For the war is not a logical sequence in my memory. It is a jumble and confusion of reiterated notes, endless movement, hunger, drenching, cold. Only a few scenes detach themselves,—a very few. When I recall the mobilization, I hear only one voice in the surge and roar of hysterical multitudes crowding down to the departing trains at the Gare du Nord,—a child’s voice, saying:
“Non, non, mamma,—don’t cry. Be brave,—till he’s gone!”
* * * * *
I seldom remember definite details, any particular dawn breaking after the night of vigil, or the shrinking waiting of any one bombardment. It is all one stretching gray line of sky; a tireless to and fro of men and horses; the same broken line of trenches, a monotony of slime and sleety rain; and all this is confused, as though I were struggling upward through swirling, roaring bodies of water. Repetition has dulled the perceptions. I am conscious only of fatigue, of unending beating against the ears, of vigils under stars that never sink, of marching,—yes, here one vivid impression always returns. It is one of those memories that enter into the phantasmagoria of the night.
I am back again in the ranks, that have been marching for days. Some one—the comrade at my left—says:
“Mon vieux?”
“What is it?”
“I want to sleep a little.”
“Pass over your rifle.”
Then he places his arm about my neck and the same to the comrade on the other side, and presently I hear him begin to snore; marching, and dead asleep,—until we wake him up and another takes his place.