile away.
A soldier passing says to his friend:
"Look, mon vieux, at the red lantern—one of Nieuport's brothels!"
THE LOCK-KEEPER'S HOUSE, NIEUPORT.
August, 1915.
Two of my men, Poulet and Chandonnay, were living in the cellar of the lock-keeper's home where they were guarding some material I had sent up. Also, there was a picket of Territorials.
I left Poulet and Chandonnay this particular morning at the moment they themselves went to have dinner with their comrades a short distance away. I had given them leave until after breakfast because I wanted to make some changes in the arrangement of my precious storehouse.
It was one of those little Flemish brick homes where the roof and two stories had been shattered by bombardment, nevertheless in much better condition than the neighboring ones.
I, also, went to dinner on the other side of the locks, where the Marines held the sector.
The bombardment had slackened somewhat, but from time to time 420's came over, and, exploding, shook everything.
At the time I had fixed for the return of my poilus to the cellar of the lock-keeper's home, I was not a little surprised to see them coming to meet me.
"How is it," I said, "that you are not at your post where you should be, or in the dugout in safety?"
"Our post," they replied, stupefied, "our post—what post, lieutenant?"
"The lock-keeper's house."
"It's gone!"
I was a bit angry, but we at last arrived at the spot where it should have been. They were perfectly right. There was no more lock-keeper's house! A 420, during our absence, had literally fallen right on the roof of the cellar.
"And the Territorials?" I asked.
"Chopped meat, lieutenant, chopped meat——"
A BOCHE WHO HAD ENOUGH, THE GREAT DUNE.
August, 1915.
It is night——
The sentinel is on duty at the extremity of the embankment of sandbags, which protects the pier from shells that are coming over fast.
It is almost midnight and the brave Territorial looks continually at the sea which splashes at his feet.
Suddenly the man hears an unusual sound in the water in front of him. He is all attention and cries out:
"Halt, there! Who goes?"
The night is clear and soon he sees two dripping arms stuck high in the air.
"What are you doing there—this is not the time to go in swimming—advance with the countersign—it's a boche!"
"Kamarad! Kamarad!..."
"Listen here, I regret it, but I can't accompany you, you understand—I can't leave my post. You see that bridge? Take it! You will go to that house just over there, it is Marine Headquarters, and ask for the commanding officer. Is that clear? Now get along—good-night."
And the prisoner left alone——
A SPECTACLE OF THE WAR, NIEUPORT.
September, 1915.
I lunched for the last time with my friend Reymond. He is accompanying me to Brigade Headquarters of the Marine Fusiliers, where I must say good-by, because, to-morrow, I leave for another sector.
We are in the principal street of Nieuport and are only a short distance from our objective when a frightful detonation rends the air a few steps away.
Dense clouds of smoke envelop everything. A few steps more, and we see a very sad spectacle. Four 105's, two timed shell and two percussion, break in the midst of a group of workers—forty or more Zouaves are on the ground, wounded or dead——
Parbleu! it was like a sight at the Great Dune, on a similar occasion; one could not help but see, like the nose on your face——What indifference!
A Zouave, short and stocky, yelling and waving his arms madly—he is all bloody—he must have gone crazy——