This officer of the Light Cavalry tells a straightforward story of the charges on the battlefields of the War: "Days of misery, days of joy, days of battle—what volumes we might write if we were to follow our squadrons day by day. I have merely tried to make a written record of some of the hours I have lived through. If I should come out of the deathly struggle safe and sound, it would be a pleasure to me some day to read over these notes of battle and bivouac. I shall rejoice if I have been able to revise some phases of the tragedy in which we were the actors if my brothers-in-arms read the simple tales of a lieutenant of Chasseurs, an unschooled effort of a soldier more apt with the sword than with the pen." M. Dupont tells: "How I Went to the Front," "The First Charge," "Sister Gabriel," and "Christmas Night." Some of these stories are here told by permission of his publishers from his book, "In the Field."—J. B. Lippincott Company.
[14] I—NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF A PEASANT
One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the pent-house onto the road.
Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had found refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved with tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of trusses of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have awaked in good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my friend.
"It is raining," said F.
I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound of those few words: "It is raining."
"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with you—that precious treasure—in your saddlebags, will be changed into a wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made by the soaked leather.
But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be carried out.
It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their shadows passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making coffee—jus, as they call it—that indispensable ration in which they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot be a good soldier.