FOOTNOTES:
[17] Gadoue.—Tr.
[18] Communicating trench.—Tr.
[19] Commanding Post.—Tr.
[20] Counter-mining. When an enemy mine is being dug, a camouflet destroys it before completion.—Tr.
[CHAPTER SIX]
THE FIRST MONTHS OF THE BATTLE OF VERDUN
This deals with the battle of Verdun. The author took part in the first days of the battle on the right bank and the left bank of the Meuse. He spent, likewise, almost all the month of March at the Verdun front.
On June 7, 1916, Sub-Lieutenant Capart became attached to the General Staff of General Pétain, but often he continued to fight and work with the poilus and also with his old comrades.
CHAPTER SIX
DAY BEFORE BATTLE OF VERDUN, EPARGES.
February 20, 1916.
At dawn the sky is unbroken. It is a veritable spring day that is here! A ray of sun in this spot—what good luck!
I feel this morning a delicious sense of joy and happiness to live.
A poilu, on the board walk, said to his friend: "This will be a great day for airplanes."
In effect, all morning our airplanes and those of the enemy described, at very high altitudes, frequent circles, recrossing the lines, girded by puffs of white smoke of breaking projectiles.
In spite of the joy which filled us all, we never spoke but of the next attack, the topic of conversation for the past several days.
We were at the turning point of the war; month after month, the ruin of the Central Empires became more certain, each hour that passed they became more enfeebled in human energy and in money! "Parbleu," said an officer, "their armies have been developing on the different fronts excessively, the strain on their troops has become very strong; and a military decision imposes itself upon them."
They wished to hasten the end of the war and the way to finish it is to attempt a great thrust, a decisive thrust, a desperate thrust—the propitious time is come, it is the moment to attack, there is not an instant to lose!
It was easily determined that a formidable battle was about to commence and that the shock would be heavy——
Here are some of the remarks that were passed back and forth at Eparges, the eve of the battle of Verdun. That night in the trenches there was a silence, a silence impressive. The night was calm and starry——
THE DAY OF February 21, 1916.
I left Eparges at six o'clock in the morning. As before the day dawned magnificently. In a happy mood, I start out with Dr. Nicolas to find some of my poilus on the menaced front.
An automobile was waiting on the Mesnil-sur-les-Côtes to take us to the north of Verdun.
On leaving at seven o'clock in the morning, the rumbling of cannon, heavy and uninterrupted, was heard: the battle of Verdun had commenced....
I did not intend to stop at Verdun, but on approaching the city, I saw the civil population fleeing en masse toward the country, after 380's fell at regular intervals on the martyred city for about an hour.
After a short stop, I left again for Cumières and Côte-de-l'Oie, where I also had a squad of workers.
Leaving Bras, it was easy to determine that the enemy had launched his offensive on the right bank of the Meuse.
As far as the eye could reach the bursting of large projectiles was seen: they fell particularly on the forts, on the roads, on the cantonments, on the trenches.
The crushing noise produced by these large Marmites[21] became accentuated hour by hour; a curtain of smoke collected against the blue sky, and, with the brightness of the day, this spectacle certainly did not lack grandeur.
I still command a view of the battlefield seen from the Côte-de-l'Oie; columns of smoke go rolling on the banks of the Meuse. I had never seen such parallel artillery preparation up to that day.
Our poilus cried:
"The 77's and 105's no longer exist!"
It could easily be seen that "something" was taking place on the right bank where the intensity of the artillery became greater hour by hour.
They fought stubbornly before Samonieux and we heard the noise of the machine-guns. I made the resolution to go and rejoin the men I had at Ornes, on the right bank, since it was they above all that were in the greatest danger.
The memory of the afternoon of this day will forever remain sad; I ask myself often how my comrade LeBlond and I had been able to reach Ornes.
We succeeded in reaching Bras toward two o'clock: the village was violently bombarded—human bodies and horses blocked the streets.
I went to pay my respects to General B—— whom I found in his fighting post, surrounded by his officers. He wished us good luck in affectionate terms.
We climbed Côte du Poivre and arrived at Louvemont toward three o'clock in the afternoon. In going through the village, our eyes commenced to be irritated by tear gas: the bombardment was infernal.
It was apparent that the enemy was undertaking a decisive action. The road which we traversed was hammered by numerous projectiles and there was nothing for us to do but forge ahead like automatons——
LeBlond had taken my arm, and, together, it was decided not to stop before any obstacle——
The nearer we approached Chambrettes the more dense became the fire.
At four o'clock the enemy piled up a barrage on the road and concentrated their fire on the farm: it rained projectiles of all calibers—of all big calibers, I know.
In a circle of 325 yards radius, there fell, certainly, four marmites every second, of a caliber equal or superior to 21 centimeters. The ground trembled and a smoke, acrid and suffocating, enveloped us.
The 150 timed-shell from time to time rent the air with their furious screams like those of a cat when you step on its tail——
During my whole campaign never have I seen an equal density of fire.
Torn bodies of skirmishers were scattered here and there in this zone of almost certain death. Continuing our way we had escaped death more than once in this violent fire. We were covered with spurts of earth from bursting projectiles which fell close to us and those that fell around struck us with ricochetting fragments of steel.
As there was not urgent need of reaching Ornes, we resolved to tarry a few instants in one of the shelters on the farm. We had 175 yards to go in a rain of steel and well-directed fire, or as dizzy a route as the ascension of Mount Cervin, for example.
We entered the telephone post at the precise moment the poilus ascertained all underground lines had been cut——
The shells continued to fall so fast around us that we had the impression of being on the inside of a hermetically sealed autobus rumbling with great speed over a rough pavement.
A projectile burst at one corner of the shelter which crumbled from the force of the explosion and threw us all together in a heap—No panic!
I sensed the feeling that our last hour had come and the men, picking themselves up in silence, crowded into the corners save one who cried, gesticulating with his arms:
"Is—is that what you call a demolishing fire?"
Our objective was Ornes and if it became necessary to die I avowed that I would prefer to fall in the light, my eyes turned toward the sun. "If die we must," I say to LeBlond, on leaving the dugout, "I would rather be killed outside——"
"I am with you——"
Again we traveled over a space of 350 yards in a haze of fire and smoke——
A marmite fell a few steps away, covering us with dirt—I see my comrade stagger, struck on the head with a large mass. Fortunately it is only a ball of turf which knocks him violently to the ground——
He picks himself up, and in a ringing voice:
"Yes, if that one will not get me a vacation, now, you will not be very chic!"
Some hours later we reached Ornes, having had to go through the barrage at Chambrettes, and another, of 305's, on the cavernous road along Chaume Wood. This road, so quiet a few days before, had become a veritable hell.
The village of Ornes, itself, was relatively calm that night, the infantry attacks not having begun up to the present, only between the Meuse and Herbebois Wood. The poilus waited calmly all events that might be forthcoming, always ready to do their duty stoically and simply——
I had promised General B—— to give him news of our sector during the night, all the telephonic means of communication having been destroyed.
Again I traversed the entire road from Ornes to Bras; at Chambrettes the spectacle was fairy-like—our batteries on the one side fired in unison and their flashes illumined the heavens. In front of us the soaring shells came thick and fast from the forest of Spincourt and Forges Wood, intermittently brightening the darkness like a luminous pianotage, giving one the impression that every ten square yards there was an enemy battery.
The sky was ablaze on the horizon—it was the burning villages——
Yes, they began well the great battle, the greatest battle in the history of the world——
THE DAY OF February 22, 1916.
Our impressions were precise, the battle was going to be rude. The enemy had accumulated a formidable heavy artillery, to which it seemed impossible to respond for the moment.
They sent over as many 210's as they formerly had 77's and as many 280's, 305's, 380's, and 420's as they had 105's and 150's.
The men all felt immediately at the beginning of the battle that the enemy would be stopped only by mere brute strength——
AT NOON IN A CELLAR IN THE VILLAGE OF CUMIÈRES.
During a very heavy bombardment we were lunching. We had a basket of oysters that came from Verdun. The merchant sold out his wares so that he could flee with the townspeople—The city is empty.
"Allons, if the oysters last, it will be possible to withstand the blow!—--"
ROAD TO ORNES—NINE O'CLOCK AT NIGHT
The number of dead men and horses along the road to Ornes has increased——
The intensity of enemy artillery fire has not diminished, and the sound of the battle reaches farther to the right——
We pass wounded, alone or in little groups, dragging themselves to the rear——
CHAUME WOOD—TEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT
A cry!
"Here—help!"
We stopped——
This cry is repeated several times. I enter the Wood. Guided by the sound of the voice and climbing over shattered and twisted trees, I end by discovering a human form cowering in a shell-hole——
"You're wounded?"
"Yes, in the head, the arms, in the legs and the heart——"
"Mon vieux, you bawl too much to be really wounded. Get up!"
The unfortunate arose and I read fear in his eyes.
"Where do you come from?"
"From Herbebois—they attacked with their flame-throwers—I saw my brother lieutenant, burning like a torch. My comrades stayed, but I know nothing more——"
THE MAGNIFICENT POILU, CHAMBRETTES.
February 22, 1916.
A column of infantry-munitions wagons halted at the fork in the road from Beaumont and Ornes; a 305 shell had dug a deep crater in the road which was cut in two.
These light wagons, in good order, could pass neither to the right nor to the left of the hole on account of wire entanglements.
Observed by the enemy, the convoy, after some moments, met with a veritable rain of projectiles, time and percussion, which fell around us.
Men, horses and mules were killed or wounded. A poilu spontaneously took command of the column, his immediate superiors having been killed. The beasts reared and plunged, frightened by the flashes and explosions which succeeded each other rapidly. The men clinging to the bridles were killed on the spot before they could make a move!
A little soldier is lifted high by his frantic mule, which stands, straight up on its hind feet. He curses, he yells, while the timed shell churn the air with wailings like a dying child——
"I say you will not go back—at a time like this, you mules must not go back!"
A few seconds later he and his mule are on the ground, fastened, one to the other, by the bridle: the shell which killed him has almost stripped his body of clothes. I also was thrown to the ground, but I am not hit——
Bending over the man, I attempt to find, but vainly, his identification tag, so that some day the name of this obscure hero may be known——
The mule, stretched out at full length, essays to raise its head, still grasped by the hands of the corpse, and gives a couple of useless kicks——
It commences to snow——
THE DAY OF FEBRUARY 23, ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.
The major, commanding Ornes, says to me:
"This is what must be done! Our left has completely collapsed and we can be flanked at any moment. I have sent a reconnaissance to Herbebois Wood; the patrol has returned and tells me no one is there any longer——
"As you know the sector perfectly, you must go to Louvemont yourself to inform the Division of our situation. Take someone with you so that if one is killed the other can carry the information just the same! Be careful along the Chaume Wood, because from here to Chambrettes, you will meet up with a boche patrol. It has now become a first-line position. Keep your revolver in your hand——"
"Yes, major."
"Go, my friend."
"Thank you."
"Good luck——"
THE MATCHLESS POILUS, BEFORE CHAUME WOOD.
February 23, 1918.
The road from Ornes, before Chaume Wood, has assumed a fantastic appearance! The trees are fallen and the branches are entangled——
The beautiful countryside has become chaotic following this avalanche of projectiles of the preceding days. The bombardment is always frightful. The snow which has fallen the night before makes going bad and one slips and stumbles incessantly. How difficult it is to follow such a road at night when you haven't slept for three days!
Again I have been made a scout and I ask myself if I will be not soon, in my turn, one of these hideous corpses which I pass each instant and which have been snapped up by death along this damned road. It seems now as if the shells were searching you out and rifle bullets followed you——
In the semi-moonlit shadow I perceive two stretcher-bearers caught by death as they carry their wounded; the one in the lead is on his knees, the other already down, both clutching the handles of the litter.
I continue my route. Before arriving at the bifurcation of the two roads to Ornes and Beaumont, I cannot longer recognize my direction, so great has been the change in the aspect of the surroundings during the last three days.
I overtake two men who, en pères peinards,[22] happy at meeting someone, suggest we go together. They walk without haste; the terrain has become very difficult to follow and it is dark——
Suddenly one of them makes a false step, he has not seen an immense shell-hole, and he falls forward head first——
His comrade, on the edge of the crater, bursts with laughter.
"You're not crazy. You know well enough the subway is closed at this time of night!"
AT THE WEST CORNER OF CHAUME WOOD, MIDNIGHT.
"Who goes there?"
"France!"
Some poilus hastily cross a part of the trench at the border of the Wood. The officer in command of them is one of my old comrades at Eparges——
"Tell me the news. How is it going?"
"I was going to ask the same question?"
"It's the third day. The attack will be held!"
"Yes, it must be held!"
We embraced each other and parted—I have never seen him again!
ON THE ROAD FROM CHAMBRETTES TO LOUVEMONT.
February 23, 1916.
Two men go along the road with a heavy step—we follow them.
"It's serious—but we'll get 'em. What an attack!"
"What a difference from Champagne!"
They stopped before a corpse, curled in a heap; he had certainly fallen to-day because we had not noticed him yesterday. With his big bloated lips and blackened face he might have been taken for a negro——
"How curious is the problem of life and death! Why him and not us?"
"Poor chap, poor old fellow. Let's go——"
THE POILU WHO HADN'T ANY SUSPENDERS.
The day of February 24, 1916.
The cannonade is frightful. There is a dumbfounding fire along the route—and we are right in the midst of the stricken zone.
"Look out, my friend, please don't stop, we'll all be shot to pieces——"
"I must pull up my pants—they've fallen down—I haven't got any suspenders——"
"You are not even reasonable—during such days we are living in historic moments—you can use twine just as well——"
THE PSYCHOLOGICAL POILU, ORNES.
February 24, 1916.
It is night——
The sky is ablaze to our left. They will perhaps attack at any moment. Shells rain around us four at a time and at regular intervals.
As the positions on our left have been forced back and our flank menaced, Chabert's sappers have hastily dug a small trench at the entrance to the village, facing the west.
The poilus are waiting stoically for whatever may transpire. A man is curled up and, numb with fatigue, sleeps. One of his companions shakes him and says:
"Mon vieux, you cannot sleep. Wake up, because each minute we hold them now, it is a VICTORY!"
WOUNDED, BEZONVAUX.
Night of February 24-25, 1916.
Our artillery no longer responds. The order to fall back was given at five o'clock. My men are moving toward Verdun, conducted by Sergeant Thiébaut. I stop at Bezonvaux, hoping to find there my comrade Chabert. I have promised his mother, who has only this boy, that I will watch over him like a brother——
Followed by Corporal Poulet, who has remained with me, I wander around in the violently bombarded village. I enter the empty homes abandoned by their inhabitants, where our poor soldiers, tired out and saying nothing, lie stretched out on the floors. The big marmites arrive at regular intervals, crushing houses and occupants——
Finally I end by discovering one of Chabert's sappers and say to him:
"Where is your lieutenant? Take me to him!"
"I don't know where he is—I believe he has been killed——"
The night is black and the air is filled with smoke and dust. One stumbles above all on plaster and bricks——
Sinister detonations and cries and groans. There is, in the air, the breath of catastrophe, yes, of catastrophe, which oppresses your chest.
The man who guides us is lost—he goes and comes, he makes us take wide detours, he is afraid and is nervous——
A large projectile falls at our side—the poilu is knocked down, giving vent to a raucous cry as he falls. I fall myself to my knees and feel the heat of blood which runs down my chest. My left hand rests on the body of the sapper and I am conscious of it covered with warm blood——
Poulet raises me up, giving me a drink of brandy. Stray bullets whistle around us——
I am only slightly wounded and take Poulet's arm to direct ourselves toward Fort Douaumont where I will have it dressed.
How long and sad is this road. It is a veritable Calvary for me and I stagger lamentably; these last days have proven almost too much——
"Lieutenant, why doesn't our artillery respond any more?" Poulet asked me several times.
"I do not know, mon petit, we are going through grave times, but we must not get discouraged. Have confidence!"
CÔTE-DE-L'OIE.
February 25, 1916.
Someone who must be amazed is the surgeon-in-chief of Gondrecourt!
I arrived at his hospital in the early morning in Colonel Gency's automobile, who announced my coming by telephone——
A hospital attendant tore off my tunic, cut off my shirt, baring a bloody chest——
"We are going to give you an anti-tetanus injection, radiograph you, and to commence with, I'm going to call the surgeon-in-chief——"
While the attendant was gone, I hurriedly dressed myself and left—English fashion. Luckily Colonel Gency's automobile was still there. I had no fear of pain, or the boches, but I don't like doctors!
I went through Cumières like a shooting star would pierce a rain of projectiles and sought refuge at Côte-de-l'Oie, where I know they will not come to search for me——
FEAR, CUMIÈRES.
February 25, 1916.
Fear ... Oh! terrible thing! It is a contagious malady that has to be watched. All of us have inside a cowardly beast that awakens sometimes at the approach of danger——
Very violent bombardment to-day. The two chauffeurs who brought me here this morning left the machine at the entrance to the village. On returning from Côte-de-l'Oie I found them in a sappers' bombardment shelter where they sought refuge.
These men are green and grumble about things. Around them are some poilus and a captain. The explosions outside redouble and I feel as if the whole world was ill at ease.
The two automobilists, to put on a bold front, speak of their machine "which must be demolished by this time" or "which must have been torn to pieces long ago," and by the trembling of their voices I divine that they are thinking of themselves in speaking of the "automobile."
Little by little the others chatted about the effect of the bombardment and they discovered that the dugout was not very solid and that an accident could easily happen. The captain appeared to me nervous and at once I felt that strange thing burning within me——
This anguish that grew inside is perhaps the result of these last days of fatigue during which we had not been able to rest an instant, day or night. It is, perhaps, the result of my wound of last night which still bleeds and makes my shirt stick to my body——
No, it is these two cowards, these two birds of bad luck that make us shiver——
At such times "you have got to kill fear," or one is lost. The means? Get out of this hole! the pretext——
I found it when the two chauffeurs recommenced their old story:
"Oh! our machine—how it is being riddled!"
"You," I said to him, "you sicken me with your machine. I'll wager that there is nothing the matter with it. Go and see and we'll find out for certain! It is not an order that I give you, but only that when the question is settled in your mind, you will leave us in peace——"
The cannonade grew worse at this moment and there was a literal downpour of shells in the village——
"You are not going? Then I'm going myself—and at least I will not have to listen to you any longer——"
I started toward the stairs when I heard LeBlond's voice in back of me, which said:
"You are crazy—you have vowed to get killed—it is suicide——"
I looked him in the eyes, to the depth of his soul, and murmured:
"I've got to—I want to go. Stay here!"
I went out. Nothing was said, but all looked at me, stupefied——
Ah! mes enfants, how it fell!
When I took the first steps outside my legs trembled and I believed I would be incapable of accomplishing the task I had imposed upon myself. Fear shook me. I walked along the street. Gradually I felt stronger. Suddenly, after a few minutes' walk, I felt as calm as if I had been walking along a promenade at Nice——
Despite the flurry, the smoke and brick dust which I had to breathe, I continued the route, taking pleasure in my folly, experiencing an unhealthy and dangerous joy——
Soon, I found myself at the side of the machine which had not been touched, but an unexploded 100-shell was half buried on its flank——
I lifted the shell out and, carrying it in my arms, took the road for the shelter. The returning was effected like my going, through a cloud of dust and smoke of bursting projectiles. Never had a walk done me so much good and when I entered the dugout with my "precious souvenir" I thought:
"This time I am armored!"
I walked through the group of men and deposited the shell on the captain's table.
"What was that you said? You are both chumps and your machine is uninjured, but I found this alongside of it. I make you a present of it so it will be a reminder of to-day——"
And immediately they smiled and became themselves again——
K. C., VERDUN.
February 28, 1916.
It is night, but a terrible night—the battle is unchained. The heavens, black as ink, are brightened each instant by the flashes of explosions.
German shells which fall in the city make a louder noise than during the preceding days, as if they broke in a cellar——
Not a cry—not a wail—stoicism——
On the roads around the city there is a great bustle of camions, gun carriages and caissons. Then there is the hasty shuffling of troops going into action to-night, and who will relieve their comrades holding the line over there.
All these movements are made silently, without cries, without useless words, but everything moves rapidly——
I direct myself toward the city, when suddenly a small machine stops at my side. A man of athletic stature, who was seated at the chauffeur's side, jumps lightly out of the machine and approaches me.
He flashes his electric pocket lamp, no doubt to see who I am. At first I had taken him for an Englishman, by reason of his khaki uniform.
"Officer?" he said to me.
"Yes, what can I do for you? You are English?"
"No, American."
"American!"
"Yes, I'm a K. C."
"Cassé![23] Who is it that is hurt?"
I said this with such an accent of chagrin and almost of despair, that he broke into a loud laugh.
"No, not cassé, but K. of C.," and he held up his sleeve on which were found the two letters.
He then spoke volubly enough in English, of which I could not understand a single word, but which certainly must have been of lively interest, to judge by the heat of his discourse. Fortunately he continued in French:
"Lost the road——"
"Where are you going?"
"Fort Souville——"
"What are you doing?"
"We are picking up the wounded of the Second Army. We must go quick——"[24]
"Yes, time is money——"
"No, time is blood."
"I will give you one of my men who will accompany you——Thiébaut, take these gentlemen to Fort Souville, by the Etain road——"
"Thank you!"
"One second! I wish I could talk English so that I could commend you for what you are doing. Then, you Americans have crossed the ocean to mix in this hell and to succor our wounded——Wait! You are a fine type, and I am proud to grasp your hand! Good luck!"
"Good-bye—Good luck to you!"
SOUILLY.
February 28, 1916.
An uninterrupted file of camions extends from Bar-le-Duc to Verdun. It is like an endless chain which never stops day or night.
A poilu, who is breaking stones in the road, says to his neighbor:
"This battle will be called in history, 'the Battle of Camions.'"
THE DETERMINED POILUS, VERDUN, BEVAUX BARRACKS.
March 1, 1916.
I have just left "General Quarters" and meet two poilus of the 20th Corps.
"Where are the trenches?"
"What trenches——?"
"The trenches where they are fighting."
"We are returning from vacation and want to be in it!"
"It is twelve miles from here."
"We can do that easily on foot—we will be guided by the sound of the cannon."
THE SUMMIT OF DEAD MAN'S HILL.
March 2, 1916.
There is nothing to say, but we desired to keep in touch with some poilus in a bombardment dugout 225 yards from the spot where we now are. The communicating trench is blocked up and it is in full view that we have to leap over this stretch of ground——
It was toward the end of the day, but one could yet see very well. Scarcely had we gone a step along the road to Béthincourt than Guéneau, LeBlond and myself were seen by the boches. They turned their cannon and machine-guns on us—yes, three 105's which came over seemed deposited by hand. The first covered us with earth at some yards to our left; the second fell a short distance to the right on the edge of the road.
"Let's get out of here, les copains,[25] fifty yards farther—quick!"
In a few bounds we were away from that dangerous spot. The third shell burst, in effect, exactly on the place we had just left——
We are at this instant at the point where the road from Béthincourt starts to the top of Dead Man's Hill. A little wagon is turned upside-down, with the stiffened remains of the horse and its swollen belly still in the shafts.
We just had time to crawl into a shell-hole behind the carcass which hid us from the enemy and served as a shield. Our protector gave off nauseating puffs of a very rich scent:
"It is drôle," observed Guéneau, "that Dead Man is nothing but a rotting horse!"
CARNAVAL! DEAD MAN'S HILL.
March 7, 1916.
The cannonade was elaborate to-day—What desolation! This moonlighted scenery would sadden you profoundly—enough that man be that heartless he can utterly destroy and ruin nature beautiful, even to the very roots. The machine-guns sputter intermittently. Someone shouts:
"Ah! Wonderful! How strange it is!"
"What is the matter with you?"
"Lieutenant, to-day is Mardi Gras!"
IMAGINATIVE EXPRESSIONS, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
The sector is being frightfully bombarded and all one can do is to wait for the attack——
"Good morning, mon petit, is it going?——"
"Yes, lieutenant, it's bad in the aquarium—has been that way all morning. I've changed my sex three times since you saw me a short while ago——"
Ravin des Fontaines (Verdun) during bombardment.
MY ORDERLY HABERT, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
I have just returned from Verdun, worn out by fatigue, at the beginning of the afternoon, with the idea of getting a few hours sleep in the silent and empty house of Monsieur Louis. Habert, alone, had not left it. I had taken him as an orderly for the reason he was the father of five children. Besides, he is not a warrior and it is plainly uncomfortable for him to wait on us when the shells break around Rue sur-l'eau.[26]
I am dying with envy to get into bed. I climb the stairs to the first floor where the bed is made. Habert has found a pretext not to accompany me——
The shells whistled angrily and fell thick and fast on the city. They seemed to say: "Ah! you wish to sleep—but just try it." At the end of a few seconds I slept profoundly——
What good sleep, what a deep sleep, during which Death itself would come without one knowing it——
I had, nevertheless, the vague sensation of having been shaken and left dizzy by an explosion that prevented my making a movement. I finished by opening my eyes. The room was yet filled with dust and smoke; the window frame and part of the wall were thrown on the quilt! It was with difficulty that I could extricate myself and I shouted:
"Habert! Habert!"
Not a reply——
Immediately I imagined that the poor boy had been killed. My clothes had been scattered around the room and I descended the stairs four at a time without taking the time to even put on my trousers——
"Habert! Habert!"
He wasn't in the dining-room, nor in the kitchen where there were some broken glasses——
I opened the cellar door. The rascal was behind it with a bottle of my prune brandy in one hand and a little glass in the other——
"Nom de Dieu! I catch you at it! You carry away and drink my prune brandy while your lieutenant is shelled in bed. To-morrow you will go into the first-line trenches, misérable—to the trenches, you understand me——"
I read in his mocking eyes with his half-penitent air:
"I'm easy about it, you like my chicken fricassée too well."
A REGAL DINNER, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
"Habert, we have as guests to-night, two colonels! Dinner on the table at seven o'clock and let everything be perfect.
"Your assistant and yourself will be in white from head to foot: breeches, jacket, socks, shoes and white gloves."
"Good, lieutenant."
"That is not all—wait before you speak—rice powder on your hair, so that it will all be regal—your hair well combed. Have you got a comb?"
"Yes, lieutenant."
"By the way, you have never told me—do you know how to use a tooth brush?——"
"To shine the brass?"
"They use them also for other things—I want a candelabrum on the table and have the candlesticks polished. Now for the menu—No, I forgot the flowers. You will find them in the basket that came from Bar-le-Duc with the provisions—Where was I?"
"The menu, lieutenant."
"Ah, yes. Appetizers—four or five different kinds—oysters, tomato soup, grilled sole, chicken fricassée—your specialty—goose livers and romaine salad, fruit, dessert, coffee.
"Wine! The best that père Louis has left us—with the goose livers, the champagne—with coffee my prune brandy, but be ready and if I call you be prompt. A roaring fire on the hearth—Good!"
"Lieutenant, I do not believe that will be enough—I would serve a steak before the chicken——"
At the appointed time we go to search for Colonels Peigné and Benoit, who have not left the cellars in the Citadel since the beginning of the offensive, that is to say for three weeks—and they underwent a nerve-racking siege of it——
We brought them through the city and then "home" by the Rue-sur-l'eau. During the meal we thanked them several times for having accepted our modest repast so graciously.
Ah! Our "modest dinner!" And we all "vaccinated the tomato" as Habert called it. Soon there was no thought of bombardment and all the preoccupations—What a feast!
They spoke of it a long time, it appears, in the humid cellars of the Citadel....
THE PILLAGER, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
It is night! I have just walked through Verdun, which is always being bombarded. As I was passing in front of a house, I heard a noise inside, the door was half-open—I entered the hallway——
In the bedroom at the side there was a series of loud noises as if someone was trying to move furniture——
I open the door. I flash my electric torch and perceive a soldier lugging a large wooden chest like a common house thief.
He has not seen me, but turns brusquely at the flash of the light. He is kneeling on the floor and regards me fixedly.
"What are you doing there? Surely it is your sister's house or you wouldn't be kneeling that way! Perhaps I interrupt you?"
He shot me a wicked glance and looked furious at having been caught in flagrant wrong.
"That's not right, what you're doing there, no, it's not right."
"I do nothing wrong, I came here to sleep for a few hours on a bed!"
"In the meanwhile you make enough clatter to wake the neighbors, if there are any, and visit the storeroom——"
"I'm doing nothing wrong, I assure you——"
"We will talk it over! I am wondering why I didn't blow out your brains when I found you pillaging the home of poor people—Here you soil the glory and honor of your comrades. Go! you disgust me!"
"Me also, I have been through hell like the others, and perhaps to-morrow I shall be killed—yes, I will be killed, I swear it. I'm honest—I no longer know what I'm doing. It's true it's not right. What must I do? I've seen all sides of it—I know no more. Arrest me—here I am!"
"Go join your comrades! Go quick. You have time to make reparation—you know what. This secret will rest between you and me. Now go!"
The man took himself away without daring to look back and I watched him disappear into the night——
PRECIPITOUS DEPARTURE, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
To-day I returned to Verdun, and LeBlond and I have taken a rest in the comfortable home of M. and Mme. Louis.
These worthy persons quit the city with the former's sister, Mme. Joannie, and Habert, our orderly, watches the premises.
We have just received a letter from Mme. Joannie dated at Bar-le-Duc, recounting at length her terror and vexation happily over. She must have left so precipitously the necessaries and also the superfluities! She requested us to make a visit to her room and forward the more important objects we should come across.
We then entered her room and apart from a few broken glasses everything was still arranged as it was on the day of her departure. Dresses, trinkets, yellow photographs, stuffed animals, dignifiedly seemed to be awaiting her return——
In a corner of the sideboard—her false teeth! Poor, poor Mme. Joannie, you must have been afraid to have abandoned them!
"She was afraid of swallowing them," said Habert, between his teeth.
THE POILU WHO LOOKED FOR A "GOOD" WOUND,
VERDUN (RIGHT BANK).
March, 1916.
We are at work in a narrow position, at the entrance to Tavannes Tunnel. The bombardment is incessant and the air this morning is saturated with that odor of ether and sour apples which we have all breathed down there——
One of my poilus, his helmet resting on his ears, strikes a blow with ardor, although he appears to be in a very bad humor, I assure you—There is no doubt about it for a single instant, seeing him sink the stakes anchoring the wire entanglement with heavy blows of the hammer as if he wanted to smash them——
A 105 arrived, breaking a few yards from him, a large fragment skidded on the ground, hitting him on the head——
I see the man make a bound and fall flat on the ground——
With his two hands he tears off his blue helmet, completely crushed, and, contemplating it with bitterness, cries out:
"Damn!—with that, I'll never be sent to the rear!"
THE POETIC POILU.
March, 1916.
In a dirty sector on a beautiful, sunshiny day——
"Ah! there you are, mon gros, why are you all dressed up?"
"I leave on vacation, lieutenant."
"Where are you going?"
"Paris."
"Lucky fellow! When you get there what will give you the greatest pleasure after all the hardships you have endured?"
"A woman's smile!"
THE POILU WHO NEVER SMILES, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
This morning I was with a group of soldiers, laughing and joking with them. The newspapers had brought us good news and our joy manifests itself in loud bursts of laughter——
A man was seated aside from the others and had an absent and gloomy look. My attention had been drawn immediately by the expression of despair which one could easily read on his features. I lowered my voice and said:
"Look, sergeant, what is the matter with that poilu? He cannot enjoy himself and laugh like the others? His face is drawn and pale! Can you explain that——"
"Well, lieutenant, one night he had instructions that were not clear and a patrol came back into our lines. He believed it was the boches and fired. He killed a close friend——
"From that time he has always been sad and several times I noticed he cried at night. You will see, one of these days he will do away with himself——"
HOW THEY LIVE AND HOW THEY DIE,
TAVANNES TUNNEL.
March 15, 1916.
Tavannes Tunnel, everyone will tell you, leaves a memory of hell. It constitutes a natural shelter for troops in reserve in the sector of Vaux. The enemy bombarded the extremities of the Tunnel with gas shell and those of a large caliber——
During the long months we had dead piled up at the entrance to these villainous holes, because access was had by means of two passageways, opening to the sky, with each side of the rocky walls very abrupt——
When shells burst in this limited space, it was impossible to get under cover and the corpses of our dead accumulated at the two outlets of the Tunnel!
Those who met in Tavannes Tunnel must have hated the spot. They groped around blindly awaiting anything!
At times, I believed myself that I would be one of these kind of bugs, black and stinking, that one crushed under foot!
One day the moment arrived to send re-inforcements to a place very near there. There was nothing to say but get going immediately! A sergeant took command of the little column——
"Forward, mes enfants!"
The cannonade raged and it was "bad" outside—The 150 timed-shell and the big 210 percussion shell followed each other rapidly, searching out the more nervy ones——
The sergeant left the Tunnel first, briskly ascending the incline, believing he was followed by his men. He turns and perceives they are not there—yet!
"Nom de Dieu! what are you doing, you laggards! Are you coming to-day or to-morrow!"
They came out, the poilus, but with head and back bent as if under a shower of rain. They hurried, without precipitation, because of the steep climb. Now that they have left the Tunnel, they are all right——
They creep along worm-like and the file of men, like beads on a rosary, extends from the entrance to the Tunnel to the waiting sergeant.
Suddenly an explosion, flurry, smoke—right in their midst, les pauvres!
For some instants they all disappear in the cloud—but there is "horizon blue," crumpled bodies and a spinning helmet——
Finally the cloud clears away; there are still some men around him and the sergeant shouts again:
"Nom de Dieu! you laggards! Are you coming to-day or to-morrow!"
They hurry on, striding over the bodies of their comrades who have fallen——
Verdun and the Meuse, March 23rd, 1916.
ANXIOUS HOURS, VERDUN.
March, 1916.
To-night we sent one of our men to the Citadel of Verdun to send a package of papers to Colonel Benoit.
We were at table—Habert lighted the lamp and night had fallen. Our orderly had scarcely placed the rabbit stew on the table than three violent raps were heard at the door.
An old Territorial, with a dejected air, entered the dining-room, and we saw by his bearing he came to announce a misfortune——
"What is it you have, mon petit?"
"Are you Lieutenant Capart?"
"Yes——"
"I am returning your papers—we found them on the man who carried them—he has just been killed and your name was seen at the top of the papers and I brought them to you."
"Our sapper has been killed! How did it happen?"
"The shell struck him squarely, killing three other poilus. He is in shreds, lieutenant. Good night, lieutenant——"
LeBlond and I were astounded at the death of this brave boy, who had just left us. With sadness we turned over the papers in his handwriting and covered with his blood. Habert's features were pale and dejected.
The news extinguished our appetites and we sat gloomy and silent before the excellent meal Habert had prepared for us——
An hour later one of our poilus arrived by the Rue-sur-l'eau, and said to us:
"You know the news?"
"Yes, we have heard the sad thing—Pauvre petit——"
"He sends his respects to you, lieutenant, and asks if you have received your papers all right——"
"Voyons, voyons—whom are you talking about?"
"But—about your secretary——"
"We were just informed he had been killed——"
"No, lieutenant! he was slightly wounded in the arm and will be away a few days on leave. These Territorials from the South of France always see the dark side of things——"
Our supper was spoiled that night, but we breathed easier——
COCO, VERDUN.
March 25, 1916.
I left the region of Verdun to-day. An order calls me to Paris. I decided to bring Coco with me, because Coco is the "last civilian in Verdun."
The poor little parrot is ill at ease in his cage since Madame Louis went away and since the bombardment of the city began.
When window panes were smashed his feathers bristled up and his frail little body began to tremble——
I placed the cage in the machine that takes me to Bar-le-Duc—Repeatedly during the journey the bird cries:
"To Hell with the Crown Prince!"
It is surely Habert who has taught him this new "song"——
[CHAPTER SEVEN]
THE RECAPTURE OF FORT DOUAUMONT AND THE ATTACK OF PEPPER HILL
The author assisted in two important episodes of the great war. On October 24, 1916, he flew over Fort Douaumont with Major Armengaud at the precise moment the poilus swarmed over it after eight months' of incessant battle. The first men who entered Douaumont were the same sappers of the 19th Company, 2nd Engineers, with whom the author fought at Grande Dune. (Chaps. I and III.)
It is during this period that the author was appointed first lieutenant in July and Captain in October after the capture of Douaumont.
On December 15, 1916, Captain Capart was at Pepper Hill during the victorious advance of the French.
CHAPTER SEVEN
STORY OF A PAIR OF BOOTS, BAR-LE-DUC.
June 6, 1916.
I have just dined with General Pétain. I find myself in the little home of M. and Mme. Lévy, where I have put up during the last days of our sojourn in this city.
I occupy a pretty room looking out on the garden, at which I look every morning on awakening——
Seated on my bed, I do not think of sleep, but let my thoughts wander, fixedly regarding the flame of my candle!
All at once my eyes rest on the new boots which I have bought the same morning in Paris.
I begin to laugh. It had been very apparent to me that all my comrades had admired them——
Yes, I recall, when the general was talking to me, I heard one of them say to the other:
"What wonderful boots!"
That is not all! I got ready for bed—From to-morrow a new life opened for me—I began with the boots.
I unlaced them, but perceived with despair that, in spite of energetic efforts, I could not pull them off my feet——
Unnerved and swearing like a madman, using the furniture as a buttress, I painfully succeeded in getting one off—but the other? Impossible!
This damned boot did not seem to understand—I heard a noise in the room above. Decidedly it is M. and Mme. Lévy who are frightened!
The next day at seven o'clock in the morning, my orderly, Lefèvre, entered my room. He opened his mouth very wide on finding his lieutenant in a pretty white bed, a leg swinging over the side with a new boot on it——
MY LIFE BELONGS TO YOU! BAR-LE-DUC.
June 8, 1916.
"Capart!"
I turned around. It is he! I saluted respectfully.
"Are you settled?"
"Yes, general. I am glad for this opportunity alone to tell you how grateful I am for having been appointed by you. You can count on me no matter what circumstance. Ask of me what you will, my life belongs to you, general, I give it to you——"
Our glances met, and he said:
"I know it."
THE REGIMENT WHICH PASSES, NETTANCOURT.
July, 1916.
The sun has just come up—I open my eyes. I am not wrong, it is the blowing of bugles that wakens me——
I jump out of bed and fling the large window clear up—my room is flooded with light——
It is a regiment which is passing—it comes straight from Dead Man's Hill. Our poilus are tanned, but their faces are worn——
"My poor poilus, your uniforms are covered with dry mud, but you are magnificent——!"
The band plays "Sambre and Meuse" and I am so affected that I throw myself on the bed and sob like a child.
A LITERAL TRANSLATION, CAMP MAILLY.
July, 1916.
I was assisting at some trench-mortar tests which have lasted several days. The President of the Republic, accompanied by a large suite, honored us by his visit to-day.
The camp presented an extremely unique aspect by reason of the great number of Russian officers and men, which one sees everywhere.
Out of consideration for the visit of M. Poincaré, a Russian Battalion gave an exhibition drill. When the President passed it in review, the Slavic troops became clamorous. They shouted in Russian something which must have meant:
"Long live the President of the French Republic."
From their gestures one of our poilus was explaining the meaning to one of his comrades in back of me.
"Hear what the Russians said to the President:
"'You have seen me in the little bar around the corner.'"
AS THEY GO, A LITTLE VILLAGE IN THE ARGONNE.
August, 1916.
The priest of R—— has invited me to have coffee with him. The kindly old man saw the German invasion in 1914. He had been rudely treated in his native hamlet, and he appeared—when one saw the ruins—to have had many days of grief. Two days of battle and this was all he knew of war!
The boches, on retiring, had set fire to four corners of the village and everything had been burned, save his church where he permitted some German wounded to seek shelter.
Our troops triumphantly entered the smoking ruins of the village at night——
"My brave boys," the priest said to them, "I embrace you and thank God——"
The poilus, stirred with the feverish lust of pursuit, demanded:
"Any Germans here?"
One of the men, gone completely mad, shouted:
"Where are they? I'll stick this bayonet through 'em——"
Then someone said:
"There are wounded in the church."
"I pleaded with them," the old priest said.
"My children, they are our enemies, but respect the wounded!"
"The wounded!" roared the other, "the wounded! I'll cut 'em to pieces!"
"They all followed me like a pack of hounds," the priest went on, "and I prayed to God for aid.
"The first one we saw, on entering the church, was a Bavarian stretched out in a pool of blood. Rolling his eyes up at me, he muttered:
"'A drink—I'm thirsty——'
"'Nom de Dieu, father, so you let your wounded die of thirst—that's a rotten trick! Here! drink this—you!' the poilu said, handing his canteen to the boche——"
HE! NETTANCOURT.
August, 1916.
"Since you are fighting near him—what is he?"
"Persevering;
"Energetic;
"Triumphant;
"Ardent;
"Intrepid;
"Nil-melior!"[27]
THE OLD TERRITORIAL ON SENTRY DUTY AT THE
MONTMIRAL RAILROAD CROSSING.
September, 1916.
I left Paris during the night in an automobile and am returning to General Quarters. I have fallen asleep on the way——
A brusque stop! I open my eyes——
An old territorial flashes a lantern in my face—a railroad track crossed the road——
"What is the name of this place, mon petit?"
"This place, captain, is—the railroad crossing!"
THE EVE OF THE RECAPTURE OF FORT DOUAUMONT.
October 23, 1916.
Major Armengaud and I left Nettancourt this morning by airplane to assist in the operations about to be unloosed before Verdun.
The weather is uncertain and some large running clouds are above us. Before landing at Lemme, it had been decided that we would make a short incursion over the lines——
Here is the Meuse! The two banks of the battlefield appear to me yellowish gray with the Douaumont Hill tinted red.
The cannonade is raging—I see the vivid flashes of shells leaving the guns and I hear loud detonations above the noise of the motor——
Entrance of Fort Douaumont in July 1915 and April 1917.
The weather is very nasty! Always it is the same thing. It will surely rain to-night!
We flew above St. Michel Hill at the moment when our 400 shell fell on Douaumont and on Vaux, throwing up columns of earth and smoke.
From Fort Douaumont rise big voluted shafts of smoke. Fortunately our artillerymen had found the joint in the armor——
Not a boche avion in the air. What matter! This spectacle is so thrilling, that, for the moment, my machine-gun gets very little use——
The poilus themselves must be there in the trenches, waiting the hour of attack. I cannot see them, but my heart and thoughts go out to them.
I had the impression from that very moment the recapture of Fort Douaumont was certain——
We landed in about an hour without a single incident——
DOUAUMONT.
October 24, 1916.
It is maddening. It is raining. At the aviation field where I am, everybody is effervescent. The first results of the day are magnificent, the poilus advanced along the entire line!
Unluckily it is necessary to renounce any thought of flying and the attendant consternation is general. Some "cuckoos" essayed to go up in the driving rain. They kept close to earth—they flew blindly and were shot at a few times——
We must remain inactive and powerless all day, when the others are participating in the fête!
Toward two-thirty o'clock the dark clouds in the south, part——The "cuckoos" leave their hangars, although many of the pilots are skeptical of the weather——
At three-fifteen a blue canopy in the heavens—at last! The whirring drowns everything—everyone hurries—one after the other they shoot out and take the air. Soon, perhaps, it will be too late——After having described a large circle over the field to gain altitude, they leave in groups, going northward——
Major Armengaud and I have decided to leave in our turn. I am really thrilled, I avow, at the idea of flying during the battle——
Some instants after, roads, flat stretches, forests, flit by beneath us. At the end of ten minutes' flight, we were in a rather thick mist—but what matter——!
We fly over the Meuse to the north of Verdun—we are 4,000 feet high and penetrate a thick cloud. We reach clear space. The air is full of avions—there are more than eighty! Chasse squadrons cross the horizon. The "sausages" are all up as usual. The sky is marvelous. There are vacant spaces of gilded light to our left—Verdun is somewhat in the haze. To the north the sky is clear—I see the most gorgeous spectacle that my eyes have ever beheld! The cannonade thunders and a thousand flashes burst from the mouths of our guns. Our exploding projectiles form a regular and mobile parabola, marking the advance of our troops——
The enemy reacts but feebly and his barrage is laid down over our old lines. Shell-holes filled with water appear like cups brimming with molten gold! To the west the sky is reddish scarlet; to the east all is steel blue——
We return closer to earth. Our barrage has gone beyond Fort Douaumont—our 400's are still breaking on Fort Vaux; great columns of dirt rise more than 125 yards in height——
Douaumont is ours!——
I jumped straight up in my seat; I laughed, I shouted, I wept——
Two avions flew very low. The daring Captain de Beauchamp soared over the du Hély ravine; it looked as if we would skid along the ground——
We circled over the battlefield like a great bird that has discovered its prey and is ready to sweep on it!
The poilus themselves, whom we regarded as the messengers of victory, swarmed around the superstructure of the Fort and signaled us! They waved their handkerchiefs and flapped their great-coats like birds' wings in order that we might recognize them.
I frequently turned to Major Armengaud, shouting:
"Douaumont, Douaumont is ours!"
Suddenly our motor became silent—Armengaud tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and he cried:
"We must land!"
We were at that moment at a fixed altitude and I saw Armengaud twist to the right and to the left in the fuselage, looking for a safe spot to land——
All at once the wind whistled loudly and we assumed a dangerous slant. At certain moments the machine rocked—it did not seem to be going ahead—then it recovered its nose.
"I do not see a place to put it!" Armengaud cried:
"Douaumont, Douaumont is ours!"
It did not matter to me, although we fell; it was perhaps death, but—Douaumont was ours!
The ground seemed to approach very rapidly; Major Armengaud guided his airplane toward a little prairie north of Dugny, bordered by two gullies. We landed easily on the ground, but our "cuckoo" broke a hidden telephone wire——
"Hein! what do you think about it, Capart?"
"What a spectacle—you're an ace, major!"
I jumped at the same moment under the fuselage to connect the telephone wire he had cut. At the same time the major examined his motor—it was a trivial matter and soon repaired!
At the end of half an hour we got the motor running and once more rose in the air.
Darkness fell and the atmosphere was biting cold. The wind sang in the wings of the machine. When we reached the environs of Lemme, above the forest, it seemed as if we were standing still. It became more and more obscure and I asked myself how we could land. It was black below, but, here, it seemed as if we flew through a sea of blue. The woods appeared a sombre tint and the mist which clung to the branches looked like clusters of fleece on Christmas trees——
The little lights underneath us flickered one after the other, enlivening the vista more and more as they grew more numerous. Streams of camions on the different roads resembled long, phosphorescent worms——
Masses of clouds, strung out like attenuated lawn veils, fluttered quickly past, between us and the ground, completing the fantastic sketch——
I turned yet again. Back of us, one could still perceive the last scintillations of the battle! The bursting shell, which we heard no longer, became long, vivid flames that rose above the horizon——
During those hours I experienced the most stirring moments of my life, and one of the greatest epochs in the history of the world! Thanks, dear bird!
We arrived above the aviation field; the major shouted at me:
"Lean over to the right and keep your eyes open——"
We watched the ground closely so as not to be smashed. What matter, once more, because we are still under the spell of the sight we have just seen——
Descending slowly, our eyes commenced to be accustomed to this obscurity. We recognized the contour of the field, and our old "cuckoo" dropped gently on earth——
And that's how we assisted in the recapture of Fort Douaumont!
WHAT PASSES IN YOUR MIND WHEN FALLING
10,000 FEET, VADELAINCOURT.
October 25, 1916.
To-day I went up on a rocket test at a very high altitude. Suddenly one of the rockets burst in the propeller, and it snapped like a pistol shot—the horizontal rudder also was damaged——
The descent commenced by great jerks and it seemed as if the machine would collapse and fall apart——
Flameng, my pilot, made a sign "that it could go very bad with us——" We went through a great cloud and I began to believe we would crash to earth. Despite three accidents in two days, this will be very pretty, I say to myself. I thought that after what I had seen these last three months, it would be absolutely idiotic to die in a bed, and I began to laugh at the idea——
The avion lands like a butterfly on a prairie——
THE MARQUIS AND THE MARCHIONESS, NETTANCOURT.
November, 1916.
We had gone to take a turn around Avocourt Hill; the air was magnificent. We were 7,000 feet high directly above the spot we were going to land——
The major stopped his motor and commenced to descend in circles; I recognized the château, the village, the station——
On a road in the fields, a man, a woman, and a dog—even at this altitude it was impossible not to know them, the three characteristic specimens of a bygone age, more fanciful than Nature herself!
I pointed my finger toward the ground so that Major Armengaud might see them also. He looked and likewise began to laugh——
I swear, it was drôle: like three big flies jigging on the bald head of an old man!——
THE MAN WHO KNOWS THE SECTOR BETTER
THAN ANYONE, AINES.
December 1, 1916.
I am not sure of the road. It is night and as we are close to the lines I stop the machine——
I see a poilu and beckon him over.
"Do you know this territory well?"
"I know this sector better than anyone——"
"How is that?"
"Because I'm the gravedigger of the Regiment!"
PRISONER CHATTER, PEPPER HILL.
December 15, 1916.
Night falls—victorious day—success along the whole line——I go by foot along the road from Louvemont, something I have not done since the first days of the battle of Verdun. The German prisoners and wounded, in their field-gray uniforms, dirty with mud, descend the hill in little groups, their arms raised.
Some of them approach our men, saying:
"War finished—War finished!"
"I believe you're telling tales," was the reply of a poilu.
BRAS, PEPPER HILL.
December 16, 1916.
I assisted yesterday the second attacking party, at Pepper Hill.
I have just passed the night at Froideterre,[28] which has been well named—At dawn the sound of the battle diminished. On leaving the shelter where I had been installed, I saw, a few steps away, an airplane, its tail in the air, that I had noticed the night before——
At Brigade Headquarters I was asked to interrogate two young German officers who had been captured on the backbone of Pepper Hill——
I go back to Bras over the same route that I came. The ruins of the village are flooded with mud. For a whole year, day in and day out, I was once at Bras, but then it was a pretty village with inhabitants——
To-day there is nothing more than ruins, mud and dead bodies——
PRAYER AT NIGHT, A LITTLE VILLAGE
IN SWITZERLAND.
December 26, 1916.
On entering the door, I hear Anne-Marie, who is saying her prayer du soir.
"Lil' Jesus, protect papa, who is at war, mamma, my grandparents, my little brothers——"
"Louder, Anne-Marie, the good God is neutral and does not hear——"
[FOOTNOTES:]
[21] Marmites—German shells of big caliber.—Tr.
[22] As they leave the trenches, muddy, unshaven, dirty, red-eyed.—Tr.
[23] Cassé means wounded, hurt or smashed, and when pronounced sounds very much like "K.C."—Tr.
[24] This is the first time the author saw a member of the Knights of Columbus actively engaged in succoring wounded at the immediate front.—Tr.
[25] A familiar expression, friends or companions.—Tr.
[26] A street in Verdun.—Tr.
[27] The first letter of each word spells Pétain, the general who assumed command at Verdun, finally breaking the thrust of the Crown Prince actually being maneuvered at this time. General Pétain's strategy upset the boche plans, causing them to abandon Verdun as a by-road to Paris.—Tr.
[28] Cold-Ground.—Tr.
[CHAPTER EIGHT]
THE BATTLE OF CHAMPAGNE OF 1917
The author fell seriously ill and spent several weeks from the beginning of January, 1917, in the hospital at Châlons-sur-Marne.
At the end of February, 1917, he again took up his work with General Pétain.
In the attack of Mont-sans-Nom, he accompanied the Morocco Division (Champagne, April 17, 1917).
Captain Capart left France June 2, 1917, for the United States as a member of a Scientific Mission which collaborated with officials of this Government just two months after America became an Ally against Prussianism.
CHAPTER EIGHT
GENERAL GOURAUD'S POILU, CHAMPAGNE.
December, 1916.
General Gouraud, when speaking of his poilus, never fails to tell the following story: "It was during a violent bombardment—The men are in their dugouts, save only the lookouts——
"One of them, every time a shell broke near him, responded with a shot from his rifle, so that several times his comrades, passing by the opening in the shelter, got ready to dash out, believing the enemy was attacking. Finally they shouted at him:
"'Nom de Dieu, what do you mean by shooting like that with your rifle——'
"'Eh! les vieux, I'm laying down a barrage!'"
NENETTE AND RINTININ! CHÂLONS-SUR-MARNE.
March, 1917.
"The morale of our poilus," cried our comrade Delormes, "is simply magnificent!" I have just bought some writing paper at the store of petite Antoinette, who was literally jubilant the moment I entered her shop. She received a letter from her husband, who is fighting on Maisons-de-Champagne Hill. She made me read the missive, which I would like to see awarded a prize by the Academy:
"Do not worry, my Nenette," it read, "we will beat these brutes! Here, our bowels are firm! But what we are doing to them! But above all, don't worry!"
It was signed "Rintintin!"
AT THE HOSPITAL OF CHAUMONT-SUR-ÈRES.
March, 1917.
The poor boy will suffer no longer—he passed away quietly. The nurse is bent over him, and, one after the other, closes his eyes——
She is deeply moved on seeing her poilu go! This exquisite creature, wife of one of our comrades, loves her wounded with all her soul!
Her last one arrived in terrible shape. She remained at his side night and day. Two times he was operated on. At times he was better, at times worse. During his first moment of consciousness, he asked that his wife be summoned——
What difficulty she had in obtaining a complete address and formulating a telegram according to his wishes! Then he murmured:
"She will not arrive too late?"
The nurse had written:
"Your husband is gravely wounded; come quick, but hope for the best."
What a painful journey she would have to endure!
During these days she learned a little more of the life of this man. Every minute she went to see if the wife had not come. She returned close to him.
"Be assured, mon brave, you will get better. She will come. One travels with difficulty these days——"
She exaggerated the slowness of travel and he accepted what she told him; but he whispered:
"Urge her, madame, to come more quickly!"
Then she became impatient—Why did she not come? Some instants after she pitied her: surely she must have had great obstacles—some grim sentinel must have stood in her way—and she might have fallen angry herself thinking of these things.
She often interrogated the doctor and told him very softly:
"I wish she would come right away!"
She knew that the wife of her poilu had three babies to care for—What a catastrophe in this poor laborer's home if he never returned.
Soon she knew there was no longer any hope. "At least," she said to the doctor, "you can keep him alive—she will come——"
The agony was long, very long and the wife did not come. She sent for her again. What could be the matter?
On seeing her dear dead, an ineffable sadness engrossed her and big, silent tears fell from her eyes——
An attendant approached her—she turned her head and wiped her eyes——
"Someone there to see your wounded, madame—" said the man who did not know——
Paralyzed, fixed to the floor, she could not move. She saw coming toward her, shrouded in an impressive silence, a woman—one of those women of France, good mother, good wife, good patriot, accustomed from youth to go through a harsh and bitter life as the wife of a laboring man, with serenity——
She went straight to him. The nurse followed her with her glance. She could no longer see her face, but saw the woman bend a great while over her dead. Of what was she thinking? Of the Calvary of her man, of his wound, of his agony, or rather of her own sadness, or the children for whom she would have to struggle——
She turned and, coming toward her:
"Is it you, madame, who have cared for him? Permit me to kiss you."
It was the nurse who wept——
THE IRREVERENT POILU.
March, 1917.
An élite Division was au repos[29] in a pretty little village on the Meuse where the houses are gray and from where one can hear the cannon at Verdun, like a spring thunderstorm.
General Pétain has gone to spend a few hours with these heroes, accompanied by my worthy comrade de Buisseret.
The mud in Fumin-wood (Verdun)
The brave poilus do not permit themselves the pleasures of complete inactivity. Whatever spot they may find themselves in, they organize and "dig themselves in" as if they must remain for the rest of their lives!
A poilu is working arduously over a little board hut. He has running around him two of his "loves," small pigs, plump and rosy. It is understood they will be eaten, but not before the squad finds them completely "à point."[30] While waiting it is necessary to keep them in a shelter and our poilu will quickly finish the sumptuous dwelling for his favorites.
My comrade, busy looking around while awaiting the general, becomes interested in the conscientious labors of the man——
"Is it for them you are working?"
"Yes, captain, I am making them a wonderful P.C."
THE GENDARMES' SOUP.
March, 1917.
I return from Fort Douaumont and am worn out. An automobile is coming to meet me at Galavaude Bridge and I am waiting for it——
The gendarmes guarding the approaches to the bridge notice that I am fatigued. They approach me, asking if I would not like to sit down.
"Did not someone ask you if Captain Capart had returned?"
"No, captain. Wouldn't you like to come in our home where it will be more agreeable than in the road?"
I entered the home of the gendarmes. On the table, which had been set, several covers had been laid with infinite care. A pot of steaming soup simmered over a smouldering fire——
"Oh!—soup!" I cried, sniffing the air——
"If we dared, captain, we would be happy, very happy, if you would ask for a plate—or better—two plates——"
On saying these words, he lifted the lid of the kettle on the fire; then with a ladle filled the soup plate full to the brim——
The soup was excellent!
Since that day, I always regard les cognes[31] with sympathy——
LETTERS WRITTEN BEFORE GOING INTO THE
ATTACK, CHÂLONS-SUR-MARNE,
ELEVEN O'CLOCK AT NIGHT.
April 16, 1917.
To Captain Noël D——
My dear friend:
I regret that I was not able to grasp your hand to-night—I leave in a moment to join the Morocco Division——[32]
If you receive this letter, you will know I have fallen in the attack on Mont-sans-nom. Do not pity me. When I was a child, I experienced then a profound emotion in reading the lines of the Cid——
"To die for country is not a sad fate,
In death there is glorious immortality!"
This is not the time to grow sentimental, because I have only a few minutes more—It is raining hard outside and I have builded a roaring wood fire in my room—I have burned not a few of my old papers, as you advised me——
If I am unlucky, you will find a letter which I wish you would send to Madame X—— together with some bric-à-brac and souvenirs you will find in my room——
There is also a box on which is written "Destroy in case of my death": burn it!
I wish to thank you, my dear friend, for all you have done for me since I have known you—You have been to me a devoted brother and I have for you a deep affection——
My best regards to all my comrades—I will do my duty——
Vive la France!
To Madame X——
Dear little woman:
I send you and my three little ones my last and tenderest kisses——
The weather is atrocious—The attack will begin at four forty-five this morning—I rejoin the Morocco Division immediately——
Tell my boys that I want them to be soldiers like myself——
Do not weep at my death, which is coming, it is the most beautiful end a soldier may hope for——
I thank you for having made me happy on earth: you were my first love——
I kiss your lips for the last time—When you see mother, tell her my last thoughts were of her——
MOMENTS OF WEAKNESS.
April 17, 1917.
What bad luck!
Every time an attack is planned it must rain. One must paddle along in the mud—and then the water runs down your neck——
As we will start before daybreak over the top, one, naturally, will stumble—we collect all kinds of sticks so that we may scrape the mud from our sleeves——
I find myself leaping over the first German lines—then, the wide open space before reaching the second position.
Our artillery has done good work, the wire entanglements are fortunately destroyed.
We leap over more trenches and boyaux—From time to time our glance is arrested by German corpses around which occasionally some of our own have fallen——
Bullets sing in every direction—machine-gun nests we have passed sputter at us from behind.
We go ahead without hesitation, but without speaking—one never speaks during these moments!
The field inclines and it is necessary to stop and pant a few instants—a circular view—prisoners hastily descend the hill, their arms raised, staggering like drunken men——
It is a nasty place to tarry any length of time—two boche machine-guns sixty yards to our right spit at us. Our advance can be effected, luckily, thanks to the deep craters our guns have made the preceding days. Day has fully broken—a fine rain is falling——
The position is as unmanageable as a runaway horse. We gain the second objective. The trench is wider than the former one and I cannot jump over it——
It is necessary to descend into the trench. I am followed by a few companions—A young German blessé is stretched out in the bottom. He is extremely young. He has curly hair and so blond that he looks like a little child——
He has been thrown in a jumble and the partially demolished trench on top—his head is twisted and his body and legs are sticking up in the air——
He makes an effort to rise. Striding over him, I see bloody froth on his lips—I heard him murmur:
"Wasser, wasser——"
With his arms and shoulders he makes another effort to get up——
One after the other we pass over the wounded boy, careful not to step on him——
The attack progresses, but I have the vision of this child continually before my eyes. I replace my revolver in the holster, and with blows of my cane I stop a crowd of prisoners we have just taken, who attempt to flee, throwing down their rifles as they go——
We have attained our last objective. Without losing an instant, we begin to organize it and get ourselves settled. At the end of a few minutes, officers and poilus commence to feel the reaction of what we have just passed through.
Everyone talks at once. We comment on the missing ones. There are several versions on the death of the friends we have seen fall——
For example, several had seen the little boche. Many remarked about his youth and his childish face—he yet breathed——
Some hours later, I could not resist—I made my way back two miles to see if he still lived——
I found without difficulty the path which will forever remain solemn in my memory. From a distance I saw the trench and the indentation at the foot of which I was sure of finding him——
He is dead! He has not changed his position, but his face is waxen. His two arms are extended with fists clenched toward the heaven he has without doubt cursed!
After having contemplated the dead boy, I retrace my route, with lowered head, to find my companions——
I had not gone fifty steps before I met, face to face, one of my comrades of the attack that morning——
"What are you doing here—you, too?"
"I come to help him out——"
"He is dead——"
"Let's go back."
It is night. What quiet after that terrible day of battle. Glorious day!
We are quartered in the German shelters—use whatever we can find to build a fire——
It continues to rain outside. We have formed a circle and discuss the events which have just passed endlessly.
In a corner of the shelter several men, lying full length on the floor, speak in a low voice. They are the colonel's messengers. I hear one who says to the other:
"I went back to see him—he was dead. I will reproach myself the rest of my life for not having helped him up this morning when we jumped over him."
THE HEROIC POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
April 17, 1917.
Nothing withstood the attack of the 8th Zouaves; we reached our objective at the given time. We are elated over our success.[33]
The noise of the battle is dying out. The enemy surrenders to us in little groups. I find myself, cane in hand, standing before a dugout, from which crawl a dozen or so Saxons with their captain——
Pointing at our poilus, covered with mud and magnificent, he said to me:
"What are these men—lions?"
"No, they are poilus of France!"
THE CHIVALROUS POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
April, 1917.
We are at the retaken positions on Mont-sans-nom. Colonel Lagarde occupies a sumptuous shelter in which he has extended the hospitality of inviting me to dinner. A bouquet of flowers, sent directly to me from Châlons, has been placed on the table in a shell-made vase.
The Zouaves, who saunter in and out of the colonel's P.C., are visibly astonished——
Convoy of ammunition in Champagne.
They are convinced that it is General Pétain himself who has sent the flowers to their colonel, in recognition of their success the day before——
One after the other the roses disappear, the last ones vanishing petal by petal——
The same day and the next, the 8th Zouaves repelled the enemy counter-attack with rose petals in their button-holes!
THE JESTING POILUS, CHAMPAGNE.
May, 1917.
General J. B. Dumas is passing his troops in review to-day. Our stalwart poilus have fought admirably, and, before leaving for the rear, au repos, must be honored——
General Dumas, who is popular with his men, stops in front of a good-looking boy, sturdy, vigorous and superbly healthy!
"You remember me?"
The poilu stares astonished and does not reply.
"Voyons, you know, all the same, who I am?——"
". . . . ! ! !"
"Allons, speak——"
The poilu said to himself, "If I don't tell him that I remember him, he'll murder me——"
"Yes, I remember you, general, I remember you perfectly——"
". . . . ? ? ?"
"You are the former station master at Bécon-les-Bruyères!"
A FETICH! MONTE CARLO.
February, 1917.
"I have a favor to ask of you, captain, pardon me——"
"Which, mademoiselle, I will be very pleased to grant you——"
"Here is a little kerchief—I give it to you and ask that you wear it around your wrist, the next time you go into battle."
"I promise it."
"It will bring you good luck and I am certain you will do great things that day!"
CHAMPAGNE.
April, 1917.
"Your little kerchief has been an excellent fetich, mademoiselle. I wore it on my wrist in the attack of April 17. It is a priceless star of gold, on my croix de guerre, and I hope you will be pleased! I offer it to you—because, it is my shining star!"
THE RETURN OF JEAN PAUL COCHIN,
GRAND BLESSÉ, PARIS.
May, 1917.
It was at the beginning of July, 1915, when the army of the Crown Prince unloosed its big thrust in the Argonne.
The battle was raging to the north of St. Menehoulde and this sector became suddenly the most active on the whole front.
Jean Paul Cochin, soldier of the second class in the — Regiment of Infantry was sorely wounded July 7, toward four o'clock in the afternoon near Vienne-le-Château. A shell burst near the parapet of the trench in which he was stationed, shattering his two arms.
He was thrown violently to the ground and lost consciousness——
Toward dusk he half-opened his eyes, but could not move; he suffered very much—his lips dry and he had a tremendous thirst.
Then he felt himself being moved—he recalled vaguely having heard the murmur of a voice—some jolting, sharp pains which hurt.
A stop! He heard guttural voices, a bright light passed several times before his eyes which he could not open——
Another shifting—a rapid journey and many bumps and joltings——
When he again regained consciousness he found himself in a bed and looked to the right and to the left to find out where he was. He was in a large room and perceived numerous other beds like his own.
He could twist his head, but his body was fixed, immobile, and his two arms hurt him terribly.
He saw approaching the bed a man very big and strong, with gray hair, gowned in white, accompanied by two assistants and a nurse.
The doctor gave several orders in German. Little did it matter to Jean being a prisoner, but his suffering was horrible. The doctor began unwinding the bandages to examine the wounds. Soon he was not conscious of what was going on. They placed a white napkin over his face and he inhaled the strong odor of ether. For some moments it seemed to him cannon were booming in the distance and a loud whistling in his ears, then nothing more——
Some hours later he came to himself for the second time and found that his bed was bound and wrapped like a mummy. He was so feeble—so feeble. How long his sleep had been he did not know.
A nurse on seeing him open his eyes brought him tea and he murmured "thanks"; then she cautioned him in very bad French to lie quiet and not to move.
The horrible nightmare and the fever lasted through the night and because he steeled himself he would not cry——
In the morning the doctor came back with the nurses and demanded in French that he answer some questions: he must give his name and the unit to which he belonged. Then all got black again before his eyes and the poor devil fainted——
Thanks to his strong constitution, he took a turn for the better, not, however, without passing several bad days, and the fever left him.
How long was all this going to last? He did not know——
So he began to feel better and stronger and rejoiced when the doctor, in the course of his visits, said to him:
"You're going to pull through, and I'm glad of it——"
He was still extremely feeble, had to be nourished with a spoon, but he did not forget that he was very well taken care of in this hospital.
Turning his head, he perceived with surprise that his neighbor in the next bed was his comrade in the trenches, Paul Dubois——
"Is that you, Patachon?"
"Yes, my pauv' vieux."
"Why, you here, too—what's the matter?——"
"A foot gone—leg lots shorter—but I complain no longer, Cobusse; you don't suffer much any more—I thought I heard the death rattle those first days——"
"No, I suffer no more——"
"You know how we got here?"
They began reconstructing the scene completely, the bombardment; and they recalled the premonitory whistling of the shell that had wounded them both.
They chatted for a long time and there was a consolation for having been taken prisoner in finding themselves together.
Some weeks later Cochin and his comrade, being improved in health and strength, were evacuated to a hospital in the interior. They made a long journey on the railroad and perceived more and more how unfortunate it was to lose one or more limbs.
On arriving there, Cochin had so lost the notions of equilibrium that he fell several times to the ground to the great despair of Dubois, who thereafter never slackened his hold on him.
Cobusse and Patachon came rapidly to be very close friends; these two wrecks of the war could not be separated and found in each other a reciprocal sustenance.
Patachon washed, dressed and fed Cobusse and rolled his cigarettes. He tried to explain to his friend that one can go through life without arms and used such unusual arguments that it caused his comrade to smile at times.
And the latter said amusingly:
"In the meantime, I have an itching—scratch then, my head—not there!—yes, there, how good that feels, Patachon——"
Their morale remained excellent and they were confident of victory.
During their captivity, one rainy day, they were sitting side by side on a bunk and began to talk of their families.
Cochin told how his wife was waiting for him in Panam[34] with their little Hélène, who was almost five. He could not stop talking of the little gamine who was "his own picture."
"You cannot realize, Patachon, how lively and intelligent she is. Ah! what wouldn't I give to clasp her in my arms."
To change the conversation Patachon said to him:
"Some time you'll be eager to scratch yourself, Cobusse—Don't stand on ceremony, you know I'm here for that, my old friend—we must aid each other in life."
The long hours of captivity passed sordidly enough, broken by the arrival of letters from France and packages of food.
When they talked with the Germans they were completely reassured on the outcome of the war: both of them were very skeptical when they heard the bells ringing and when they read the bulletins announcing another German victory. When their guardians looked gloomy Patachon never failed to smile at Cobusee.
"Our overseer wears a long face these great days, he must again have swallowed another pill!"
The two, and their comrades, shattered wrecks like themselves, always passed the sombre days in the little German village where they were taken. They had to suffer numerous privations. They missed the hospital at the front and the German doctor who was "rather a good sort."
They had to take insults from these heartless people and many times they were able to read a secret joy in their eyes on seeing them crippled.
"Ough! the dirty beasts, Cobusse, did you see how that woman there sneered at us——"
Many months went by and Cochin and Dubois never left each other. They spoke less of the war, but retained the hope of returning to France and of this they often talked.
"Listen, Patachon, here we are, you and I, grands blessés, and we should have been in Paris long ago—what are they trying to do—keeping us all this time?"
"Yes, Cobusse, it commences to be very long——"
One day, however, it was announced their turn had come and they could leave. At the thought of seeing France again they were thrilled. They had done their duty and could return home proud——
Quickly they were ready and began the long journey across Germany. Their train was full of grands blessés, miserable beings which the grave did not want and which it was glad to be free of. As Patachon said, "They all look like a lot of wire and rubber——" They were blind, sick, maimed and mad!
There was enough misery in that train, but all were haughty and dignified!
"What a sad air," said Cochin, "this boche country has——"
Rolling along thus during one entire day, the night was broken by very long stops that seemed endless. And these long hours of waiting made them very tired and low spirited; as soon as they started again everyone began to laugh and talk.
As they drew near to the Swiss frontier scarcely could they conceal the joy they felt on leaving this country that was killing them.
At dawn the train arrived at a station all lit up, where, in spite of the early hour, there were great throngs. It is Schaffhouse!
Along the platform Swiss officers and soldiers went to and fro, excited as if they saw Frenchmen for the first time——
"We are in Switzerland, Patachon——"
"Are you sure?"
They looked out the car window and scarcely had time to see, on the other track, a trainload of wounded Germans going the other way.
"You see, they are maimed like us——"
The soldiers in the two trains regarded each other closely without a word.
Hardly had the train of the German grands blessés started to leave the station than a military band began to play the "Marseillaise"!
Yes, the "Marseillaise"—They raised their heads and there wasn't a one who did not hold himself in an effort not to cry——
Then the station became crowded with persons who wished to see the grands blessés. They distribute flowers, cigarettes, little tri-colored flags, small cakes, chocolate, colored postal cards—The station gets more and more crowded and the excitement grows.
"Ah! we are not in that boche country any more, Patachon—I begin to breathe easier already——"
But they're all more or less amazed at this great bustle to which they are ill-accustomed, and for the first time they see human beings who have sincere pity for their misery.
At Zurich, at Olten and at Berne, they see the same things and more so as they approach France. Here, the manifestations are clamorous and very lively. Above all, the people speak French and shout: "Bravo les braves!"
However, they are not yet completely happy: they are not home! But they stretch and become more attentive to the surrounding country. Through the window they admire the Bernoise Alps blanketed with snow.
At Fribourg, a woman holds out a bouquet of flowers to Cochin, while her daughter presents him at the same time with a cup of steaming bouillon. They cannot understand why the crowd shouts so much. They cry also: "Vive la France!"
"Take it," say both the mother and daughter.
Patachon leans out the window.
"He cannot take them," he says, "because his arms are gone——"
The two step back as if to shrink away from this immense misfortune, but Patachon calls to them:
"Pass me the flowers and the cup—it is I who am his mother at present. Thank you, madame; thank you, ma petite—Allons, drink that, old brother. Is it too hot?"
The mother and child begin to cry, "Oh, the poor, the poor blessé."
Cochin stiffens as if proud of his wound——
They passed by Lausanne, and Geneva, and at the latter place said adieux to Switzerland. It was night when they crossed the border and a half hour later entered the station at Bellegrade—France!
At last they were home. The people were different. Nurses went up and down the platform with a cheery word for everyone. In short, each one wanted to tell his story, but a smile from these women almost made them forget it.
The following day they got out at the Lyon station where a beautiful ceremony had been planned to receive them. The mayor addressed them in front of the station and at his side were the general commanding the district and the city officials. Little girls, quaintly dressed in their first communicant costumes, distributed flowers, and Patachon fixed a pretty rosebud in his comrade's tunic.
The mayor compared them to old flags riddled with bullets, at which one gazed with pride and emotion. Everyone was grave, because they were conscious it was true.
The music kept on playing—the throng went wild—was this not a beautiful dream after that horrible nightmare? The blind themselves smiled, as if they saw—They breathed the air of France!
They went back into the train, this time to complete the last step of their journey: to-morrow they will be in Paris.
They are tired and they find the time passes slowly, so great is their impatience.
Cochin telegraphs his wife to be at the station with the little one——
They cannot sleep and they speak of their captivity. They are content within themselves as long as they do not give way to discouragement. They fully apprehend now the return—what will become of them?
They await the coming of day with disquietude. Night seems without an end. At last, the sun routs the darkness and they recognize the outskirts of Paris——
At seven o'clock in the morning their train enters the station——
"The war is finished for us, Cobusse, and we are lucky to get back——"
Cochin does not reply. He looks out the window and sees the station crowded with people—they are all talking at once——
"Patachon, I see my wife and Hélène—Wave at them!"
"Where are they?"
They have seen him and begin waving their hands, at the same time making signs for him to come down on the platform. Patachon shouts out the window:
"We're coming!"
Cochin, very pale, leaves the coach, assisted by two nurses. He is some steps in front of his wife, who is holding Hélène. He walks ahead rapidly as if to take her in his arms, and then understands. He stops—and falls back, sobbing on the shoulder of his friend——
"Come—come, my pauv' vieux, don't cry—what's this—you who never cry!"
"Patachon—I can—I can never clasp her in my arms——"
PARIS.
May 27, 1917.
"What a sad air you have—an infinite sadness——"
"I believe no longer in GOD, nor the love of a woman, nor in the friendship of a friend——"
"You believe then, no longer in anything?——"
"Yes, in glory—posthumous——"
AT SEA, ABOARD THE CHICAGO.
June 5, 1917.
I leave for the United States!
The vigorous part of my life is terminated. I am on the high seas and my eyes do not tire as I contemplate this magnificent sight. Physical and moral suffering are forgotten——
I awaken each day a little farther away, and I forget that nightmare.
Is it possible I am here—I—What repose!
NEW YORK.
June 15, 1917.
To-night I have seen land again and felt a shudder, the first after a very long time.
On seeing the Statue of Liberty, my eyes are full of tears, and I cry:
"Wonderful United States, quick—into the struggle! Now it's you—Strike, strike—strike hard!"
FINIS