THE RELIGIOUS POILU, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
Accompanied by one of my poilus, I ran across the chaplain of the —— Regiment of Infantry, in front of the P. C.[19] of the colonel.
We are both in a sorry plight.
The preceding days have been such an accumulation of physical and moral misery, that I could not help but say to the priest:
"Father, I feel death hovering around me—hear my confession!"
"Confess you here? Do not think of it. You make your own hell on earth in the Eparges. I will pray for you. And you, poilu," he added, turning toward my sapper, "to what religion do you belong?"
"I belong to that which looks God straight in the eyes!"
THE MEN OF BRONZE, EPARGES.
December, 1915.
We have just put in some frightful days up there. The mud, the horrible mud, is infinitely more terrible than any enemy shells.
It is relief day!