FOOTNOTES:
[15] Royalist.—Tr.
[16] A certain type of wire entanglement.—Tr.
[CHAPTER FIVE]
EPARGES AND CALONNE TRENCH
This period of the author's life begins during the first days of October, 1915, and ends on the eve of the battle of Verdun, February 20, 1916.
He directed certain works in the different sectors of the Verdun front, at Eparges, at Calonne Trench, in the Hauts-de-Meuse, at Chevaliers Wood, at Ornes, at Forges and Béthincourt, at Corbeaux Wood, etc.
He remained a greater part of the time at Eparges, which was then the bloodiest sector on the front. The episodes in mining warfare left an impression of horror with those who were lucky enough to survive.
Eparges Mill recalls the ruins of some ancient Abbey.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE DAY OF MY ARRIVAL, EPARGES.
October 7, 1915.
When I come here for the first time I cannot help but feel that I will pass the unhappiest moments of my life——
Upon arriving at Calonne trench and descending toward Mesnil-sur-les-Côtes, I perceive Eparges on the right. With its mine craters, its smoke, this barren hill, tinted red, appears like a kind of Stromboli——
The road all the way to Longeau is simply exquisite. Eparges mill, demolished almost completely, and overgrown with grass already recalls the ruins of some ancient abbey.
I have traversed the length of the sector with a friend—it is very active to-day. The boches, at break of day, exploded four mines simultaneously. A section of the trench is completely demolished and a hundred men have been killed——
We are on the verge of contact with the enemy and it is necessary to crouch over dead bodies and sandbags to observe what is transpiring in front of us——
GUNTHER DUGOUT, THE CORRUGATED IRON, THE RATS,
THE MAP, THE LETTERS, EPARGES.
November, 1915.
At the beginning our shelter was nothing more or less than a mole hole.
Little by little it is becoming habitable. The walls have been boarded and the ceiling made of corrugated iron.
A long, large, white table, with benches——. How many of us will no longer sit there! Everyone found in this little space is loved like a brother.
On the board wall which separates the room from our sleeping quarters, which is arranged like a sleeping-car, there is a map of Alsace-Lorraine. Gunther, with his big fist, has traced an arrow in ink, which points from Eparges to Strasbourg. He has written:
"The hearts and aspirations of the 14th Company of the 15th Corps point this way!"
At night the rats, with an unseasonable boldness, run up and down between the corrugated iron and the roof. One doesn't know if they're playing or fighting. These gallops on the metal awake us with a start.
A flash from my electric lamp and I discover an immense rat tearing across the room with a telephone message sent to me at the moment I retired.
Ménard and Foulu prepare the evening meal before the arrival of the post-sergeant. The little fireplace at the side blazes cheerfully and fills the dugout with the pleasant odor of burning wood.
Happiness is his who can relax completely after a rough day——
The post-sergeant arrives drenched, his package of letters and newspapers carefully wrapped. He seems ill at ease as if he finds himself in a palace.
"Ménard, give your friend a quart of pinard."
The paquet of letters for Captain Gunther is always very large. Many of them commence like this:
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart for having given us details of the death of our boy. We are proud of him."
Then there are others cheerful enough, others very sad.
I found a short while ago some of the last wild flowers, while returning from the front line. I have slipped them into my letters that are about to go. Oh! you who will receive these flowers will never know what one can suffer here!
THE FILTH, EPARGES.
November, 1915.
Deep in Eparges mud, sixty yards from the enemy——
"Look here, my friend, you know very well it is forbidden to wrap the legs in sandbags——"
"General, it's for the filth——"
"These sandbags cost the Government more than ten sous a piece——"
"General, it's for the filth——"
"It is not permitted to waste material destined for the trenches."
"General, it's for the filth——"
"For what?"
"The filth."
"The filth?"
"Ah! general, it is all that you see here: the mud, the dirt, the bugs, with trampled boxes of singe and sardines under foot. This damned soil, which—which smells bad—general, all this is filth!"[17]
THE RETURN OF ST. ANDRÉ, EPARGES.
November, 1915.
"Good morning, St. André—that you? Come in, mon petit, I'm glad to see you again."
"Yes, captain, here I am."
It is at Eparges, during the month of November, 1915. We are in Captain Gunther's dugout, who commands the 14th Company, 15th Corps of Engineers.
The weather is horrible. Outside the rain falls incessantly. The mud, the mud, the rotten, cursed mud is everywhere.
Captain Gunther, who commands the 14th Company, 15th Corps of Engineers.
Our shelter is damp. Water filters through the board walls and falls in large drops. A dim candle light. The sector is very quiet.
St. André stands in the threshold. He is covered with mud from head to foot. What a trip it is to get here! His stalwart face is dripping with rain; this brave young lad of nineteen radiates health and good nature.
"Did you spend a nice vacation?"
"Not very good, captain."
"Not very good? Where did you go?"
"To Rennes."
"Did they not welcome you as they should?"
"No, captain, they treated me like a slacker. They said, 'What! not wounded or killed—you're not a real poilu!'"
"But, mon petit, you should have said you came from Eparges, the wickedest sector along the front."
"No chance to talk with those people. Our conversation ended in blows."
"At least, you have done your bit for France by giving her 'little St. André's,' poilus and sturdy like yourself?"
"Yes, captain, I'm not married—but I've got two sons."
"You are not married? You are going to marry her right away, my boy. You could easily have an accident here, and you would not embarrass your little friend——"
"That's true, captain——"
"I am going to give you two days' vacation so you can marry her, but I will have to get the certificate from the mayor."
"Captain—I want to tell you—I would rather marry by proxy."
"By proxy! That's a strange idea—and why?"
"Because then it would only be good for the duration of the war."
THE PASSWORD, DIEUE-SUR-MEUSE.
November, 1915.
It is night—I return in a covered automobile with Colonel d'Auriac. At the road which crosses that to St. Mihiel, a sentinel waves his lantern—the machine stops.
"The password?"
"Marne!"
"That's not it!"
"What! That's not it? Call the head of the post," said the colonel nervously.
In a few moments that seemed long enough to us, the poilu brought the head of the post, who dragged his feet as if half asleep.
"The password?"
"Marne!"
"Pass!"
"Wait! How is this, sergeant, when I give the word to the sentry, he does not let me pass through; on the other hand when I give it to you, you permit me to continue?"
"Well, you see, colonel, neither the sentry or myself know the password!"
AT THE ANNIVERSARY OF AUSTERLITZ, EPARGES.
December 1, 1915.
It is the eve of Austerlitz. To-night and to-morrow we are going to celebrate the memory of our forefathers, the Emperor's Old Guard, who will shake in their graves with joy.
It is snowing. The night is bright with moon. Rifle shots resound loudly in the darkness. From time to time, are exchanged by one and then the other, rounds of machine-gun fire at fleeing shadows during the slow descent of star-shell.
I arrive from Verdun and my automobile is filled with everything I could hastily collect in the stores. We have a basket of oysters, fine white bread and fresh butter——
The florist in Verdun, a big fellow, always restless and uneasy, who will foretell the worst misfortunes until the end of his life, has given me an armful of roses and mimosas, that will look pretty there.
There will be cigars for our friends and for our poilus, and champagne, naturally——
We have been arranging for this little fête for a long time; there will be quite a lot of us: thirteen or fourteen infantrymen, sappers, artillerists, all old habitués of the sector.
We are taking with us all those who have been sent back for rest. When we pass Mont-sur-les-Côtes, the sentinel stops and becomes pensive at seeing seven or eight officers piled together in the little machine. It is terribly crowded. What loud bursts of laughter! How wonderful life is among young men of the same age who have made the supreme sacrifice of their existence and know the least of that fugitive joy that falls to a soldier's lot.
Each one brings something to the dinner, some have pâté de foie gras, others petits pois, and pastry.
How late it was when our automobile brought us a half-mile from the first line—this is what caused a reprimand from the "general staff" some days later!
The boches are very quiet: not a rifle shot, not a cannon shot. The St. Remy searchlight which generally plays on the Eparges road is out to-night.
We have climbed Eparges hill—we pass through the ruins of the village and they are silhouetted like Christmas eve decorations. The enemy is very near to us and it is drôle to think we have scaled the height to pass an evening, a real live pleasure party.
When we arrive finally at Captain Gunther's dugout, there are cries of joy—. All his staff assist us with the numerous packages. The brave Ménard, with his commanding presence, his flowing mustache and kindly eyes, spares no pains to see that we are settled.
Our dugout has become quite comfortable since the installation of electric lights. Everything is perfect; there is not a hitch.
It is so crowded, elbow to elbow, that we throw off our tunics.
What a dinner! The oysters and champagne are the best. Oyster forks in this region made us all think—Ménard had a Prince Albert coat on over his uniform. Where did he get it? Mystery!
There is singing, laughing. They become grave when speaking of the comrades who are no more——
From time to time the ruffled form of one of our poilus passes out the door. They know we have not forgotten them. They carry a bottle, a pâté, or a box of cigars—and so the fête extends even to the advanced posts of the first line.
From the listening post to-morrow they will throw oyster shells at German heads. What faces they will make. Surely they will place them in their geological museum at Berlin.
The flowers on the table, a fantasy of color, cause some to weep with emotion. We have the most profound respect for them: "How come you here in the center of death and destruction—you come to us from the warm, beautiful countryside——"
I glance at my friends, Berthet, Blanc, Grabinski, the brave Grab, Flament, the doctor, and the staunch face of my captain——
We speak of the great Emperor and compare our army with his—How proud he would be of our poilus! What would he have done if he had had airplanes?
The time for champagne has come; Gunther drinks to all: the infantry, artillery, engineers, and the absent comrades. His voice trembles with emotion—"High Hearts! The road will be yet long. France has her eyes on us! Our lives belong to her. We will be happy to give them. If we are killed our children will be proud of us!"
In my turn, I speak to them of the Eparges—At this anniversary I feel the blood of my ancestors tingling in my veins, because I am a great grandson of a veteran of the First Empire.
I drink to Eparges, for each one of its letters is the beginning of a word representing the military virtues we must practice here:
Encouragement.
Perseverance.
Ardor.
Resolution.
Greatness.
Energy.
Sublimity.
Champagne and liquor have their effect—now the music commences!
First the "Marseillaise" rings out. Could the boches have heard us from the bottom of their pits they would realize we were all ready to conquer or to die.
Then each one sings his little chanson—these pretty French songs full of verve and spirit. How odd it is to hear sung "The Marriage of Mademoiselle Fallières," here in this dugout, mute witness to so much drama——
The hour to separate has come. Each must take up his duties, save those who return to the rear.
It is midnight—and it is clear and calm.
I leave with Captain Gunther to go into the first line. It is well that our poilus see that we are at their side—are they not our brothers? We wish as well to know what the boches are doing!
We enter a mine gallery where the work goes on actively. Our sappers are digging fast for the enemy is working feverishly also. It is he who explodes it first—as usual!
"They are ahead of us—they're digging their hole," said one of Grenet's men.
He spoke with calm and indifference.
On the menaced part of the front the number of men has been lessened, save only in the little posts, where they wait events stoically.
Coming outside, a poilu, with an undefinable accent, says:
"Then they're going to spring it to-night?"
"Who told you that story?"
"Well, there's no need in hiding it—I'm not blind and I know what it means to go back there—On a night like this it wouldn't bother me a bit to be shot like an arrow up to the stars!"
Our rounds are finished. We can go back to our dugout and profit by the hours of quiet to get much needed rest.
In going into Sap 13 again, I look up at the heavens. My brain is so tired that I seem to see a cortège of soldiers. Are they the Old Guard and our poilus, our brave poilus? Yes, decidedly, the Old Guard is feasting up there, the Old Guard of Austerlitz——
The earth, in this clear and luminous night, appears in bold relief and one sees between the torn tree trunks, arms reaching out of the ground, arms lifted to the German heaven, and our own dead fallen on this cursed soil of the Eparges—they seem to contemplate the great fête up there——
It is the morrow.
What horrible weather! It is raining in torrents. Everything is soaked. Again we shall have to flounder about in mud up to the middle.
However, it is impossible to complain of your fix when you have flowers in your dugout!
During the morning a heavy detonation shakes the entire hill. It is these German pigs, decidedly, who have exploded the first one. They choose their time well.
Everyone dashes down to lend a hand to our comrades who are on duty. We shall have to reëstablish the trench and evacuate the wounded.
If you attempt to go fast you get nowhere. The mud glues itself to your feet. The ground smells bad.
But it was not serious, only a warning, and soon I am back in the dugout, dripping from the neck down. It is the time to write.
I am alone with Cadet Flament, who, stripped of his tunic and wearing his blue jersey, has rather the air of a collegian. He is, however, a brave young fellow, our little Flament——
"Say, Flament, you had better write a letter home. It is three weeks now since you have given them any news."
"You're right, lieutenant."
And little Flament began at once to write a long letter to his mother. She must be proud of her son. He is the only child. She lives at Château-Thierry. But what uneasiness, knowing he is at Eparges——
After having written the first letter, Flament writes the second. This one also is to a woman! The smile on his lips when he writes leads me to believe that this young rascal has a little friend or a fiancée——
I am certain of it when I see him place in a little box an aluminum ring which he has made himself, and some flowers from the Eparges, mingled with those we had at our banquet last night——
"Lieutenant, when you go down to-night, it will be very kind of you, if you will take these letters and this little package——"
"Gladly, mon petit," and I placed in my pocket, the letter for his mother, the one for the "other," and the little box destined for her also.
Flament begins to put on his shoes which he has vainly tried to dry out—. It will be necessary to keep them in the stove for three days to obtain this result.
Without question he has written to the woman he loves—he grumbles at the weather, the rain, at the cursed mud, at the boches——
Ah! what wouldn't he give to pay those boches back for having began this holocaust——
Suddenly an explosion, more violent than the one before, shook us in our chairs.
It is they this time who have sprung the mine. There will be many casualties!
We jumped up and left the dugout.
It was raining; but at the same moment the cannonade raged. French and German shells tore through the air with frightful screams, an acrid smoke hung between Montgirmont and Eparges, machine-guns kicked up a deafening tumult—you damned coffee-mills—va!
Flament preceded me—he walked with his head high. How good-looking he is with his Tam O'Shanter cocked over one ear in the midst of bursting projectiles, face to the enemy——
A 77 hits him squarely, carrying away his thigh and half of his face——
My sergeant and two of his sappers collect the pieces. They carry this poor corpse, still heaving and stained with mud, into our little wooden chapel a few steps away——
An hour later, the flurry being over, I go again to see him with LeBlond. I have taken the flowers of the night before and placed them respectfully on his breast——
Poor young chap! He is unrecognizable. Can this be the happy little fellow of the night before?
On leaving the chapel, I notice that LeBlond is terribly affected and I say nothing to him. We arrive at the dugout where our brave captain, covered with mud, sobs like a child for his lost friend——
Taking LeBlond by the arm, I say:
"Mon vieux, you are down-hearted—go with me along the whole first line—we have our dead to avenge! we must not weep for them——"
During the night LeBlond and I return to Verdun. Before retiring I reach in my pockets to empty them. Two letters and a little box rest in my fingers. I think a long time of these souvenirs of death——
After hesitating some moments, I say to my friend:
"Decidedly, I will send them to-morrow. These poor people will not learn too soon the unhappiness they bring!"
THE PHILOSOPHICAL POILU, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
You will not believe me, but this morning at break of day, we found ourselves in mud up to our middle!
In the trenches and in the boyaux,[18] it was always the same thing—the sector was completely calm. Parbleu! the others in front of us must suffer exactly the same hardships.
I am numbed! For four days I have been struggling in this damned mud.
Woevre plain is thick with mist this morning and Champlon, seen from up there, resembles one of these pasteboard villages over which a miscreant youngster has poured water.
I sense a feeling of real joy, however, on seeing the first glimmerings of day, because to-night we shall be relieved——
I descend into "Precaution Trench," sweeping into a river of mud, and find myself nose to nose, at the crossing of Sap 8, with one of my poilus.
On seeing me he cannot refrain from laughing.
"What are you laughing at?"
"Lieutenant, what a sight you are! You've got mud in your hair, and mud on your eyeglass—you ought to look in a mirror!"
"Listen, mon petit, it is not necessary to speak of it, because if one looks around himself here, he always ends up by finding someone very unhappy——"
"Very true, lieutenant, because instead of being in a lot of mud we could easily find ourselves up to our necks in something a whole lot worse!"
That night I am in the home of M. and Mme. Louis at Verdun.
The good woman has a great wood fire going—May God bless her!
I am so numb with cold that I cannot undress—my shirt is frozen to my back——
This good and sweet creature assists me and, hearing my teeth chatter, weeps softly and murmurs:
"What would his poor mother say if she saw him in this condition——"
THE RELIGIOUS POILU, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
Accompanied by one of my poilus, I ran across the chaplain of the —— Regiment of Infantry, in front of the P. C.[19] of the colonel.
We are both in a sorry plight.
The preceding days have been such an accumulation of physical and moral misery, that I could not help but say to the priest:
"Father, I feel death hovering around me—hear my confession!"
"Confess you here? Do not think of it. You make your own hell on earth in the Eparges. I will pray for you. And you, poilu," he added, turning toward my sapper, "to what religion do you belong?"
"I belong to that which looks God straight in the eyes!"
THE MEN OF BRONZE, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
We have just put in some frightful days up there. The mud, the horrible mud, is infinitely more terrible than any enemy shells.
It is relief day!
What luck to end this nightmare. One is sad, however, for the others who come to take your place.
The Eparges soil is red—our uniforms of horizon blue, dirty and covered with this mud, appear tinted with blood.
A sad array. We all have a dejected mien. Several of us will not come back.
Four poilus are carrying one of our wounded. They advance carefully. Night has fallen and the lingering red shadows disappear from the heavens, one after the other, darkening our march.
We meet General Renaux, commanding the Division, who comes to inspect the sector.
Contemplating us dolefully, he said:
"My poor children, what a state you are in!"
"General," replied a poilu, straightening, "that is nothing. It is we—the men of BRONZE!"
MAJOR HÉLY'S VISIT, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
It is reception day, to-day. Major Hély of the General Staff, after having inspected the sector, will dine with us.
And so, there are fresh flowers on the table—chicken and champagne.
A ray of sun is equally in the party. What luck! The boches are quiet.
It is the end of the dinner.
Ménard brings the jus, excellent coffee which he pours in the cups. The only coffee spoon makes the rounds of the table. Ménard also deposits a dusty bottle which we all regard in silence but with respect.
Captain Gunther himself will pour the precious liquor in the little glasses——
Major Hély sips this plum nectar like a connoisseur. He sniffs the brandy and it causes him to smack his lips——
"Ah! Gunther, where did you unearth this marvelous stuff?"
"In a cellar of the village, under the corpse of an old woman."
PRECAUTION TRENCH, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
Precaution Trench leaves a memory of horror with all those who have frequented it—. There is such an accumulation of German and French corpses; all huddled together, that one feels a swelling of the heart if one remains for any length of time in this charnel-house——
But we have to put the trench in condition. With sweeps of the shovel human arms and legs are dismembered so that free passage may not be blocked. Legs and bodies are, above all, difficult to disentangle——
At night, when the earth breathes, our men faint occasionally, and it is necessary to give them menthol-alcohol on bits of sugar——
"Look, mon vieux, at that rotting breast——"
"It's possible a woman, dearly loved, has been tightly pressed against that breast there!"
"This man has been reported missing—he still wears his identification tag——"
"Perhaps they are waiting at home for him—they are always hoping, without doubt——"
"Him? Ough! he's shot to hell—but—what about her?"
YOU'RE A SLACKER! EPARGES.
December, 1915.
Do you believe all those who have survived this horrible December winter, at Eparges, are martyrs? Not at all. Listen to what I heard this morning.
Two sapper-miners were arguing and this is what took place:
"You ought to be ashamed to be always in F gallery—it won't be blown up by the enemy for two months. It's always the same with you fellows who go in for this kind of fighting——
"Désiré, you're nothing but a slacker!"
A WALK IN THE FOG, CALONNE TRENCH.
December, 1915.
There is a thick, heavy fog here this morning——
One can stand on the parapet, where, two hours afterwards, he would be pierced like a sieve.
It gives one a very curious sensation to go several steps in front of the trench, over the snow, to reconnoitre the terrain ahead of us.
And it is quite different to inspect this sombre place which we always see through a periscope, not knowing what it really is.
Dead boughs and leaves crackle under our feet while we move with care. There is a zig-zag path in the wire entanglement right in front of us——
In a hollow in the terrain we discover a German corpse, or more precisely, a skeleton dressed in an infantryman's uniform, a rusty rifle at his side—that is the thing in question.
The body must have been there a long time——
THE POILU BOULEVARDIER.
December, 1915.
Day has not yet come—the weather is misty, and the rain has stopped. From time to time a rifle shot——
They are working lively to set a wire entanglement between the line of craters and a support trench. It has got to be done fast because daybreak will soon be here. The men sense the completion of the task, and hurry to finish it. They joke and seem to forget they are at a place the worst on the whole front.
The quiet astonishes them; neither of them find it natural——
Suddenly a heavy explosion—a great trembling and a large spout of earth rises in the air a hundred yards from us——
"There it is—a boche camouflet!"[20]
At the same moment the well-known serenade—from all sides comes a rain of projectiles: minnenwerfer, shells and bullets. A man, wounded, cries like an infant with its throat cut——
Expecting an attack, I shout to my poilus:
"Attention! keep your eyes open!"
Corporal Poulet replied with an inexplicable accent:
"That's all right; as long as your eyeglass is not broken, everything will go well!"
A POILU WEEPS, CALONNE TRENCH.
December, 1915.
A beautiful day—but how cold it is!
From the German lines as well as our own, white smoke curls up from wood fires.
The hour at which the sector becomes active has not arrived, and I have plenty of time to make the rounds of the first line to keep warm.
Poor little hill! It is barren!
It has been well named: "the lobster's claw." Certainly it has the form and color. The trees are cracked or shattered clear to the roots, because tons of projectiles have fallen on it.
The view from this dominating position is really exquisite!
In front of me are the heights of the Meuse, to the left is Longeau valley, with the village of Eparges in the bottom and the hills of Montgirmont, Eparges and Hûres which rise on the other side.
The hills this morning assume the unforeseen aspect of Mediterranean imagery, red and blue, a land of silence, as if one would find Samos and Ephesus close by.
I arrive at a machine-gunner's post—the man is alone, his comrade must be only a few steps away from him. He is crying!
He was seated on the ground, his chin in his knees. Unshaven, unkempt, he had such a pitiable face that I sat down at his side——
He was visibly embarrassed and annoyed at having been taken by surprise with his eyes full of tears.
"Good morning, mon vieux!"
"Good morning, lieutenant——"
"How damned cold it is this morning."
"Oh! yes——"
"What's the matter? Is there anything wrong?"
"Nothing, I assure you——"
"You can talk to me like a brother." He did not reply.
"I'm hungry! It won't bother you if I have something to eat here—sardines, a box of singe and some pinard—you'll have a portion?"
At the end of a few moments we were the best friends in the world. I knew his name, where he was from and what he had done in the campaign.
"Why were you crying a moment ago when I came up on you? You are not a man to be afraid in the Calonne Trench, because you are brave—I can read it in your eyes——"
"I'm going to tell you. I went back for my first vacation. I had not told my wife because I wanted to surprise her and the youngster——
"When I arrived at home, that night, the miserable——"
"Stop, mon petit, I understand. What did you do?"
"I thought at first to kill both of them. But I simply turned away from the door—and—I came back to rejoin my comrades——"
THE THREE JURORS' CROSSROADS, CALONNE TRENCH.
January, 1916.
LeBlond is going to meet me to-night at the "Three Jurors' Crossroads!"
Here there is an important storehouse belonging to the Engineers, where materials are kept, destined to supply the sector. There is, above all, a hut where I go to seek shelter. Since morning an icy rain has been falling and I'm glad to be able to find a dry spot.
I go into the meager room, feebly lighted by a smoking lamp. What luck! The warmth is soothing and I can dry myself——
On the table is a set of chessmen!
"Who plays chess here?"
"I do," replied the head of the dépôt, a young sub-lieutenant.
"A game?"
Colonel Geney awarding "Croix de guerre" to blue devils of Captain Gunther, on the battlefield.
"That's a go!"
We are absorbed in the game—and, with the log fire to keep us warm, I forget everything: the war, hardships, and at the same time, I must confess, all that I love——
THE PRACTICAL POILU, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
This episode took place at l'Eperon-des-Mitrailleuses, which is balder than the head of our friend Mollinié. Tons of explosives in the last few months, have been dropped on this little sector, and the pretty wood which runs down each side of the hill has completely disappeared. Underground, two long galleries of about 125 yards each are being dug to intercept the enemy. Again we find ourselves on ground where mining warfare progresses. The length of these galleries renders the work extremely difficult; the air there is bad and at the end of the tunnel our sappers can only work for a few hours.
The installation of electric lights and ventilators betters, from day to day, living conditions which exist in these villainous holes.
These latter also occasion a visit from the Colonel of Engineers, who, on a certain night, comes to inspect the improvements. He always has a kind word for everyone.
Arriving at the end of the gallery, he questions the brave poilu, who, in the presence of his colonel works with an exaggerated rapidity.
"You ought to be very grateful to your lieutenant who furnishes you with light and air."
"Yes, colonel, but I prefer pinard!"
THE LOGICAL POILU, CHEVALIERS WOOD.
January, 1916.
Chevaliers Wood appears to be at the extreme ends of the earth, so much so that one feels far away from everything down there. The cold is dry and piercing. Pretty, white smoke rises from the shelters, in which are burning bright log fires. The ground, on the outside, is covered with snow.
I am going back to the trenches, having at my side a little blue devil. The poilu is leading a mule, a nice, gentle mule, carrying ammunition to a machine-gun section.
We passed at the side of a 75 battery, so well camouflée that we had not seen it. We are just even with it when it begins to fire.
The mule makes a jump and I see the moment when our little chasseur is going to be spilled on the ground.
He recovers his balance and, furious, plants himself before the animal.
"Nom de Dieu, don't you know our 75's?"
TRAGIC COINCIDENCE, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
I have spent several days at Berne on vacation. Some hours before my departure I went into a shop to buy a cold luncheon to take on the train.
Near the shop-door two elderly women were talking in a low voice. At the moment I went out, passing close to them, I overheard the word "Eparges." I stopped short.
"Pardon, madame, well have you said 'Eparges'—I come from there and I return! In two days I shall be there and it startled me to hear the name pronounced so far from that spot that I will never forget it!
"Perhaps you know someone there? Tell me, I will go and see him for you——"
"My son, Charles, is at Eparges—his name is Charles Dubois. He is in the 9th Engineers——"
"Under orders from Captain Grenet, my friend; he is a sapper-miner——"
"Yes, Charles is a corporal in his company."
"Upon my arrival at Eparges, I promise you, madame, that I will find your son. He will be very happy when I tell him that I saw his mother at the precise moment she was thinking of him——"
On the road, in the auto, which is taking me to Mesnil-sur-les-Côtes, I think of Charles Dubois, whom I shall easily find at the end of my journey.
I will not go to bed in the shelter, without having seen him—God knows, however, what fatigue the last step will bring——
Alone on foot, I will make the hard trip the length of Longeau, a brook, which was torn up enough in 1914 and the beginning of 1915.
During supper tête à tête with Captain Gunther, who welcomed me heartily on my return, I am haunted by the memory of two old ladies——
"What happened in my absence?"
"Nothing in particular, except this morning. We had five men buried by a camouflet—they began at once to recover the bodies. All were killed——"
"I am going above to-night, with your permission——"
"You must go to bed—you look very tired!"
"I have promised a woman to see her son——"
"I will accompany you."
Some moments later, we began the trip, so laborious at night, almost to the crest of Eparges.
At first the long path—what irony!—the length of which was found the shelters of our sappers and from which came at one time or another, sounds of voices. Then we passed Sap 13, where was heard the purring of the electric generator and the compressor.
Farther on is the first-aid station, where a moment never goes by without finding wounded there——
Then it is the P. C. of the colonel, where there is always a great bustle, and where one must say to the poilu,
"Out of the way, mon petit, let me pass."
Eparges, The "Ravine of Death"
From left to right: Lieutenant Blanc, Captain Gunther, Sub-Lieutenant Capart.
Finally, the subterranean passage about sixty feet in length, and we come out in a spot not so dark: Woevre plain is down there. We turn to the right. It is the "Ravine of Death," where trees mutilated by projectiles are silhouetted against the night like a band of witches.
One feels in this place a veritable impression of horror——
In front, pointing into the starry heavens, the crest of Eparges——
Laboriously we climb the hill, stopping from time to time to get our breath. Only a few cannon and machine guns trouble the calm of the night.
At last we arrive close to Grenet's shelter, where several men formed a group along the embankment. I called one of his sergeants whom I already knew.
"Do you know Charles Dubois?"
"Yes, lieutenant. You heard then that we recovered his body?"
"He has been killed——?"
"This morning——"
"Where is he?"
The poilu turned—I saw a stretcher, a shapeless mass covered with a blanket, two heavy shoes which stuck out, shrouded with red soil——
It is night. I gently lift the blanket and scarcely recognize the contour of his face——
I can hear the voice of an old woman, who says to another:
"Charles is at Eparges; I am so uneasy."
THE COMMERCIAL BAR, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
Bombing duels all morning——
We have gone to pay a visit to Major X—— at his fighting dugout; the major never worries about anything——
"Ah! how good of you to come—let me offer you a drink: some Turin, whisky and soda, Pernod, or Cassis—which do you want? You will remain and have lunch with me? I have a live lobster"—he brandished that animal triumphantly—"and, with that, grilled lamb chops, potatoes, pont-neuf."
Turning toward the telephone operator and without waiting for our reply, he said:
"Waiter, set two covers more!"
FATE, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
"Mamma! your ears are tingling to-day——"
I left Colonel Moran's shelter and directed my steps toward our own, following the board path. I walked with difficulty because the terrain was bad. On my right the mud was so deep that one could not step out into it without sinking up to the hips!
The boches commenced to shell us with 150's. The first shot fell between Montgirmont and Eparges, in plain view, 75 to 125 yards from me. The second burst 125 yards to the left, back of our little board chapel, raising a great fuss.
The third hit ten feet from me—whack! It did not explode, but splattered me from head to foot—I couldn't be picked up with pincers!
"Mamma! your ears are tingling to-day."
THE COLONEL WHO LOVES GOOD MUSIC, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
Bombardment all morning—the hill trembles——
I am lunching with Colonel X——, an immense Corsican, who never knows what fear is——
The meal is, ma foi, very good and very lively. A big boche torpedo burst not far away——
"Tell me of Verdi's music instead of this German melody outside. I'm a lover of the arts!"
EPARGES CEMETERY.
January, 1916.
Eparges Cemetery with its symmetrically aligned graves is touching. The Bavarians bombard it systematically, their hearts set upon destroying it, and the shells churn these sacred little plots from top to bottom——
The poilus, on the board path, shake their heads and say:
"There! again they're murdering our dead."
LOST IN THE DARK, CALONNE TRENCH.
January, 1916.
Night black—night without moon—rifle shots resound like in a cave—we can't see more than a yard in front of us. My friend and I must rejoin a squad of poilus at work.
We have taken a short cut and stumble into shell-holes. We bump into tree stumps—climb hills. Yes, we are lost. We retrace our steps—tired and hungry.
We fall against something—it's a mound! I flash my electric torch on it, masking the glare with the flat of my hand. It's a grave! There is a small wooden cross on which is written: "Here lies an unknown soldier."
LeBlond and myself gave a sigh of relief:
"We are at the 'Grave of the Apple Trees,' which is to the right in the direction of the cross; we are on the proper path—Thanks, poor old chap——"
THE FIRST TRAIN, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
The narrow gauge track has been finished—the first train is due to arrive to-night. Captain Gunther has put Ménard's Prince Albert over his uniform, and, with a little red flag, a horn and a lantern, has gone to await the arrival of the convoy. One hour, two hours pass!
The train did not come—it has been derailed near Trésauvaux. We learned later that the track had been torn up by shells.
"Ah! these Government railroads—they never run."
HERMAN AND HIS CANTEEN, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
For some months we have seen this corpse in front of us—fifty yards away—In the rain, snow, cold, we have noticed it change its position several times——
Herman, the "pretty German officer," was often the subject of discussion: for he must have on him shiny brass buttons to decorate our cigarette lighters and our cartridge boxes—his boots could no longer be any good, because around him there must have been a nice bed of mushrooms!
A change in the line brought us close to Herman. The first patrol which went out crouched over to him——
Quickly one cut the buttons from his tunic——
"Wait," said one of the men, "he's still got his canteen!"
A poilu easily detached it, then shook it close to his ear—the canteen was yet half full!——
He unscrewed the cover—he sniffed it. It was brandy!
In a low voice, he said to the others:
"Eh! les vieux, it's brandy!"
Tossing off a drink, he passed Herman's canteen to his neighbor——
I DISCOVER A COUSIN, EPARGES.
January, 1916.
It is two o'clock in the morning—all the men have retired. I have just returned from Calonne Trench and am very tired on entering our shelter. A man—with a sheepskin thrown over his uniform like a cape—is waiting for me in the outer room. He is seated near the smouldering fire. He rises quickly.
"Good morning, cousin——"
"What, you here!—Speak low because the others sleep."
"Yes, I learned that you were at Eparges, and obtained permission to come and see you before going into the trenches."
"What are you doing?"
"Back of the lines I'm a color bearer, here, I am just like the others. Very soon we are going to occupy the craters."
"Keep your eyes open, mon petit, and don't forget that in this damned sector you must have sang-froid and presence of mind if you want to get out of it alive. You must save from tears some pretty pair of eyes—a handsome young man like yourself certainly has a sweetheart!"
He blushed to the roots of his hair.
"I'm not ashamed of that. If I survive this only the love of a woman can bring happiness hereafter."
He hastily drew a picture out of his wallet.
"Look, cousin, how beautiful she is—I adore her!"
Two hours later a bullet penetrated his thigh while he was in 0 crater.
Now he is in a little white bed and in a few weeks he will be able to see her again——
THE ONE WHO READS PLUTARCH.
January, 1916.
While looking over the first line of Calonne Trench, I found a poilu, seated on the ground, reading.
"What is that you are reading?" I questioned.
"A translation of Plutarch."
"It's all right to read history, my friend, but you are doing better—you are making greater history yourself—Read on!"
MAJOR ANTHOINE'S CANDLE, MONT-SUR-LES-CÔTES.
February, 1916.
Ah! What a brave man this Major Anthoine—we are to dine with him to-night.
When we arrived we found him bent over his map as usual—magnifying glass in hand, he followed, hour by hour, this war of mines, this underground struggle, so bitter at Eparges. The dinner was more than perfect as it always was.
As we were about to leave, he commenced to undress and with a lighted candle in hand and half-clothed, he conducts us to our machine.
The boches have seen the candle and without delay a 77 comes whistling over loudly, bursting on an empty house in the village. The major held up his candlestick for them to see, then extinguished it, saying:
"Snuff it out!"
In reply the boches sent over, one after the other, three 77's which did no more damage than the first.
"You see, it was hardly worth four to put that damn' thing out!"
DISCOVERED, ORNES.
February, 1916.
To-night a patrol discovered a corpse between the trenches. It was a very young boche soldier, almost a child. They brought the body into our lines.
Upon searching him, they found some papers—I was near the commander of Ornes, when an officer approached with them.
In a leather case there was a letter written on very plain paper.
"Can you read German, Capart?"
"Yes——"
"Read, then——"
Slowly I read a simple letter from a mother to her child.
"Your young brother Louis is not discreet, so we must tell him he cannot see you on your next vacation. The work at Ruhr is very hard now and everyone complains. We need many things badly, and, above all, miss you—When is it all going to be over?"
"Stop!" said the major. "They brought on this war. They suffer? So much the better!"
"It is up to us now to kill these wolves and their young—and here's one. Get every one you can, men! Let the she-wolves howl in anguish!"