Covered with mud and glory

by Georges Lafond

In colorless and shapeless uniforms, indescribably rigged out, and in poses of the most pleasurable leisure, the soldiers of France picturesquely slip from glory to glory, less aware, it seems, of historic grandeur than of serene gladness in implacable duty. They are picturesque because nature will have it so, but without any romanticism or sense of posing—officers hardly to be distinguished from privates by vague, soiled stripes—all the men enveloped in a halo of splendor above anything known to ordinary humanity.

The pugnacious pipe or the sportive cigarette hinders their expression of any personal reflection. Only their eyes are animate, and these express things which cannot be told in words lest they be profaned. The line of their lip is youthful under a silky moustache or firm with age under gray brush. But the fire of their look, framed in their dark helmets, leaps out with quiet intensity to meet the tragic unknown that no longer can bring surprise. They are our soldiers of the year II who are following the Biblical column of fire. They see something. They go to it. Ashamed of my humility, I should like to find words to say to them. But, were I a poet, they would have no need of hearkening to me, since the greatest beauty of man lies in them, and since, unwitting of utterance, which at best seems inept, these men live on the summits of life.

And the “old classes” who prosaically break stone at the side of the road or work with the shovel, the pickaxe, the broom, making the toilette of the road of triumph, what an injustice if I did not mention them! How does it happen that the noblest soldier is always the one I chance upon? That is the miracle of these men; and when I tell you that on the battlefield of the Aisne the “old classes,” not granting that it was necessary to wait to the end of the battle before beginning to clear and rebuild, went off into the hottest of the action to fill up craters, to break stones, to place tree-trunks and beams during heavy fire, without vouchsafing the Boche a single hasty gesture, so that they might the more quickly open the way for revictualling and for the bringing up of artillery—when I tell you this, you will admit that they do not deserve a lesser greeting than their “young ones.”

And the infantryman—could I commit the supreme injustice of forgetting him? That is impossible when one has gone over the battleground where he has taken possession of the burrows of the Boches, among heaps of munition material, cases of supplies, an indescribable débris, abandoned with their dead and wounded in the haste of a desperate fight. What we cannot understand is that our little poilu can pass so quickly from the apathy of the trench to the extreme fury of the attack, and then from the violence of the offensive to the calm smile of a victory of which his modesty seems to say: “It was as easy as all that.”

I did not hear a single boast, or see a disagreeable act, or hear a word that sounded false. Like a good-hearted proprietor returning home, they took possession of the shelters of the Boche so hurriedly abandoned. Here can be found the comforts of war, if these two words can be spoken together. The men talk in groups at the openings of the underground passages, camouflaged by the enemy himself. The indifference of their attitudes, the ease of their familiar conversation, in which there mingle no bragging (though this is the place for it), are more characteristic of the situation of some simple bourgeois who have happened to meet on Sunday in the street. A major begs my pardon for wearing a collared shirt, which is not perfectly “regular” at an official review. Messengers pass, throwing out a word or making a simple sign. Officers step up for brief explanations. A half-salute, a nodding of the head—it is over. Not far away, on the road cut into the rock, where the stupid Boche, after our passings, sends his impotent shells, our always young “old classes” hang on to the slopes in order to see the projectile fall, and make uncomplimentary remarks about the gunner. Then work is resumed till the next warning whistles in the air.

It is after twelve and we have not yet dined. A big devil of a Moroccan colonel, with a Don Quixotic face under an extraordinary headpiece, invites us to his P. C. (post of command), where the Boche has left useful bits of installation. A black hole is two steps away from us. We go down into the ground, over abrupt descents, and there we are protected from the “marmites” in a dark corridor lit by candles stuck into the mouths of German gas masks. We sit down on anything handy (I even have the favor of a chair), before a board which also serves as the colonel’s bed, while arms whose body remains invisible serve us with dishes not to be disdained by a gourmand. How did they get there? I cannot undertake to explain that. The walk in the open air, the tragic nature of the place, the joy in land reconquered, no doubt all lend particular spice to the comradeship of these men who forget that they have done great deeds as soon as they have done them. Pictures and illustrated pages tremble in the fluttering candle-lights, among them a Victorious France, drawn by the pencil of the colonel. A telephonist measures out mouthfuls of conversation to a military post that sends in observations and receives ours. Long time or short time, for here hours and minutes are alike, here is a magic that ends too soon. We must go.

The colonel would have been perfect if he had not made it a point of honor to avoid all danger for his civilian visitor. In the morning he had tried to forbid me a flying visit to the marvellous castle of Pinion, but he finally understood that even a soldier has to be born a civilian and that he should not therefore scorn his own origin. The trip was accomplished without the shadow of an incident, but the colonel, who insists more than ever on the rights and privileges of the uniform, will not permit me to return until the Boche cannon favors us with a little respite. The Boche can hardly make up his mind to such a favor; hence, several false departures and changings of direction. Finally, the colonel lets us go under the guard of a robust sergeant-major, who even yesterday magnificently led his stretcher-bearers to the aid of the wounded under the hottest fire. Although he is not of the youngest class, he has refused to be retired from the front. He is spoken of only with respect, I might say admiration. “He goes everywhere.” He is fine, genial company. After many necessary little zigzags, a walk that is not very strenuous and very soon over, I left the brave sergeant, whom I shall always remember.

I cannot finish this inconsequent account without speaking of the touching ceremony which I witnessed at Soissons, the terribly bombarded. Since the victory of Malmaison the city has been out of range. But when you have seen the building of the sub-prefect tottering with shell-holes, a building that neither the sub-prefect nor his wife has left, the shortest walk will tell you a long tale.

The general, who is a good fellow—I take pleasure in saying that—had proposed to show me something, and so here I am in a public square having the imposing silhouette of the cathedral as a background. From the height of the great towers, with their wide wounds, history, attentive, looks down. Everywhere there is a formidable display of cannon taken from the enemy. There are piles of them, heaps of them. There are too many to count, together with a bewildering mass of trench instruments of all sorts. Can you believe it? They do not hold the eye. How is that possible? Because on the sidewalk opposite, in splendid alignment, is the gorgeous gathering of soldiers with medals and decorations who have captured these things. Ah! They hold the eye! There they are, with all sorts of faces and from all branches of the service, with the flag which they have followed into battle and which now must be present at their honor.