WHEN “KULTUR” WAS BEATEN
By Lieutenant X
Knee deep in the mud, the French “Alpines,” the “Blue Devils,” as the Germans called them, were watching the shelling of the enemy’s positions. Huge columns of black smoke crowned the white line of trenches below the thicket of spruce, and at each of the terrific explosions chunks of dirt, sand-bags, and armour plates flew high in the air.
In the expectation of the rush the “Blue Devils” stood leaning on the rifles, some of them laughing and joking, while others, grave and stern, read once more the last letters of the beloved ones.
Corporal Dupin sat down, looking at the photograph of the wife and baby. When hell broke loose Dupin was quietly living in Canada, and he had come as a man of honour to join the colours, leaving his little family on the safer side of the ocean. The morning mail had just brought him news that wife and baby had sailed on the Lusitania, to be nearer to him.... How his heart beat hard!
... Surely he would come safe out of this struggle, though he would bear himself as gallantly as usual, and perhaps be fortunate enough to get twenty-four hours’ leave and meet the wife and baby somewhere, perhaps in Belfast or in Nancy. He could already imagine that meeting. He was happy. How heartily he went to his duty to-day!...
He caught the voice of the lieutenant.
“Here, boys!” was the brief command. “You’ve always done your duty. To-day you have to do it doubly, for Germany has added a new crime to the list. One of her submarines has sunk the Lusitania. There are innocent victims to avenge.”
The Lusitania! Greet her! Eagerly Dupin tore the paper from the officer’s hands. He read and reread the list of rescued. Two seconds later there was no more room for doubt, and he knew that all he loved in the world had gone down.
Oh, kill! Kill the murderers and avenge!... Kill and torture!... How long would the shelling last? When would the signal of the storm come?...
Ah! the welcome starlike rocket! The French guns lengthened their shots, shelled the upper line of trenches.... A loud shout and a mad rush.... The “Blue Devils” were in action.
Ta, ta, ta, ta.... The German machine-guns. Sh! Cirr! Shrapnel burst with a quick flame and little yellow clouds.... Dead men fell.
But the remainder kept on running and bouncing until they reached the German works. The “75s” shells had made a mess of the entanglements, and the main trench was a ruin, spotted with corpses.... Bullets whistled, grenades exploded, injured men shrieked.
From a black aperture a bullet missed Corporal Dupin as he passed, bayonet forward, after a flying man. He gave that prey off, threw a bomb in the den, and as soon as it had exploded he rushed in.
Covered with blood, a German officer lay down. He menaced Dupin with his empty pistol, when, realizing that everything was over for him, he threw the gun, with a wild laugh, and defiantly and haughtily looked at Dupin. The cold, blue eyes of the Teuton did not mistake Dupin’s sentiment. To the corporal’s dark, glancing eyes they returned hatred for hatred. Dupin thought that the submarine’s commander must have had the same likeness. Yes, this man would pay dearly for the cold-blooded murderer’s debt. The hour of vengeance had come.
Dupin did not strike yet. He found sweet to contemplate the agony of his enemy.... He thought of torturing the man.... The fellow must suffer....
From loss of blood the German officer suddenly fainted, and Dupin found himself kneeling over the enemy, bathing his wounds, stopping his blood, nursing him as a brother....
Again shrapnel burst. The German artillery was already shelling the conquered trenches. Ready for a new fight, Dupin, before he left the wounded officer, wrapped him in a blanket, left him his own water bottle. A last time he looked at him with a sad but proud smile and said:
“No, we are not the same race. We cannot do the same things.”
And they were his last words, for a bullet went through his heart, and, still smiling, but this time very sweetly, Dupin went to meet the beloved ones.
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The above story was accompanied by the following letter:
Dear Mr. Editor:
Just fancy the shelling of the trenches and a little French officer trying to keep up the morale (excellent, I should say) of his men, to teach them the contempt of death, or, rather, to show that he is not in that respect inferior to them.
Fancy that same officer reading your Vive La France Number of Life and translating it to his men, then looking at your contest proposition, and finding very funny to fill his fountain pen and write on the first scraps of paper he can procure a very short story.
The author has not the boldness to say that his story is very interesting. He knows, too, that as a Frenchman he does not speak nor write very correct English; but he has sent it to you rather because of the originality of the thing and to show you that the French soldiers appreciate the friendship of America.
At any rate, it is a genuine story of the trenches and a souvenir of the war.
Yours most sincerely,
M. Constance.
From the Trenches,
June 15, 1915.