Sometimes I went as far as the English sector. Masses of long-range artillery were to be seen there. The guns were served by soldiers in shirt-sleeves and long trousers stained by oil and cart-grease. They looked more like factory workers than soldiers. You felt then how war has become an industry—an engineering business devoted to mechanical slaughter and massacre.
One night, walking along the Albert road, I overheard the conversation of some men who were sitting on the upturned earth of a pit. By their accent they were peasants from the north and must have belonged to the regiments which had just been under fire.
“After the war,” said one of them, “those who are going to dabble in politics, they’ll have to say they had a hand in this confounded war.”
But this frank opinion, caught in passing one night along a road in the front—this inconsequent, unanswered comment was lost in the tumult of the gunfire.
I gained much by being stretcher-bearer. I came to know the men better than I had ever done until then—to know them bathed in a purer light, naked before death, stripped even of the instincts which disfigure the divine beauty of simple souls.
In the midst of the greatest trials our race of peasants has remained vigorous, pure, worthy of the noblest human traditions. I have known them—Rebic, Louba, Ratier, Freyssinet, Calmel, Touche, and so many others whom I must not name if I am not to mention the whole country. It cannot be said that pain chose its victims, and yet, when I used to pass by their beds where their destiny struggled—when I looked at their faces, each one of them, they all seemed to me good, patient, energetic men, and all of them deserved to be loved.
Did Rebic, that grey-haired sergeant, not richly deserve that a loving family waited longingly for him at home? One day we came to dress the big gash in his side, and we hastened to bring him white linen and made him a warm bed; he began to weep, good and simple man, and we asked him why, and he made this sublime answer:
“I cry because of the agony and misery I am giving you.”
As for Louba, we could not expect to hear him speak: a shell had smashed in his face. There remained nothing of it except one immense cruel gash; an eye displaced, twisted; and forehead—a humble peasant forehead. Yet one day, as we whispered some brotherly words, Louba wished to show how pleased he was, and he smiled to us. They will remember, those who saw the soul of Louba smiling faceless.