Saturday, 19th September.

The regiment is appointed to be an Army Corps reserve. We cross the Aisne early in the morning and prepare support trenches three kilometres in the rear. This is the first time we play at digging holes in the ground. It appears that the Germans dig them, and that they prove useful. Navvies\' picks and shovels are distributed. We work in twos; one digging hard and the other clearing away the earth whilst the first man is resting. By the end of the day the section has dug up a trench deep enough for one to walk in without being seen.

This evening we are quartered at Ressons-le-Long, in an old round tower, of venerable aspect, adjoining a farm.

The regiment has left the east and proceeded northwards, before coming down in the direction of Paris. Then it took part in the battle of the Marne, and finally stopped on the banks of the Aisne. Still no letters!

The battalion claims the services of a post[Pg 89]man, a busy, anxious-looking man. From time to time he stops and opens his bags in some quiet corner and blurts out about a hundred names, which he reads from envelopes chosen indiscriminately. A few of the men are there.

Sometimes there is a Dubois who answers: "Present."

The postman looks up sternly.

"Dubois what. What\'s your other name?"

"Dubois, Charles."

With a scornful shrug of the shoulders—

"The letter I have here is for Dubois, Emile. Why do you make me lose my time?"

The same thing happens with the Duponts, the Durands, and the Martins. The one present never possesses the right Christian name.

The postman throws back the letters into his big bag and continues his round.

"They\'re always asking for letters," he grumbles, "but when I bring any they never come for them."

"They" frequently have a good reason for not coming, they may well have met their death between two posts.

The postman finds his bags swelling in bulk a little more every day; he becomes more anxious and careworn than ever.

Sinister rumours are spread regarding his intentions.

"He says that if the men are not there when he calls out the names to-morrow, he will burn everything left in the bag."

[Pg 90]

"The deuce! But did he mention where the distribution was to take place?"

He has done nothing of the kind; the hour and place of distribution are the postman\'s secret.

Sunday, 20th September.

We are up at three in the morning. The guns begin to boom. Gradually day appears. Returning to our trenches we see flashes leaping from the cannons\' mouth along with tiny puffs of smoke.

The view extends over the valley of the Aisne. The Germans are making desperate efforts to cross the river.

From our position in reserve we watch cyclists rushing along the road. The colonel comes and goes, and gives orders, smoking his huge pipe the while. A telephone has been fitted up in a haystack, from which he does not wander far, as the tinkling call is continually being heard. It is raining. We cover our trenches with sheaves of straw gathered from the neighbouring field and await events, crouching deep in our holes.

Roberty keeps us posted in what is taking place. Being a lieutenant, he is privileged to apply for the latest information from the colonel. At two o\'clock the enemy takes Fontenoy, and his vanguard has descended right to the bridge of boats. He is stopped short by a company of engineers. The Germans are decimated by a well-directed fire; those who are not killed return in disorder. Our regiment is charged with the task of recapturing Fontenoy.

[Pg 91]

We fix our haversacks, take in a supply of provisions and en route. The descent into the valley is through a wood. Roberty roguishly declares—

"Boys, our chances of death have gone up ninety per cent."

Halt at a crossing, near the Aisne, as we await the order to attack. We place our haversacks on the ground, rest our rifles against them and sit down. An hour passes. Two batteries of 75\'s are firing away behind us without a pause. The rain continues.

The lieutenant is summoned to the colonel. He returns with a smile and announces—

"Our chances of death are down; Fontenoy has been recaptured without our help. The artillery have compelled the Germans to evacuate. We shall spend the night at Gorgny."

Monday, 21st; Tuesday, 22nd; and Wednesday, 23rd September.

Three days well occupied. We are quartered in a wretched-looking farm, reeking with manure and filth of every kind.

We rise at a quarter to three. It is quite cold. We hurry to the kitchen, where Varlet and Charensac, the cooks of our section, are preparing coffee and cooking beefsteaks. They have not slept at all; in fact, they only received supplies about ten at night, for revictualment carts can approach the line only in the dark. The fire flames up in the vast country chimney, lighting[Pg 92] up the whole room. The farmer and his wife, grumbling and blink-eyed, are seated in a corner.

The coffee is very hot; already we feel better. It is followed by a quart of broth. Then Varlet portions out to each man a small piece of calcined meat: the beefsteak for the noon meal. En route. And now begins what Reymond calls the "noble game of the beetroot field."

I am fully convinced that in times of peace beetroots are extremely useful. This year, however, they poison the very existence of the foot-soldier, already sufficiently embittered. Ploughing one\'s way through fields of beetroots is enough to make one hate the war. Your foot twists and slips about in all directions. Hurled forward, you bruise your nose against the haversack of the man in front. Pulled backward, you receive from the man behind a blow in your ribs with the butt-end of his rifle. The night air is filled with groans and complaints. Where are we going? How can the officers find their way in the dark? One after another, feeling our way, each man runs in the wake of a fugitive shadow. On reaching the edge of the wood, we lose the path. The column is broken. Which direction are we to take? The wrong one, of course. Then heart-breaking rushes to and fro; we find every company except our own. Finally, day appears.

Arrival at the trenches. Distribution of shovels and picks, and quick—to work. A very pleasant form of exercise: if it is raining you wallow[Pg 93] about in mud; if it is dry you swallow sand all the time.

Close by us belch forth our 75\'s, which the Germans would fain dislodge. Gradually the enemy\'s artillery riddles the entire plain with shot of every calibre.

Nothing lessens that noisy good-humour peculiar to ourselves. The only thing that troubles us is with reference to eating and drinking. At such times as these, this is no easy problem to solve in the case of persons endowed with a good appetite. Only a few days ago we had scruples about cleanliness, and seized every opportunity of washing ourselves. Now we never think of it. It takes an effort to imagine what life must have been like in the good old times of peace and civilization—forty days ago!

I have not had my shoes off since we left Villers-Cotterets.

Roberty dispatches Jules, his orderly, to hunt about for something fit to eat. Off goes Jules; he is a man of poaching instincts, and being of seductive manners, receives unlimited credit. Along difficult paths, known to none but himself, he reaches Ambleny, or Ressons, or Gorgny. After several hours\' absence he returns in triumph, bringing a large pot filled with an abominable cold stew which the squadron tastes.

"It is made of a rabbit and an old hen," he explains. "I had them cooked together, along with some potatoes to make it more consistent."

In a huge musette, Jules has also brought some[Pg 94] white bread just baked, a number of pears, two pots of preserves, and a few bottles of wine. "This is good cheer!" we say.

And so the day passes. If there is nothing to do we carve fantastic animals out of beetroots: one way of obtaining our revenge on that odious vegetable.

At twilight we give up our picks and shovels and go down towards the village. A second edition of the noble game of the beetroot field.

It is nine o\'clock before we reach the farm. We receive our provision supplies, have them cooked, and eat our supper; it is nearly midnight before we are asleep. And we have to be up before three in the morning!

During the night of the 23rd, Roberty awakes us to give news of the war. In the first place—and this explains the French retreat after Charleroi—the enemy attacked us with no fewer than thirty-three corps. Then again, it appears that the Germans have recaptured oriental Prussia.... Consequently, we cannot trust too confidently in the Russian steam-roller.

We drop off to sleep again.

Thursday, 24th September.

The regiment crosses the Aisne along the bridge of boats, and passes through Port-Fontenoy, which the recent bombardments have severely tested. Those killed last Sunday have been removed by our engineers. Our goat stable is in ruins. It was indeed time for us to remove.

[Pg 95]

We reach a ravine close to the first line. The cannonade is more violent than ever.

The most recent news brought by the cooks state that Generals Castelnau and Maunoury, to be precise, have decided on a general offensive. The regiment is to take part in it.

What kind of special wire is it that connects a kitchen with headquarters? It is round the fires on which dinner is being cooked that we receive the most minute information regarding the slightest intentions of the heads of the army. This is due not only to the power of divination possessed by cooks, but also to the fact that these latter, when they go every evening to the train for a supply of eatables, are brought in contact with the drivers who have come from the rear.

Milliard, the postman of the company, arrives with two bags full of letters. Everybody rushes up to him. These are the first letters that have reached us since we left Humes. Milliard calls out the names. All round him are the chief corporals of the squadron who answer "Present!" for the men, and often, alas! "Dead!" "Wounded!" or "Missing!"

Regarding the letters, a brilliant idea has at last entered Roberty\'s brain. He says: "If each company\'s letters are called out before the men of the company, instead of shouting them before an indiscriminate mass or before nobody at all, the letters themselves and those for whom they are destined would have a better chance of being brought together." The commander has sanctioned[Pg 96] a trial of the system. Sergeant Milliard, of the 24th, searches in the bags. Knowing us well by name, he finds our letters. Wonderful! Some of the men burst into tears; others slip away, their trembling hands grasping the precious missives on which the familiar handwriting is seen.

Such excess of happiness emboldens one, and Milliard is asked, though in somewhat hesitating accents—

"Suppose I entrust you with a letter, what will become of it?"

"I will take it to the postman\'s van for you."

The deuce!

"And you think it will reach its destination?"

"Certainly; I can promise you that."

Thereupon the letter is timidly placed in Milliard\'s hands.

About five in the afternoon, Charensac assures us with a knowing air—

"Castelnau has put off the attack."

Friday, 25th; Saturday, 26th; Sunday, 27th September.

We recross the Aisne and again begin to dig holes. The trenches are soon deep enough, covered with foliage. We rest, surrounded by picks and shovels. It is very hot. Some write or talk; others roll about on the grass.

The shells mostly pass far above our heads. Of a sudden, however, three of them burst too near to be pleasant. Quickly returning to our holes, we form a carapace. Is it over? No, a fourth explosion is heard. But no harm is done.

[Pg 97]

Monday, 28th September.

The night is spent guarding the bridge of boats so heroically defended on the 20th by a company of engineers. No incident worth mentioning; a few spent bullets fall near the sentry-box.

In the morning we mount to the trenches and the day is spent idling about the grass. We have surrounded a corner of the meadow with branches of trees, sharpened and driven into the ground. No enemy, however excellent his observation glasses, could possibly discover our whereabouts. It is almost as peaceful as under the apple-tree of Père Achille. A fencing match, with sticks for swords.

Whenever the hum of an aeroplane is heard, the usual cry is raised—

"An aeroplane! Quick! To earth!"

Like rabbits we run and hide in our holes.

Jules appears, carrying a hen which he has come across somewhere and which Varlet has cooked without drawing or eviscerating it. The mistake is regrettable. All the same, Corporal Belin goes too far in refusing his share, protesting he will not eat a morsel of "that filth." Varlet gets vexed. Being accustomed to speak at public meetings, he has a tongue. But Belin, who has served nine years in the Foreign Legion, has principles of his own.

"I have served in Morocco and Western Algeria," he says, "and have often gone without food altogether, but I have never seen any one cook a hen undrawn."

[Pg 98]

And he sticks to his opinion.

Thereupon Varlet calls him a savage.

"A savage!" shrieks Belin, "a savage because I refuse to eat a hen\'s entrails!"

The dispute becomes embittered. Varlet forgets his position. Belin points to his red stripes and furiously sputters out threats.

The lieutenant intervenes and peace is made. Varlet acknowledges that it would have been better to draw the fowl, whilst Belin consents to eat a wing without making a wry face about it.

Tuesday, 29th; Wednesday, 30th September.

For the time being, at all events, the sector is to be organized for the defensive. The positions held by the enemy before Fontenoy can only be taken, we are informed, by siege. The Germans have constructed very strong trenches and lodged their reserves in grottoes sheltered from all possible bombardment, i.e. in subterranean quarries of which there are several in these parts.

On the other hand, the Russians are neither in Berlin nor anywhere near it.... Allons! The war will not come to an end next month.

Evidently in Paris they are considering the possibility of a winter campaign. Ladies are knitting woollen vests for us!

We shall see. In a soldier\'s life one must not dwell too much on the future, seeing that the entire situation may change from day to day.

[Pg 99]

Thursday, 1st October.

At dawn we leave for Le Chatelet, a hamlet perched on the heights overlooking the left bank of the Aisne, in front of Vic. A magnificent view over the valley. The company is to remain quartered here several weeks, to organize the position. The farm in which we are to lodge is surrounded by beautiful meadows.

We sleep on mattresses in a loft. If our stay here is to be prolonged, I feel that I shall resume my old habits of cleanliness.

Friday, 2nd October.

Alas! Réveillé at two in the morning. The situation has changed. The 24th goes down to Gorgny, and with arms piled and haversacks on the ground, is waiting in the enclosure of the chateau. At five comes the order to depart. En route for Courmelles, somewhere to the south of Soissons.

A forced march of thirty kilometres through the night. At eleven o\'clock we reach Courmelles, utterly worn out. Whilst waiting until our quarters are ready, we lie down pêle-mêle on the road alongside the houses. A Moroccan brigade crosses the village. The moonlight projects a bluish light on to the rapid and silent march of these men, wrapped in great hoods and with enormous haversacks towering above their heads: Matho\'s mercenaries. They are going in a northerly direction.

The squadron sleeps in a loft abounding in[Pg 100] straw. To cover my body I have a potato sack, which I use as a hood in the daytime.

Saturday, 3rd October.

At ten in the morning we are still asleep, snugly ensconced in the straw. For a month we have not once had a sufficiency of sleep.

Lieutenant Roberty summons us: Reymond, Maxence, Verrier and myself. His room is at our disposal for a wash and a change of linen. For this evening he converts his bed into two and shares it with us.

I receive a wire from Paris, which was dispatched on the 18th of September. A fortnight on the way! Evidently letters take less time: a good thing, too!

Many of the houses in Courmelles have been abandoned. In one of them the squadron makes arrangements for meals, a corporal—in ordinary life a mountebank—acting as cook. He whistles a number of popular airs whilst making a fricassee of three rabbits in an iron foot-pan. It is dinner-time. The rabbits are not fit to eat; they are burnt, and have an after-taste of soap. We turn up our noses, and I am the only one willing to taste the stew. I become nicknamed "the eater of filthy food," but this does not trouble me in the slightest. Luckily there is an enormous dish of fried potatoes, and the baker has consented to sell us some hot white bread.

Varlet and Charensac have gone for a stroll to Soissons. They had to cut across fields to escape[Pg 101] the gendarmes, who pursued them a considerable distance. They return hot and perspiring, greatly excited, and laden with rare dainties: any quantity of tobacco, chocolate, preserves, dubbing, writing-paper, couch grass brushes and pipes.

Soissons is filled with English soldiers and business seems very thriving. The town is exceedingly animated. Every one is overjoyed at the thought that the place is free of the enemy.

Sunday, 4th October.

Still resting. Optimists assure us that the regiment is to stay a month at Courmelles.

Letters long overdue now arrive along with the first parcels. One of them contains butter!

Roberty\'s orderly, Jules, is nothing if not bold. Under the pretext that it is Sunday, he offers to shave us and cut our hair. He has not the faintest idea of the hair-dresser\'s art, though he is delighted at his prospective occupation. I am his first victim. The villain manages to convert my hair into a miniature staircase. Then he shaves me, and to the accompaniment of such remarks as "That\'s right!" "I\'m improving!" he tears away the skin along with the hair. Terrified, I have not even the courage to request him to stop. The operation ended, I press little pads of wadding on to my bleeding chin and make my escape. My comrades hold their sides with laughter, Jules chuckles with pride and vanity as he asks—

"Next one?"

The lieutenant sends for me—

[Pg 102]

"Guess who\'s here?"

"A civilian?"

"Come down and see."

Girard! Maxime Girard of the Figaro. I press his hands with mingled affection and violence. After repeating a dozen times: "How small the world is, after all! To think of seeing you here!" we plunge at once into intimate conversation.

Girard is even dirtier than I am. His face is entirely covered with a thick layer of dust. Nose and trousers are of the same greyish tint. Cheeks and chin are covered with a downy beard. His coat possesses only one row of buttons, but he is just as much a gentleman as ever he was.

The mountebank corporal has promised to provide a good dinner; we may therefore invite Girard. He visits the kitchen. On seeing that we have at our disposal glasses and plates, dishes and a soup-tureen, a table and chairs, he slips away and only returns at the dinner-hour, shaven, brushed and washed, a man of the world.

After coffee, benedictine, cigars and pipes. Girard relates his campaigns, which resemble our own: bullets and shells, marches, orders and counter-orders, dust and mud; wounded men passing to the rear and comrades falling dead. Then the precipitate falling back of the Germans, the welcome halting-places where you shake off all your troubles and worries so successfully that you actually think the war is over!
 
Monday, 5th October.

On to the plain from which one gains a sight of Soissons, the battalion mounts to visit some old German trenches. There is a fine view of the town and of the cathedral of Saint-Jean-des-Vignes, one tower of which has been shot away. Firing continues away towards the north.

Three English companies are drilling: array in skirmish line, advance against hostile fire, muster in two rows. The various movements are carried through with all the regularity and precision of a ballet dance.

The thirteenth-century church at Courmelles is delightful to behold; the apse being pure Roman. We visit it as tourists.