How tired we were that evening. Really absolutely done. We had been marching for twenty-four hours, almost without a halt. We were wandering in the middle of Argonne in that part of the Chalade, and the Four de Paris which were to be mentioned so often in the communiqués later on. The worst of it was that we had nothing to eat, except the remains of some bread crumbling at the bottom of our haversacks. We regretted having wasted the biscuits with which we had been so liberally provided two days before.
There was a prolonged halt in the forest. At one time we caught sight of two motor-buses which cut across, following a transverse roadway. Our rations? We took it for granted and rejoined accordingly. But perhaps the conductors had not seen us. Several minutes went by. The commanding officer blew his whistle, and off we had to go again! Another march on an empty stomach!
A blast of recriminations blew from No. 1 platoon. They could put up with being knocked on the head, but at least give them something to eat. They were being cut down every day now. Yesterday there was no meat! Without rot, there was nothing more to be done but to "get down" to it. A snooze is as good as a meal. It would only mean that a few would be taken.
They went on all the same. There was not a murmur among our men. Judsi still tried to cheer up his companions, but they weren't in the mood for it. Bouguet struck up with a song, but they joined in the refrain only once. He couldn't sing on an empty stomach either. And the rain began, heavy rain which soaked us through to the skin in a very few minutes.
"Rotten luck!" Gaudéreaux jerked out.
We went on without a halt, through the downpour, against the wind. We were on a by-road which soon got spoilt and broken. We slithered through the slush. Gusts of wind beat against us, water was dripping down our backs, freezing the sweat on our skins. That lasted for another two hours. A dozen miles or so without a pause. No one protested, each step must be bringing us nearer to shelter. There was only one question we asked ourselves, in an agony of mind: Should we get anything to eat?
At last they stopped us, two companies of us, in front of a farm. The rest of the battalion went on. The buildings already sheltered some gunners—four batteries of them. I remember their greeting which was anything but cordial. Oh, we were the last straw! As if they weren't packed like sardines already! Dirty foot-sloggers too! (I have already mentioned the antagonism between the different troops which was exasperated at such times.)
Our quartermasters quarrelled. But the first comers blocked up the coach-houses, their officers backed them up, the commanding officer had quite rightly reserved the only bed for himself. We stood in the yard for a long time, haggard and numb with cold. We were finally penned in the stables—piggeries, in an indescribable state of filth, and reeking pestilentially. Someone went to get straw—a handful per man! We could have put up with everything if only we could have got a bite. But it was getting dark, and in this weather all hopes of the ration train hunting us out were dwindling. The gunners had hastened to lay hands on anything that the farm would produce in the way of eatables, bread, milk, eggs, a real raid. They finished swallowing these provisions under our very noses.
I can see us in that filthy stable. De Valpic had just lain down alongside the wall. He was worn out, and wanted to sleep, but the fits of coughing which shook him made him reopen his eyes. He was shivering. We all had faces mottled by exhaustion and starvation. Lamalou suddenly got up with an oath:
"Oh d——!"