Part 5

This is the way of the retreat. However rapid it seems, it is exceeded in speed by the enemy. Every difficulty retards the troops in flight; obstructed roads, slow-moving army wagons, necessary destruction. The enemy pushes on. He sends forward his cavalry quite indifferent to the condition of the land. He takes strategic points, he occupies mountains, he bars passes. We must make a détour to cross a river over which he leaps. We must save munitions which weigh heavily and impede our course. We must watch for a safety which he disdains. He comes and breaks the embryonic resistance which he encounters, overthrows battalions already in rout, sweeps away regiments already disorganized. You believe he is behind, he is really in front. You go to the right, he is there. You return to the left, he has forestalled you. Those hours of torture, when difficulties accumulate to impede flight, when the mother’s weakness detains the son, when the weight of a child is a crushing burden! Those hours of agony, when all about is burning, when terror is spread abroad, when only menace is seen on every hand! Those who have lived through such hours will never be able to efface them from the memory.

We arrived at Vervins, already attacked by the enemy, but defended by a screen of troops with some cannon. From the distracted town, where the detonations rocked the houses and made the window-panes rattle, one could watch the battle. Some aeroplanes were flying about overhead like great birds of war. They were the first military aircraft, still incomplete and badly armed. From them the observer could see but little, and he was obliged to descend to earth to bring his information. Such as these machines were, they interested us much, and seemed to fulfil in the air a remarkable mission.

Beyond this observation, the sight did not prevent some of us from seeking provision. It was already very difficult to find food in that town, where an army had passed. Practically nothing was left. The shops had wound up their business and their owners were preparing for flight. Everywhere were piled up furniture, scattered straw, torn paper. Nothing kept its usual course. One paid no matter what sum for two spoiled eggs. Berthet achieved a veritable triumph in discovering a pound of almond chocolate.

However, the soup was cooked on the kitchen-stoves in the houses. The quartermasters distributed meat and bread, at least as much as they could procure from the commissariat wagons which had stopped at the edge of the town. Some wounded men, returning from the fighting-lines, mingled with the men carrying wood and water. Some artillery wagons went through the streets at full speed, vainly searching some munitions gone astray.

In this general turmoil there came to hand an unfamiliar newspaper: it was the _Bulletin of the Army of the Republic_, which the minister of war had just established, and which was distributed to the troops. Every one, eager for news, obtained a copy and turned its pages rapidly, in the hope of gaining some definite knowledge of events. We read some reports of victorious progress in Alsace. The reading gave us some comfort and strengthened our courage. All was not lost, then, since the enemy was retreating over there! We exchanged words of confidence, we reassured each other: Germany would be beaten, that was certain. The Cossacks were invading Prussia, and our retreat signified nothing: we were at a disadvantageous point of the field of action, that was all! The enemy, hard pressed elsewhere, was going to retreat in his turn, and would be pursued to Berlin.

Laughter became contagious, and some joyous souls could not refrain from boasting. Our fatigue fell from us; we were again serene.

None the less, it was necessary to continue the movement already initiated, retreat still further, resume the march as soon as night had fallen, gain in all haste a point at the rear which had been indicated to our chief officers. We again took the highroad. It was still crowded, but only by the troops. The fugitive civilians were obliged to yield it to the army wagons and infantry, and themselves march across fields. They could be seen in long files, like migratory tribes, stopped by natural obstacles, entangled by hedges and hindered by watercourses. We passed without giving them aid; there was no time to stop. We were directed toward Laon, which we must reach at all cost, in order to organize the resistance before the arrival of the enemy.

Laon was far away, and the road was long, and the sack was heavy, and the march was at a bruising pace. We braced ourselves for endurance. Our faces, with several days’ growth of beard, were streaked with sweat and dirt, were drawn and haggard from fatigue. We marched all night without arriving at our goal, then all day. It was evening when we reached the citadel perched on its rock, dominating a vast stretch of plain. We were installed in an entirely new barrack, and went to sleep without eating. We were not hungry, which was well, as there were no provisions. I threw myself on a bed and fell asleep like a clod. It would be light to-morrow, one could see clearly to-morrow; one could wash to-morrow, one could eat to-morrow.

That was the way of it. All night the exhausted troop slept without sentinels, stomach empty, mouth open, in whatever position they happened to fall, utterly incapable of any defense. If the enemy had come, he could have swept away at a single stroke and without a struggle ten thousand men. There was not one of us who could have fired a shot.

This haste was important. It gave time to catch our breath. The army having escaped the German pursuit, saved its quota and could reorganize.

“Look at that steep bluff!” said Berthet to me the following morning. “It seems impregnable, does it not? Nevertheless, in 1809 Napoleon’s Marie Louise Battalion took Laon by storm, from this side, and made a bayonet charge up those steep slopes, and dislodged the enemy.”

As for us, we must first descend the declivity. The enemy was approaching. His scouts and advance-guards flashed through the plain in every direction. He gushed from the woods, he streamed along the roads, he inundated the fields. He came from everywhere, as if the entire earth had vomited Germans. They were innumerable as a cloud of locusts. It was more like a plague than an army. It was a barbarian horde pouring itself over our country and forcing us to retreat again; always retreat, always faster, without looking back and without offering resistance.

We set out once more, madness in our eyes. Would it never end, this flight? What was happening? What were our armies doing? Were we going to fall back as far as Paris? or perhaps still farther, as far as the Loire? We no longer knew what to think. We no longer possessed speech or ideas. The chiefs knew no more than the men. They no longer attempted to explain. Our lieutenant carried the knapsack of a man gone lame, and marched chewing a cigar. Our commandant went up and down the length of the column with a sombre air, and no one dreamed of singing.

These were the first days of September. The air was still hot and stifling. Some men, made giddy by the sun, fell in crumpled masses. Sweat ran off our bodies, rusted the arms in our hands. A suffocating dust filled the air and covered faces and clothing with an ever-thickening layer. Throats were parched, eyes haggard, shoulders bleeding.

Berthet fell. I helped him up, he fell again. He could go no farther, and I feared that I would see him die there of exhaustion. I rubbed him, made him drink a little mint. Then I put him in the shade and went foraging. I discovered some water and a fresh egg, which I made him take. He swallowed it, only half conscious. Then I saw a resurrection. He sat up, light returned to his eye and color to his cheek.

Thus he was saved; but how many remained on the route, easy prey for brutal German soldiers, and how many died, their names unknown! The plains of Thierache and of the Aisne alone know how many fell by the way, victims of exhaustion, during the great retreat, when the foul enemy already scented Paris and believed it within his grasp; superhuman retreat, which spread for the foe the snare of the Marne, that miracle which the passing centuries will hold in remembrance.

Such was the retreat, from my view-point as a humble soldier of the ranks, from my position as an atom lost in the immense movement. Others will recount its strategic value; others will explain its grandeur. I have seen only what I have here related, I, a little cog in the huge tragedy, and I am proud to have lived those hours. Other great hours were to follow, but those passed through were not the least wonderful.

IV

WAITING

We took with us on our retreat some prisoners captured at Guise, during our frenzied flight; some dozen men, whom the gendarmes conducted, handcuffs on wrists. They excited much curiosity.

These soldiers did not give a very proud idea of the battle, nor of the enemy army. They were poor devils, dressed in gray, whose boots of tan leather alone drew attention. These looked very well, but were too narrow for the feet, and several men limped in a ridiculous manner.

Chained with them marched some civilians, marauders or spies, also being conducted to the rear. One of them attempted escape one night. Immediately retaken, one hour later he stood before a court martial, whose sombre appearance is graven on my memory.

It was a simple village house, with green shutters. A sentry stood at the door. Through the open windows one could see the tribunal in session, and the accused defending himself. The trial was brief and tragic. Five officers were seated in a commonplace dining-room, with an extension-table for a desk, at the end of which two clerks were writing. At the end of the room, in front of the buffet, some gendarmes guarded the accused. The contrast between the austere scene and its setting was striking. There a man was being judged, there his life or death was the subject for decision; and the cannon were roaring, quite near, and the retreating army was filling the village street.

I saw the man plead his cause, standing, gesticulating. The judges listened attentively and gravely. Not a muscle of their countenances moved; they seemed made of wax. Their caps made splashes of scarlet and gold on the table. On the wall behind the presiding officer hung a naïve picture of a country fête. The hanging lamp appeared to have been in the way: it was unhooked and put in a corner. I could plainly hear the voices, though I could not distinguish the words. The accused implored. He clasped his hands and fell on his knees. Then he uttered a cry.... The gendarmes dragged him away. His place was taken by another prisoner.

The next day, when we were leaving, he was missing. He had been shot at sunrise.

* * * * *

We finished the retreat by railway, finding a train which had come as far as a broken bridge and was turning back on its route. We were shut up in the carriages three entire days. Though it seemed an interminable journey, nevertheless it ended with our return to our starting-point.

This return, of a fantastic duration (our whole trip could be made in eight hours in time of peace) occupied the first days of the battle of the Marne. Yes, while the destiny of the world hung in the balance, while the most formidable struggle the earth had ever seen was in progress, we were packed into boxes on wheels, we were shunted about and loitered on the rails like so much useless merchandise. Our train moved, stopped, went into a station, departed, stopped again. We remained for hours on grassy tracks where no train had passed for months. We borrowed unfamiliar routes, we lost our way on unknown switches. Sometimes we stopped in a tunnel, or in the midst of a deserted countryside. Sometimes we halted at a town where the inhabitants crowded about us, bringing provisions of all sorts: bread, wine, meat, and fruit, and fêted us in a thousand ways. The people questioned us eagerly. The greater number had a son or brother in the army, and naïvely asked news of them. We had no information whatever, but exchanged assurances of an early victory. In spite of what we had seen, our confidence remained unbroken, and we gave much comfort to those who saw only disaster ahead. We maintained that the French advance continued constantly in Alsace, that the Germans were retreating everywhere, that the Russians were galloping on Berlin by forced marches. We were certain that Germany was rushing to suicide, and our certainty was eagerly demanded in exchange for the presents received. The sympathy of all these people was touching. It seemed as though we were all one family with these, our own French people, who were giving us so hearty a welcome. We felt so grateful for their reception that we would have liked to embrace them all.

Then the train started. We exchanged hearty adieus as we went away--only to stop a little farther on for another lapse of time. After three full days of this we reached our destination. We had traversed half of France, and were now going to recuperate for new hardships.

Our camp was located in a little village buried in verdure, in the midst of a calm countryside, as far from the war as possible. Very little news reached this out-of-the-way spot; newspapers were old when they arrived. The populace lived as usual, groaning a bit to keep in countenance, but not suffering any real inconvenience.

We were soon bored to death. In spite of the daily exercises, in spite of the drills, in spite of the preparations and small side comedy of war, we longed for the tempest, for the great whirlwind which was sweeping away our brothers over yonder, toward the east. Only its echoes reached us. There was the Marne; there was the German retreat; there was the digging of trenches, the line stretched to the sea; there was the Yser.

Yet here we stayed. Time passed heavily. We felt much aggrieved: it seemed that the war was bound to be too short to offer us a sufficient revenge. We gave up hope of returning to the front, so long did the days seem while our comrades were doing the fighting.

Berthet and I never ceased to fret. Inertia crushed us. We would have accepted no matter what offer of an errand in order to go away, to have action, to quit the tranquil country where we were vegetating, to find again adventure, to run risks: in short, to live. It seemed to us that we spent months there, stagnating. In reality it was six weeks.

In that apparent inaction the regiment was putting itself in condition. One day twelve hundred men were selected for reinforcements to join a neighboring division of the army. There were touching farewells. Those who were leaving, feverish with joy, shook hands proudly with those who remained behind, and who were envious to the last man. None of these, however, was destined to return unharmed. All were mowed down on the plains of Champagne in their first engagement, and their places were filled by new comrades from other camps.

That also is an aspect of war. One does not keep constantly the same comrades, nor even the same officers. The army is a living organism which undergoes constant wear and rebuilding. At first, one gladly believes that he will always have the same neighbors, that he will be with the same sergeant, that he will be surrounded by the same faces until the end. Then one comrade is transferred to another regiment, another merely disappears. Another is called to a distance: he goes and never returns. Soon one finds himself the only man remaining of the original group. The company has not fought, it has not suffered murderous losses, and still its personnel has been renewed.

Yo is gone. Amelus is gone. Happily, Berthet remains for me, and I for him. We will not leave each other. We believe it since we desire it, and we are almost sure that we will be able to mould the future to our wish; such is the immense vanity of man.

Thus we spent our days, soldiers without being soldiers, soldiers of time of peace, tied down to puerile exercises, to imaginary assaults, to supposititious battles. We champed our bits. We longed for the struggle, we awaited our turn with growing impatience.

It came at last. One evening the order to go forward arrived. The regiment was ready, solid, high-spirited, complete. It set out: all felt a secret thrill. At last we were going to the Front, we were going to know, to fight, and to die!

V

LA PIOCHE

It is night. It is raining. The train stops at a station. We have arrived. But where? No one knows. All is black. All is sombre. All is sinister. All is threatening. We alight from the carriages to stretch our legs.

“Silence!” growl the officers. “In two ranks, quick!” Along the platform we fall in line as well as possible in the dark, our knapsacks on our backs, and, over all, the rain.

“Forward.”

We reach a road; a road that feels hard under the feet. A damp chill arises from the invisible earth and the rain glues our clothing to our skins. Our shoes are heavy with mud. We march. Each follows the comrade who stumbles along ahead, and whom one can hardly see. One hears only the rustling of the trees, the confused sound of steps, a brief exclamation, an oath. We go straight ahead where we are led; through the dark toward the unknown.

“Silence!” hiss the chiefs, “we are close to the enemy. Not a word; not a cigarette.”

A sort of apprehension grips us. The fear of the unknown binds us. It is not the certainty of danger: it is worse. It is an inexpressible anguish. One is in danger from invisible blows that will fall unawares. We mount a hill. At the summit one has a view, a darkly shut-in view, whose walls of black are pierced by flashes of fire; mere sparks in the distance. Artillery! This which we look down upon is the Front. There, below us, at a considerable distance still, they are fighting. With throbbing hearts, eager to advance, to arrive at the place destined for us, we peer into the cannon-starred curtain of the night.

But the march continues to be slow. One slips on the muddy ground, one skids, one swears. As we go down the hill the stirring sight is blotted out like dying fireworks, and we are once more in a shut-in road, whose embankments add to the blackness and cut off all outlook.

Nevertheless, the confused sounds of the battle carry up the slope to our marching troop. Somewhere, down there, a lively artillery duel crashes in fury and the brilliant flashes of light dart their resplendent triangles into the heavens. Is it there we are going? No one knows. One feels his heart thrilled and a little shaken by the nearness. Instinctively one touches elbows with his neighbor, tightens his grip on his rifle; becomes silent.

All the time we advance. Occasionally there are stops; sudden, unlooked-for stops. Then one starts on. Soon we reach some houses. We are entering the street of a village and the shaded lanterns cast weird shadows on the walls. The column crowds together. We catch our breath.

“We camp here,” say the sergeants.

The orders are sent along the line. There is a moment of rest; then the squads break up. Every one seeks his place of shelter. We are quartered in the buildings of a large farm. I and my companions are billeted in a barn and we stamp our feet on the unthreshed wheat which has been stored there. Each begins hollowing out a place to sleep.

“Make no lights,” order the sergeants, “you will be spotted.”

“Eh, boys!” calls a voice, “where do you come from?”

And from between the bundles of straw we see the up-lifted heads of several soldiers. Approaching them, we find that they have been comfortably sleeping in their straw nests, and that our arrival has awakened them. We question them:

“What is this place, here?”

“It is Taissy.”

“Ah!”

“Is it far from the trenches?”

“Oh, no, mon garçon; only about fifteen hundred metres.”

Then they tell their story. They are cripples, mostly lame, who are waiting for vehicles to take them back to the dressing-stations. They have been in the trenches for a month; they have fought; they give details of their battles. We do not see them. We hear only detached phrases which come to us confusedly out of the night.

“A dirty hole. We lost a heap of men.”

“There’s a fort up there which we recaptured.”

“There were three counter-attacks.”

“Then, a dirty canal full of rotten meat. What a stink!”

Suddenly some furious detonations rend the air. Every one is silent. We listen.

“That’s nothing,” say the old-timers, “it’s only our battery firing. But if the Boches answer you will see something!”

“Do they often reply?”

“Hell, yes! Every day. Half of the village is already pounded to pieces.”

“Ouf!”

It is true. A comrade who has been prowling around outside comes back:

“The next farmhouse is demolished. The roof is gone and the walls are like a sieve.”

“Silence!” growl the sergeants. “Go to sleep. You must fall in at five o’clock to-morrow morning.”

The conversations cease. Each one picks out a place, buries himself in the straw, and sinks into sleep as a ship is engulfed by the waves.

It is our first night under fire. Perhaps some of us do not find untroubled slumber, but there is no alarm and to stay awake is useless. Besides, there is nothing to do but sleep. So we sleep.

At dawn we are afoot. We can see that the war is not far distant. The near-by houses are disembowelled, and such walls as still stand are pierced by great round holes where the shells passed. Certain roofs seem like lace, their rafters blackened by fire and rain. We are curious, and run about that we may not miss seeing any of the damage done by the bombardment.

“Back to your quarters!” cry the non-coms. “To go out is forbidden.”

We hardly heard them, and they had to use force to hold back the men and prevent their scattering in the village streets. The officers came to the rescue. Then we obeyed. Soon came the order to fall in, the roll was called, and as soon as the knapsacks were buckled to the shoulders we started on. We were going to the trenches.

The cannonade incessantly grew louder. We followed a road bordered with trees and masked by underbrush; a road leading toward the noise. Every eye sought for signs of this unknown thing into which we were marching. They were not lacking. Everywhere broken branches hung from the trees, and frequently we passed ruined houses whose peasant owners dumbly watched our marching troop. On we marched. We crossed a bridge and entered another village, a hamlet entirely deserted, mutilated, horrible to look at, like a wounded man lying on the ground. Its houses, after their years of tranquillity, had suffered a terrible assault. They were riddled with shells; their walls were like a moth-eaten garment. We could see the interiors still fully furnished; curtains still hanging at windows where all the glass had been shattered; half-open buffets, occasionally with their mirrors intact. Only a glimpse did we catch as we passed. Then we left the ruins and, for a time, followed a canal. This we crossed by a frail foot-bridge and found ourselves in a narrow ditch--a communication-trench--the first we had seen. We descended into the earth, following this narrow chink which reached to our shoulders and, at times, entirely concealed us. This boyau wound its way about, turning and zigzagging apparently without reason. We traversed it in single file, seeing nothing but the back of the man in front and the two walls of smooth clay cut perpendicularly to the bottom.

It was a sight unfamiliar to all: an extraordinary journey, a thing of mystery, the entering of an infernal region where feelings of humanity were left behind.