Friday, 8th January.

This morning at half-past six, our artillery opens fire over a sector of several kilometres. Fifty guns each fire a hundred and twenty-five shots, a formidable total. The Moroccans carry two lines of trenches above Crouy and, along with the light infantry, obtain a footing on the upland. An important success, it appears. The German counter-attack is ineffectual. Their artillery is directed upon our trenches and upon the ground in the rear.

Are we to attack shortly? The question is asked of the lieutenants, but they cannot answer it.

From noon onwards firing grows more intense; it is a tempest of iron until five o\'clock. Storms of German shells beat down upon Bucy, whilst our own 75\'s crash their projectiles on to the trenches opposite. In the midst of the din we distinctly note the roar of the heavier shells passing overhead with the sound as of a slowly moving train over an iron bridge.

As though the rain were not enough, a hailstorm begins to lash our faces. Thunder-claps[Pg 230] alternate with the roar of cannon. The sky is lit up with lightning flashes. We are in a state of utter stupefaction when the hour of relief arrives.

On reaching our Ali-Baba cave, we learn that a 210 shell fell this afternoon in front of the grotto on a spot which for months we have regarded as absolutely sheltered. Sergeant Martin has been hurled into the air and the cooks flung pêle-mêle on to the ground. Even in the galleries the men have been lifted off their feet by an irresistible shock. It is discovered that no one has received any real harm except Sergeant Martin, whose left leg has been cut off close to the pelvis. Debris of red cloth and of flesh are still strewn around the enormous hollow dug by the projectile.

Saturday, 9th January.

After a delightful and dry night spent in the grotto, we are sent to clean out the branch trenches. Jacquard remains in the grotto busily occupied in arranging in a box our store of chocolate tablets.

Outside, the dance continues: 75\'s, 77\'s, 90\'s, 105\'s, 155\'s, and 210\'s plough their way through the air. With hands crossed on the shovel handle, and one foot on the iron, we watch these latter shells fall around the Montagne farm, and upon Le Moncel and Sainte-Marguerite: first a black cloud, then a red star-like flash and finally a thunderous explosion.

The enemy is trying to find our batteries. From[Pg 231] time to time four shots from a 75 follow one another in rapid succession as though to say: "Don\'t concern yourself." The spectacle is so fascinating that we do not feel at all inclined to work.

Violent fusillade from the direction of Crouy.

Towards evening the rain stops a little; so does the firing. The company is again installed in the first line.

Verrier, Reymond, Maxence and myself are appointed to occupy in turn two loop-holes and a dug-out. This latter is not an attractive place: a cavity of three cubic yards dug in the side of the trench. There is scarcely room to move one\'s body, and a few inside repairs are quite indispensable.

No sooner have we arrived than the corporal in charge declares—

"There are four of you for this post. Arrange amongst yourselves as regards the hours, but I want always to see two of you at the loop-holes."

"All right."

Two of us then mount guard; a simple matter in the daytime. It consists in walking about the trench, smoking one\'s pipe. An occasional glance opposite to see that nothing stirs.

Those left in the dug-out are busily occupied. First, there is the cleaning to be done. Our predecessors have left bones and pieces of waste paper lying about, and the sight is sickening.

"Ah, là là! Could they not have removed their own filth themselves?"

[Pg 232]

Then three tent canvases are opened out upon one another in front of the entrance to the dug-out. This is a delicate operation: no space or chink must be left between this improvised doorway and the walls of earth; first, in order to stop the draughts—it is extraordinary how one fears draughts in the trenches!—and then to keep out any light calculated to make our presence known to the Germans.

A cover on the ground to serve as a carpet. Two small niches in the wall for placing candles. A piece of plank, held up by two tent pickets driven into the wall, forms a shelf: the refuge of pipes, gamelles, and stores. Two bags on the ground to lean upon.

This task ended, one can take breath. It is now the time for letter-writing, the ever-recurring formula: "I am writing to you from the first line of trenches, close to the Germans. All the same, don\'t be anxious about me, there is little risk...." We read the paper and find that all foot-soldiers are looked upon as heroes. There it is, in print. These things flatter us greatly. After all, it\'s something to be a foot-soldier!

Generally everything is quiet at this hour; like ourselves, the Germans are preparing dinner and bed.

The time comes for us to sit down to our meal. One man only remains on guard. The other three dine gaily, and at considerable length. When the conversation becomes too noisy, the sentry gives a kick at the tent canvas. Every[Pg 233] ten minutes the poor fellow draws aside the screen and asks—

"Aren\'t you going to relieve me soon? I\'m terribly hungry."

We reply—

"All right, there\'ll be something left for you. Remove that head of yours; you\'re letting in the cold."

He resigns himself to his lot, well aware that any one under cover is privileged to swear at a wet dog.

From time to time he fires a shot into the dark, just to make him forget his hunger. He puts himself en liaison with the entries right and left of him.

Finally he hears the words—

"Come along, your turn for dinner. One of us will take your place. Just wipe your boots and don\'t soil the carpet."

He glides into the hole, which exhales a blended odour of stew, tobacco and fighting. A broad smile appears on his face as he says: "That smells nice." And he believes it too. He perceives his portion simmering away on a soldier\'s chafing-dish. Speedily comes fresh cause for anxiety—

"Where\'s my coffee? I\'ll wager you\'ve not kept it warm for me!"

Indignant protests.

"See! There\'s your coffee. We\'ve even kept a cigar for you. Would you like to begin with a couple of sardines?"

[Pg 234]

After which, his hosts add, pretending to shiver with cold—

"Careful, all the same, you\'re wet through. Don\'t stir, or you\'ll upset everything in the room."

At eight o\'clock\' dinner is over. Each man cleans his plate and his knife and fork with a piece of bread.

Preparations for the night. Two are going on watch duty and two to sleep; relieving one another every four hours. The two privileged ones, who are able to digest their meal at leisure, light their pipes, pass the bottle of spirits, and are speedily fast asleep.

The two sentries stand with their back\'s to the rain. They hide their pipes in the hollow of the hand.

"What weather!"

"Dreadful!"

One man coughs. The other remarks—

"Suppose we move from here; you\'ll wake the children."

Maxence and myself occupy the dug-out from eight till midnight. We smoke a few pipes. The post has brought newspapers. Our accoutrements hang on nails driven into the timber which props up the shelter. Maxence, who has been somewhat fidgety for some minutes, remarks—

"I don\'t care! I\'m going to put on my socks; it will be far more comfortable."

"And suppose the lieutenant comes along.... And what if the Germans attack?"

"Eh?"

[Pg 235]

He hesitates, his hand on the point of unrolling his puttee.

"Nonsense! Those over in front won\'t stir an inch."

I succeed in persuading him not to remove his boots. Well wrapped in our coverings, we talk before going to sleep.

I am interrupted by an exclamation in the trench—

"The Germans are in the branch trench! Look out!"

We spring to our accoutrements and arms. A hundred yards to the right a brisk fusillade is going on.

"Who was it shouted, \'Look out!\'?"

"A man of the fourth section, the one on guard at the listening post," placidly answers Verrier, who has already fixed his bayonet to his rifle, though retaining his cigarette between his lips.

"Well! Where are the Germans? There is nothing to be heard!"

We begin to scent one of those tragi-comic incidents frequent in warfare. The lieutenant passes, an electric lamp in hand. As he strides away towards the right, he gives the order—

"Everybody at the loop-holes!"

The command is obeyed.

In half an hour\'s time he returns.

"Well! What was the matter?"

Thereupon, half-smiling, and half-angry, he relates—

"It was a German patrol that had taken the[Pg 236] wrong direction. Our sentry was watching, sheltered by a tarpaulin stretched across two pieces of wood. He hears the sound of voices and heavy steps, and, crash! something splits the tarpaulin and falls with a howl on to his shoulders. It was a German! Stupefied, the sentry calls out: \'To arms!\' Everybody comes rushing from the shelters, and there is a fine uproar. Meanwhile, the German scales the parapet and clears off. The patrol had already disappeared."

When the lieutenant has gone, we make our way through the three or four hundred yards of deserted, winding branches to visit the heroes of the adventure. They look very shamefaced.

The corporal seems uneasy.

"Do you think the lieutenant will give me the lock-up for this?"

Indignantly he adds—

"But what fools they were to come along here! Is that the way an enemy patrol goes to work?"

Evidently, if the enemy in future approaches our lines without taking the usual precautions, he will no longer be playing the game!

The sentry especially has a very sickly look.

"Why didn\'t you stick your bayonet into the fool of a German?" some one asks.

"My bayonet was sheathed. Do you fix your bayonet when on sentry duty in the trench? It\'s only in the illustrated papers that you find such silly things!"

The escaped German, whom we baptize Fritz,[Pg 237] has left his Mauser behind. What sort of a story will Fritz have to tell on returning to his own lines without his rifle? Will he be kicked unmercifully? Or will he be clever enough to make up a tale of heroism which will win him an iron cross?

A stormy night. Rifle shots. Patrols peppering one another.

The voice of a wounded German calls for help, a plaintive, wailing voice; he wishes to surrender, his comrades have left him, and he begs us to come for him.

"Come along. We\'ll do you no harm."

There is no reply. Most likely a feint to draw some of us into an ambush.

Sunday, 10th January.

This morning we notice that the Germans have profited by the darkness to dig an attack branch, enabling them to pour a raking fire into our trenches. This part of the sector is becoming difficult to hold. We receive the impression that the enemy is preparing an ugly surprise.

At noon we are relieved. The glorious sunshine puts us in good humour. A profound sense of security and repose inside—or in front of—the grotto, whilst a heavy cannonade is preparing an attack on Hill 132.

The attack is made at sunset. The Moroccans and light infantry carry a third line of trenches, and fortify themselves on the upland, almost touching the Perrière farm.

[Pg 238]

Monday, 11th January.

The whole afternoon we stand at the entrance of the grotto watching the big projectiles fall upon Bucy. Vr—ran! vr—ran! In the evening, silence again reigns; the 21st and 24th go down to Vénizel, on the Aisne, a distance of four kilometres from Bucy.

For the first time since the 15th of November we are about to find ourselves out of rifle-shot range. How glad we should be if we could put ourselves for a week out of earshot of the cannons\' roar!

It rains in torrents. Our quarters have been badly arranged; no one knows where he has to go. Lieutenants shout; sub-officers raise their arms in despair. We men wait, the rain pouring down upon us.

Finally comes an order: our squadron is on guard, and we must occupy a pinnace moored on the right bank of the Aisne, above the bridge. We follow the banks of the swollen stream, and then cross a wood, the first few trees of which are partially under water. A faint light is seen: it is the pinnace. We enter one by one along a shaky plank which threatens to give way. And now we are yachtsmen. This is one of the most curious incarnations of our life as soldiers.

The squadron—which, for the occasion, we call the crew—occupies the \'tween decks. There is a big petrol lamp and a good stove. The skipper, mobilized on the spot, and his wife, seem very nice people. And what a pleasant refuge!

[Pg 239]

Varlet brings letters and parcels. Our joy knows no bounds. Reymond, tricked out in a sky-blue cap, repeatedly mounts on to the deck.

"Are you on the watch?" asks the corporal.

"Yes. Fine breeze north-north-west. In twenty days we shall reach the Cape of Good Hope."

With a stubby little pipe in his mouth, his shaggy beard, and his manner of walking with legs apart as though the boat were rolling, he looks exactly like a seasoned old salt.

There are fourteen of us in the boat, and we are all covered with vermin. The corporal, neck and breast bare, is engaged in minutely picking his shirt; he burns his fleas in the stove, and at each immolation gives an exclamation of wild satisfaction.

The capotes are hardened with mud, and the bayonets, which usually serve as candlesticks, are covered with wax drippings. As for our rusty, stopped-up rifles, they will only be fit for service after a thorough cleaning.

I feel somewhat feverish, and sit down apart from the rest. A formidable slap on my back: Charensac\'s way of showing his affection. Heart-broken to see me ill, he shouts confidentially into my ear—

"What\'s the use of fretting, old fellow?"

"Just leave him alone for the present," advises the corporal.

Charensac brightens up more and more as he eats. He is just as happy and pleased in a pinnace as he would be anywhere else.

[Pg 240]

Seeing that his comrades are writing letters, he goes to and fro, brawling out—

"Ah! ah! So my little mates are working. Good! Mustn\'t disturb them now."

In spite of the smell of rancid oil and tar we are quite content because we are dry, and so we sit up till two in the morning. Finally, each of us picks out a corner, wraps himself in his cover, and falls asleep on the floor.

Tuesday, 12th January.

The whole morning on the deck of the pinnace. An infernal cannonade is roaring on the upland. How they must be enjoying themselves! About eleven o\'clock, as I was beginning to brush my capote, Charensac and Meuret come running up, out of breath, and sputter out—

"To arms! The Germans are advancing."

Various exclamations. We hastily equip ourselves.

When the section is mustered, the lieutenant first makes us cross the bridge of Vénizel and pass along the left bank of the Aisne, i.e. in the direction opposite to the seat of battle. Here we begin to descend with the stream. The swollen waters, of slimy yellow, carry off debris of every kind. After proceeding a kilometre, we reach a wooden bridge. The flood is so strong that the current threatens to wash over the flooring. This bridge has been constructed by the English; it still bears inscriptions in their language. We cross; again we find ourselves[Pg 241] on the right bank. To reach the trenches we shall have to traverse, in open daylight, the plain of Vénizel, which is three kilometres wide, and under the enemy\'s fire from the neighbouring heights.

"In columns by twos, forward!"

Scarcely have we started in the direction of Bucy than we are greeted by a shell, then by two, followed soon by three. We are being fired upon. A command is given that the four squadrons should follow one another at intervals of fifty yards.

On reaching the first houses in Bucy we find considerable excitement. Gunners, sword and revolver in hand, exclaim—

"Don\'t go in that direction! The Germans are at the sugar-mill of Crouy."

A horseman gallops up, coming from the line. As he rides past we ask—

"Well, good news?"

He frowns and makes a wry face. Evidently there is hard fighting going on.

The section climbs in the direction of the trenches. Half-way up, we meet a few men and a lieutenant of another regiment. They wear a haggard look, and seem uncertain of their movements.

"Where are you going?" asks our lieutenant.

"I\'ve not the faintest idea," says the other. "This is all that\'s left of my company. We have just been mined."

One man, still in a very shaky condition, explains—

[Pg 242]

"For days past we have been hearing a scraping noise underground. Then, of a sudden, v\'lan! We are all blown into the air! Our poor comrades!"

Over the entire upland, between Missy, Bucy, Crouy, and the Paris-Soissons-Maubeuge road, the battle is being waged. The Germans counter-attack at several points. The artillery duel is a terrible one.

I am quite out of breath. As well as I can, aided by Charensac, I climb the steep and muddy slope leading to the first-line trenches. Really, I must throw out some ballast.

Thrusting my hand into my musette, I take out a couple of tins of preserved lobster. These I mechanically hand across to Charensac, who, woebegone, makes a sign that he does not want them. This is one of the saddest impressions of fatigue and weariness that I have ever experienced. If Charensac has come to this pass, we are in a state! I say—

"Well, then; the more\'s the pity! Away they go!"

I fling the two tins on to the road, Charensac sighing as he watches them disappear.

At............