The secret spring

by Pierre Benoît

CONTENTS

[A FOREWORD]
[PROLOGUE]
CHAPTER [I]
CHAPTER [II]
CHAPTER [III]
CHAPTER [IV]
CHAPTER [V]
CHAPTER [VI]
CHAPTER [VII]
CHAPTER [VIII]
[EPILOGUE]

[A FOREWORD]

Long have I hesitated to give back to Life the legacy left me by Death. But at last, reflecting that Lieutenant Vignerte and She whom he loved have vanished into the eternal shades, I have decided that there is no longer any reason to keep silence about the tragic events staged in the German court of Lautenburg-Detmold in the months immediately preceding the Great War.

P. B.

[PROLOGUE]

"Unpile Arms!"

Of its own motion and by that force of habit which makes the word of command superfluous, the dark mass of the company rose and formed fours to the right.

The darkness was falling, cold and cruel, slashed with long liquid streaks. It had been raining all day. In the middle of the clearing a grey-green sky looked up at us from shadowy pools.

An order rang out: "Quick March!" The little body moved off. I was at the head. At the edge of the wood was a country-house, some eighteenth-century fantasy; two or three shells had been enough to demolish the wings. The chandeliers of the big ground-floor room, multiplied in its mirrors and sparkling through its tall windows, enhanced the sinister blackness of the falling October night.

Five or six shadowy forms in long cloaks stood out against this background of light.

"What Company?"

"The 24th of the 218th Regiment, sir."

"Are you taking over the Blanc-Sablon trenches?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. When you've got your men installed, go for your orders to battalion headquarters. Your C.O. has them. Good luck!"

"Thank you, sir."

In the darkness, like a group of fantastic hunch-backs, the men stood round, leaning on their sticks and arching their backs under the amazing weight of their packs, crammed with miscellaneous paraphernalia. For the trenches were a desert island. How could you tell what you might want there? So the men took down everything they could carry.

They maintained a grave, morose silence, the usual silence that marked the occupation of a new sector. Besides, Blanc-Sablon had a bad reputation. The enemy's trenches were some way off—three or four hundred yards—it is true, but the nature of the ground was such that the only cover consisted of a few wretched dug-outs which were always collapsing and indeed, only kept in existence at all by great baulks of timber. Further, the place was wooded and cut by ravines where you could not see fifty yards ahead of you. And nothing in war is so nerve-racking as the mystery of the invisible.

A voice—"Any chance of lights?"

"Lights" meant cards. Card-playing was permitted when the dug-outs were deep enough and there was a good thick tarpaulin to cover the entrance.

Another muttered:

—"How long are we going for?"

A question that remained unanswered. In October, 1914, the war had not yet become an affair of administration, with a rota of reliefs, leave.... You never knew how long you would stay in bad trenches which you could not make up your mind to improve. It was not worth while. You might have been there a month already, but you would be certain to be moved off before the end of the week.

I felt my way with my stick down the forest path, helped by three feet of light from the puny lantern which a soldier hid under his cloak. It is a trying experience to lead men by unfamiliar paths through a forest at night. Behind you the men, and even the officers, follow like sheep, their one concern being to avoid knocking their noses against the pack of the man in front—their sole horizon—at some sudden stop. The others could think of reliefs, their cards, their homes, anything.... But I was preoccupied solely with the necessity of keeping my sightless column on the right track.

Nothing could be heard but the muffled tramping which wound along indefinitely behind me. The trees made a dark dome above our heads. Every now and then we looked up as we came to a clearing, but the sky was as dark as the vault of foliage.

"Where is Lieutenant Vignerte?"

"At the head, sir."

A hand was placed on my shoulder. It was Vignerte's.

Since our Captain left us after Craonne to command a battalion of another regiment, Raoul Vignerte, senior to me in the service, had been in command of the company. He was a man of twenty-five, slight, with a splendid dark head. Two months of war had done more than ten years of peace could have done to draw us together. We did now know each other before August, 1914, yet we had common memories of those bygone days. I came from Béarn, he from Landes. I had taken German at the Sorbonne. He, two years later, had taken history. Alternately jovial and absorbed, he was always a wonderful company commander. Occasionally the men found him a trifle distant, irresponsible, perhaps, but they liked his calm, soldierly bearing, his never-failing interest in their welfare. Vignerte did not sleep with the men, as I did. But they knew that if he kept his dug-out to himself it was invariably the most dilapidated, straw-less, and exposed he could find.

As far as I was concerned, he left nothing undone to make me forget that, though he was two years younger than myself, he was my superior officer. On my side, glad though I was to have such a comrade to obey, I was even more glad to escape all the responsibilities of a company commander. Strength-returns, discussions with the sergeant-major and the quartermaster, company accounts (though these are reduced to a minimum in the field), would never have been much to my liking. Vignerte, who had not slept one hour a night during the retreat, who had been the last to leave Guise in flames and the first to enter Ville-aux-Bois in ruins, this same Vignerte dealt with the horrible mass of detail with methodical vigour. Every now and then when I saw this charming intellectual wholly absorbed in such sordid duties, I would think: What distraction is he seeking? From what black thoughts is he fleeing?... Then, as if fearing detection, he would come to me with some joke and that day the regiment would know no one more merry and careless.

This evening he was in his dark mood. And why not, with the responsibility of introducing two hundred and fifty men to a new sector? Besides, he might have orders of which I did not yet know.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Ten minutes more to battalion headquarters," I replied. And, lowering my voice, I queried: "Any news?"

"I believe one company of the battalion is to carry out some operation. But it's not our turn. Besides, I'm going to remain at headquarters. You can carry out the relief without me. I shall come down with the orders a quarter of an hour afterwards."

Blanc-Sablon was indeed a lugubrious spot. On one wall of a ravine rose its shell-riven dwarf forest, with wooded horns and great caves of shadow, while away in front a road, barricaded with tree-trunks, stretched to the village, a few hundred yards off, occupied by the enemy.

The men, hitherto silent, could no longer restrain a hasty comment.

"Good Lord! What a show! Here's a pretty place for you! We always strike a hole like this!"

"Silence!"

In some respects taking over is not unlike the figure of a cotillon. The Company-Commander, each section officer, corporal and man must immediately seek out his opposite number, the company-commander, section officer, corporal or man whose place he has to take.

It was all over in five minutes, soundlessly, of course, or hostile artillery would soon have had this human mass, half of it without cover of any kind, under fire and reduced to pulp.

Silence, comparatively easy to obtain from the incoming party, was nothing like so easy to exact from the departing host. The pleasant prospects of approaching sleep under cover and a few days' "rest" behind the lines loosened their tongues. They could not resist a few words of advice to their successors:

"I'd advise you to keep clear of that loophole. There's a gent over there who doesn't love me. I have had three pots at him today. If he isn't dead he will be wanting his turn. And then ..."

—"SILENCE!"

Truly a vile sector—four, five small posts to be manned, twelve sentries to be found, not to mention patrols. Not much chance of sleep for my poor fellows here.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Thanks for your help."

It was the officer of the out-going company who was moving off. The sound died away in the woods.

It was high time. The moon was already up.

Swathed in pale yellow mist, she swam mournfully through a sea of grey flakes. She had turned her lamp on the desolate white countryside, the shattered tree-stumps, and clayey wastes. The men vanished into their shelters. The sentries kept their rifles down lest the bayonet should catch the light. Behind us a number of small, flat mounds, with pathetic wooden railings, loomed into view.

These were the graves.

The men had not noticed them. All the better. It was better they should not see them until next morning—by daylight, when they would have got used to the place and our little world would be feeling the comparatively enlivening influence of the sun.

* * * * * *

My five small posts and twelve sentries were placed. The company was established in its burrow. Those not on watch were already snoring. With two trusty men—you can always find some of that breed, wakeful and inquisitive—I started on my rounds.

"Tell Lieutenant Vignerte I have gone to get into touch with the 23rd. Ask him to wait for me in my dug-out. I shall be back in a quarter of an hour."

We crept along the hedges. At regular intervals lights soared from the German trenches and fell back to earth in a pale blue halo.

"Who goes there!"

"Masséna."

"Melun."

"It is the officer of the 24th sent to get into touch with you. Anything new on your side?"

"No, sir, unless it's the scrap we've just had with a German patrol. It was the shots you heard just now. We've killed one."

A corpse was lying in the grass. I bent over it. On the shoulder strap was the number "182."

"What about his papers!"

"The Captain has them."

"Our small post is two hundred yards away, there, in the coppice.... Oh, yes! At two o'clock a patrol will come round. Don't forget it!"

"Very good, sir."

"Good night."

When I got back Vignerte was in my dug-out. He was smoking a cigarette.

"Anything fresh?" I asked him.

"Nothing," he replied, "at any rate for tonight. But of course the 22nd may get a knock. In front of them is a horn of the wood where we have reason to think that the Boche is working on a sap. The 22nd are to inspect and, if possible, upset their game. One section goes over at 6 A.M., the rest follow to support it. As soon as the explosions are heard the 23rd are to fire at the trenches opposite to hold down their occupants, but we ourselves are not to move unless things go wrong. In any case the 23rd attack before us. So we can count on a quiet night. Have you anything fresh?"

"The company has taken over all right," I said. "They're so uncomfortable, in fact, that I don't think we need worry about them. Many of them can't help keeping awake. I have got into touch with our neighbours; their is nothing to report in that quarter except that they've had a scrap with a German patrol. They've knocked out one."

"Really," said Vignerte. "Infantry or Jäger?"

"Infantry. 182nd Regiment of Prussian Infantry."

"I should like to know," said my friend, "where those folk opposite come from."

So saying he drew out his pocket Lavanzelle. "160th—Posen, 180th—Altona, 181st—Lippe, 182nd—Lautenburg ... Lautenburg ..."

"Well?"

He repeated, "Lautenburg."

"Do you know Lautenburg?" I said, struck by the tone of his voice.

"Yes," he replied gravely. "Are you sure of the number?"

"Of course," I replied rather sharply. "But what does it matter—Lautenburg or anywhere else!"

"Yes," he murmured, "what does it matter!"

I looked at him closely. It was quite easy, because, absorbed as he was, he had no thought for me at all.

"Vignerte," I said, "what's the trouble; you don't seem yourself—any bad news?"

But he had already recovered and shrugged his shoulders.

"My dear chap! Bad news! From whom? I have no one in the world and you know it."

"That may be," I answered, "but you are upset tonight. I want you to stay with me and you can fix up company headquarters where you like."

"I admit I'm a bit overwrought," he broke in. "What's the time?"

"Seven o'clock."

"Let's play cards."

The suggestion was so unexpected coming from him that the two men with me looked up in amazement. No one in the company had ever seen Lieutenant Vignerte touch a card.

"Here, Damestoy," he said, "surely you or Henriquez have got some cards."

They nodded.

As if they would be without!

"What can you play?"

"Écarté, sir."

"All right; écarté." For a full hour Vignerte lost steadily. It was an odd game. The two penniless soldiers were looking at each other in amazement, unable to determine which was the more remarkable feature of this adventure, the honour Lieutenant Vignerte had done them or the sum—12 francs—they had won from him.

I looked at him in growing perplexity. Suddenly he threw down the cards: "A silly game. It's eight o'clock and I'm going out to see the first relief."

"I'm going with you."

I shall never forget that night. The sky had gradually shed its fleece of clouds, and the moon, almost at the full, shone in the cold blue dome. Below, the line of sandbags and trenches made long white tracks.

Starshells were now useless and none were seen.

Dead silence reigned. Occasionally a sharp buzz marked the passage of a stray bullet close by and soon after the crack of the rifle down in the valley was heard.

In low tones we exchanged the password with our sentries, some sprawling full length in a shell-hole, others crouching behind bushes. The company was strung out over a long front, five hundred yards at least, and our round took us a good hour.

When we got to the end of it Vignerte asked me:

"Where is the last post of the 23rd?"

We visited it. The four men were about to bury the German who had just been killed as deeply as they could.

Vignerte quickly stepped down among them and leaning over the grave searched in the soil they were throwing back. The corpse appeared.

"—182nd. That's it," he murmured.

He shivered and turned to me: "Let's go back. I'm beginning to feel cold."

* * * * * *

Damestoy and Henriquez were asleep in the dug-out where the three runners had come for them. With the natural deference of the private soldier they had arranged the best spots for us—two holes with plenty of straw and a pile of dark blankets.

The silence was broken only by the gentle breathing of these good fellows and, occasionally, the squeak of a field-mouse hunting for the ears still left in the straw. I could not see Vignerte, who was lying beside me, but I was sure he was not asleep. The open door of the dug-out showed a blue patch of sky with a silvery star hanging like a tear in its depths.

An hour, perhaps, passed thus. Vignerte had not moved. He ought to have been asleep, this mysterious comrade whom the war had sent me. Why was he so moved tonight? What memories had possessed a mind which appeared to be fixed ruthlessly on the thousand details of war as if to avoid straying aimlessly through forbidden worlds?...

And suddenly I heard a deep sigh while a hand clasped mine.

"Vignerte, what on earth's the trouble?"

An even more convulsive clasp of his hand was all my reply.

Then I burnt my boats.

"Old man, dear old man. I think I've earned the right to call you that. Let me share the trouble that's weighing on you. You are unhappy tonight. Tell me your sorrow. If we were in Paris, or anywhere else, I should not be guilty of this indiscretion. But a confidence which would be absurd elsewhere becomes sacred here. Tomorrow, perhaps, we shall be in action, Vignerte! Tomorrow, perhaps, four men will be digging our graves where that German sleeps now. Won't you speak to me, Vignerte, won't you tell me? ..."

I felt the pressure of his hand relax.

"It will be a long story, old fellow. And will you understand? I mean, won't you think me a bit mad?"

"I'm listening," I said firmly.

"You shall hear then. For these memories almost choke me, and indeed there are some which it would be selfish for me to take away alone. So much the worse for you. You will get no sleep tonight! ..."

This is the strange story which Lieutenant Vignerte told me that night of October 30th, 1914, at the spot which those who have known it call the "Crossroads of Death."