CHAPTER XIV

THE SONGS OF THE HOMELAND

Fontaine-les-Cappy is some hundred yards from the lines.

It is a reserve position to which the company was sent the day before in expectation of an attack which may come at any moment.

It is raining as it hasn’t stopped raining for weeks. We had floundered in the mud for five hours and were splashed by an endless string of convoys to get here from Villers where the regiment had scarcely begun a few short days of rest.

The men were tired out and threw themselves on the filthy straw. They have slept nearly all day, and this evening in groups they try their hardest to organize a respectable meal from the means at their disposal. The wine flows from full canteens, and flasks of cheap brandy come out of the packs.

The section leaders advise them to save some of their provisions for the next day.

“To-morrow! What do you think? To-morrow we’ll lunch with the Boches. You! I’ll pay you in sauerkraut.”

Conversation gradually grew less amid the falling darkness and the smoke of pipes.

The silence became profound.

The men are not sleeping. They think and remember. Sadness and worry hover about....

Far away, hesitating, a voice sings a prelude. But that voice is so pure and clear that it seems enormous, startling, vibrating in the dull numbness of men and things.

Vigne is humming a song of Provence, a hymn to the sun, which from the banks of the Durance to the shores of the Latin sea, from the blue hills of the Alps to the golden flowers of Vacarès, the youths and maidens of Avignon, Arles, and Maillamne sing as they return to the hospitable farm from their labors, their hands entwined for the farandole, with eyes full of smiles and love for the bright sun which makes them live and love.

_Grand souleù de la Provènço_ _Gai coumpaire doù mistrau_ _Tu qu’escoules la Durènço_ _Comme un flot de vin de Crau,_ _Fai lusi toun blound caleù!_ _Coucho l’oumbro emai li fleù!_ _Leù! leù! leù!_ _Fai te vèire, beù souleù!_

Vigne was sitting in a corner, elbows on his knees, chin between his hands, his face lifted, and singing unconsciously, his eyes on the distance.

A candle stuck in the neck of a bottle throws a flickering light on the damp ground of the cellar, and scarcely separates his outlines from the darkness.

Gradually one follows in, one after another, naturally, and they all begin to sing.

And music and rhythm form so large a part of their natures that they form a wonderful choir where the thirds and minors take form instinctively without an effort, and where the dream of their homeland marks the time.

And they sing from their souls, and through it all is the sun of their beautiful South, the poetry of their dawns, the charm of their twilights, the mystic gleams of the olives, the flight of the red flamingoes on the pools, the coming down of the shepherds from the perfumed hills, the mad career of the bulls in clouds of dust on the white roads of Camargue, the gold of the mimosas, the red of the wild poppies, the blue sky, the blue sea, the sun....

_Fai lusi...._ _Fai lusi toun blound caleù._

These soft voices, monotonous, hesitating a moment ago, which seemed scarcely awake, now sound out, vibrant, dashing, sonorous.

They are no longer uprooted exiles who are stirred; it is a force, a crowd, a people whom the song of their birthplace awakes, draws together, cheers. It is Provence herself that sings.

Outside, the cannon roar and the shells fall like hail around the cantonment. Great shells tear up the ground with their gigantic blows.

War, horrors, blood, ruins, fear, the attack which is near at hand, death perhaps, all that exists no longer for them. It is all of no consequence to them; the air of their natal song transports them.

These men shut up in dark cellars, in dugouts, shaken by the terrific hammering of shells, are transported by their dream to the bright sunshine, the bright and cheerful atmosphere of their southern plains. They sing, and at once they are living again the life of their homeland.

Their “little” country dominates them and makes them valiant and strong in the midst of the sorrows all about to attack and stand up in defense of the Great!...

I go out with my nerves on edge and my eyes full of tears before the unearthly beauty of the scene.

Streaks of light from the stuffed air-holes alone let me realize that men in large numbers wait there underground for a signal to dash into the fiery furnace....

I walk to the end of the village to the officers’ quarters to calm my nerves.

Voices still rise in song on both sides of the road. There, under my feet in a ruin—so martyred that one might think it was an acropolis raising prayers of stone to heaven—a chorus of warm voices scans the joyous song,

_Qué cantès, qué recantès_ _Cantès pas per iev,_ _Cantès per ma mia_ _Qu’es auprès de iev._

Here are the lads of Languedoc, Nîmes, Montpellier, the vine growers of the plains, the carters of Aiguesmortes, the harvesters of Toulouse all carried away by the evocation of their homeland.

Oh! the beautiful song! How it puts heart into one; more beautiful than the most martial hymn composed in the harsh technique of the ink pots.

It is the living expression, simple, spontaneous, natural, of the people, the family and the soil. It carries in it the remembrances of happy childhood, of loves bathed in sunshine, the radiant nuptials in the mystery of light and flowers. It speaks of the loved pastures, the paternal roof, the farm, the herds, the vines ... and that is the Patrie.

Oh! the beautiful song! It dissipates dark thoughts, fears, uncertainties; it makes lovers and heroes, electrifies them, and increases their strength a hundred fold. They are the lads of Provence and Languedoc who spread through the world the triumphal “Marseillaise.” They are the same lads who despite the mud and the dark night breathe in their memory and in the song the re-vivifying breath of their “little” country, who in pursuit of the routed enemy make the “Marseillaise” victorious again, victorious alway.

At the end of the village in a house at the side of the road to Chuignolles, a feeble light filters through the canvas which takes the place of shutters.

The officers are quartered here. Lieutenant Casanova is stretched out on a mattress on the ground, smoking and dreaming over his eternal cigarette. Lieutenant Delpos leaning on a box which serves him for a table, is reading, by the light of a lantern, an illustrated novel.

I look over his shoulder. They are rather sprightly, suggestive illustrations, reinforced with a vengeance by the fervid imagination and second-hand talent of the readers who have handed it around.

The wind and rain rage outside the window. Poor weather for an attack.

“I’m sure that we’ve come here for nothing.”

“Oh, that can be launched at any time.”

“I should be much surprised if it came this evening.”

“Listen.”

A heavy, faraway, continuous rumble, like the beating of a drum, is heard just then.

The sound seems to come from the direction of Lihons and to get nearer by degrees.

In the midst of the fusillade we hear distinctly the regular crackle of the machine guns.

Suddenly, a terrific fire breaks out opposite us. D ... company, which we are to support, must have gone into action.

“That’s getting close.”

We go out. The road forms a sort of embankment at this spot, which is forbidden during the daytime, and from which we look toward the lines.

A great light has risen. More and more frequent bursts of shrapnel at this distance have the effect of immense red Venetian lanterns, tossed about by the wind in the dark night.

Rockets go up suddenly on our right.

That is a call for the artillery. The expected attack is probably taking place over there. We have been placed in reserve for fear that the attack might widen out on the sector, but it is probable that we shall not have to intervene.

“It looks as though it were quieting down there in front.”

“Hum! You’ll see.”

Lieutenant Casanova has had great experience in battles, and he isn’t taken by surprise by apparent lulls. On the contrary. Silence is what he dreads most.

“You’ll see.”

And as a matter of fact we didn’t have long to wait.... A tornado of shells falls between the lines and our cantonment. This is immediately followed by another, then still another, all in a couple of minutes.

It is a barrage of “77’s,” effected by a battery which has taken us in its fire.

“I certainly think that something is going to happen.”

“Go and tell the section leaders to get their men together and to have them ready.”

I go into the night in search of the cantonment.

All the men are awake. The corporals and sergeants have foreseen the order and everyone is waiting.

The shells and the fire of our rifles and our machine guns is only one frightful uproar in which all noises are confounded.

As I return toward the officers badly aimed spent machine-gun bullets whistle in the trees above.

“All we can do is to wait. If they need us, they’ll call us.”

As he said this the ever-imperturbable Lieutenant Casanova went back into his quarters and we followed him.

“I suggest poker,” said Delpos. “I’ll go and find the cards.”

“Three-handed poker is too risky.”

“Well, here’s a fourth.”

Someone raised the canvas which served as a door.

It’s an intelligence officer from the colonel.

“Lieutenant, D ... company is running out of munitions. Pass yours to them and send back for new supplies. Here’s the order.”

The lieutenant read the order and said:

“All right. It will be done.”

Hardly twenty minutes later, ten men from each section, each carrying four caissons, were assembled on the way out of the village.

D ... company’s position, which we marked yesterday, is about six hundred yards away and some yards beyond the ridge of the plateau between the main road from Amiens and the Somme. There’s little chance of losing the way, for it is downhill. We might pass through the fields but thirty yards before reaching the trench the ground is literally swept with shells. It is impossible to use the communication trench. The enemy artillery has located it mathematically and has completely destroyed it. The shells fall there without a let-up. The least dangerous passage is the unprotected ground.

Stretched out in the mud, the head of one against the heels of the other, our men form an endless chain on the terrain which extends from the sheltered ridge to the fire trench. They pass along the caissons by a simple movement of the arms, without raising their bodies or their heads.

In the same way and by the same means, crawling along, I reach the trenches in my turn and fall in.

Captain D ... is there, striding from one gun to another, encouraging his men and hurrying their fire.

“I was sure that I was going to run out of ammunition. They were already within one hundred and fifty yards.”

“We’ve passed you one hundred and sixty caissons. We’ve sent men for more and they’ll be here in half an hour.”

“We don’t need any more. It’s all over. Their attempt is broken. By daylight we’ll see more than two hundred bodies in front of our barbed wire. You can go. I thank you. Take my regards and thanks to Lieutenant Casanova.”

The firing continued all night, sometimes intermittently, sometimes in violent salvos, so that one might imagine that the enemy was making another attack.

At dawn we only heard rare, isolated detonations.

* * * * *

Our men returned to the cantonment uninjured. There were a few scratches and slight wounds in the hands, but there was no discharge in sight.

Some of them had had narrow escapes. Bullets had ricochetted and gone through the steel helmets. Linari’s was perforated with a round, well-defined hole. The bullet had gone out close to the ear.

They were exhausted by lack of sleep, and after eating a meal hastily thrown together from the things at hand, they started for their underground shelters.

Just then the sun rose shining brightly.

In the sky, washed by weeks of rain, it was so clear and smiling with warmth that one would have thought it was a sunrise in the South.

“Say, this morning that’s the sun of the South!”

“What’s it doing here? It’s made a mistake.”

“Beautiful sun! Indeed, there’s only you.”

And in the pure morning air, these peasants of Provence saluted the rising sun by shouting the joyous song which, a few hours before, had brightened their night.

_Gran souleù de la Prouvènço_ _Fai lusi toun blound caleù._

The attack was heavy; it is over. They have come back from it. They are still alive. We must begin all over again, to-night, perhaps; possibly this evening; perhaps in an hour. Death lurks everywhere. What difference does it make? This morning the sun rose radiantly. They sing!