Part 3

Here are quoted some reports made by the commanders of regiments and brigades. Words coming often from humble mouths, but inspired by the highest patriotism: A Colonial infantryman wounded in the foot in the beginning of the action limped to a "Poste de Secours" and said, "Here, quick, put on a strong bandage, I have only killed one so far. I am wild to get back." He was last seen climbing frantically up the slopes of "la Main de Massiges."

A captain, his face streaming with blood from a ghastly wound, refused to retire. "Today one pays no attention to little wounds, it is only death that will stop me now!"

A boyish lieutenant, as the first wave of men swept forward, shouted to his command: "Allons, Forward! Heads up, eyes straight. Fight! Fight!! Fight!!! Today we are going to enjoy ourselves. We are going to protect the sacred soil of France." He fell five minutes later.

A colonel of Colonial infantry, nick-named the bravest of the "Poilus," although severely wounded in the head, pushed forward to climb the "Entonnoir" of the crater. As he fell he shouted: "Onward! Onward, my brave lads. I would lead but I have lost too much blood. You are heroes all. En avant mes enfants!" ("Forward, my children, for France!")

Let me note a few words of personal experience: It was a gray cold day in early November. The little ferry-boat which runs between St. Malo and Dinard tossed heavily in the yellow-green waves rolling in from the channel. The decks were awash with spume and water, the sharp north wind whistled around our ears. I huddled down in the corner behind the pilothouse. Nothing but necessity would have driven me forth on such a day, but when one hears of 130 wounded arriving the day before in a remote convent hospital, one puts personal comfort aside and goes forth. The wind was piercing and brutal, even my fur coat was a poor protection against this bitter assailant from the north. Miserable and shivering I crouched behind the weak shelter, sincerely wishing I had never come.

Suddenly a cheerful voice wished me "Bon Jour."

A Zouave, baggy trousers, fez, clear bronze complexion, aquiline features, flashing eye, stood before me.

"Madame will permit that I seat myself on her bench?" he said.

"But certainly," I replied, looking with interest at this injured youth from afar. "Whence came you, mon petit?" ("my little one") I said, "you do not look any too strong to stand this winter gale."

"Quite true, Madame," he replied, "but we Zouaves are accustomed to the cold and storm."

"But surely you came from a warm country, mon soldat? The Zouaves are from Africa are they not?"

"True, I am from Tunis," he replied.

"On such a day you must long for your country?" I asked.

"Helas, oui. The orange trees are forever in bloom there, the heliotrope and hibiscus blossom all winter. The rose-scent hangs heavy on the air, there in my home! Even now I think of the deep blue sky, the long dusty road leading out into the desert; again I see the palms, the cacti; that is, if I close my eyes. Sometimes when it is dark and cold, and one is sad in the trenches, I cannot help wondering if ever again I shall sit beneath the awnings of the Cafe de France, or shall see the dusky women, in linen, walking to the fountain, or shall smell the dry heavy dust, or shall sit tranquilly in the blazing sun of 'La Tunisie.' Ah, oui, Madame, all that is many miles away from this cold, gray land of yours.

"But at the front that was another story. See, I have been wounded twice, and am here convalescing. All I dream of is to go back to the trenches. Ours is at Neuport. Only 1 metre (13 feet) separates us from the 'boches.' they call to us often from their side (they speak good French, too) ordering us to surrender for they are bound to win, and we are only losing time. We answer, too. We give them something to think about."

"But what were you before the war, soldier?" I asked.

"An antiquaire, Madame. I sold Persian carpets, brass lamps, leather goods to the tourists who came to my beautiful Tunisie."

"What will you do afterwards, my soldier?"

"That is as God wills, madame. Who knows? Can I even know where I shall be a week hence? All I want now is to get back to my regiment. To the front." With a military salute he left me.

At the hospital they were very busy. About 180 had just arrived from the great battle in Champagne; almost all wounded in the legs, many with only one to limp on.

"How comes it," I asked, "that you are all injured in the legs?"

"That is simple," answered a cheery looking fellow, "the boches just turned the mitrailleuses on us, like a man playing a hose on the lawn, but low down you see, so it caught us in the knees mostly. However, we have hands and arms still—a man can do a lot with them, even if he must have false legs or use crutches."

One pale, emaciated fellow said: "Madame, would you help me to the window to look at the sea. I have never seen it, and since, in July, I was wounded with 34 eclats d'obus (34 shell wounds) they have promised me, I should come to that great wonder, the sea!"

As I put my arm under his skeleton one, felt how thin and bony it was, looked at his poor pale young face and tried to realize what life in the future held for this battered young creature, my soul felt sick within me at all this useless waste and destruction. He did not complain, this little soldier. He only wanted to look on the cold northern ocean, which he had never before seen. The future was for him perhaps as gray, as cheerless, as sad, but, however despairing his thoughts may have been, he did not speak them. He did not whimper. Once for all he had given his all for France, and now in his feebleness he counted on kind souls to help him. Hundreds, nay thousands like him exist today, all over this sad old continent of Europe, vigorous young men now condemned forever to the dull and painful existence of a cripple. One hears on all sides of the courage and self-sacrifice of both the French and English Roman Catholic priests, how they cheer and encourage the men, bringing peace to the dying, nursing the wounded, holding services within the firing line, showing by example the highest patriotism.

An officer belonging to Nantes, in a letter to his wife on September 20th, describes a moving ceremony he had attended that morning:

"At 8 o'clock I heard a Mass said by the chaplain of the —th Territorials, a plank had been nailed up between two trees, and behind had been placed some leafy branches the best that our men could do under the circumstances. The chaplain began by addressing us a few words in which he told us that God would make allowance whilst work was being done for France; that he could not hear all our confessions, and that we should, therefore, make an act of contrition and a firm purpose of confessing our faults as soon as possible.

"All the 300 of us then signed that we wished to be included in the general absolution, which he gave us. After he exhorted all to receive the Holy Communion, which he would give us as he passed along the trenches. He then began the Mass, which was served by a lieutenant. Shells were bursting over-head as the Mass continued and during his short address after the Gospel. Never had I heard more fervent singing. At the Communion half of our number went up to the altar to receive, some with tears in their eyes, what was to many their Viaticum. The ceremony will be to me an unforgetable memory and a sweet consolation."

Let me quote a notice from the Tablet of October 30th, about an English priest. The following account of the devotion to duty shown during the fighting hound Hill 70, by Father John Gwynn, S. J., who died of wounds received in a dug-out, is given in a letter from an Irish Guardsman:

"Father Gwynn was known among the boys as 'the brave little priest.' Early in the war he was seriously wounded but refused to return to England. During the terrible fighting recently, Father Gwynn was again at his post. I saw him just before he died. Shrapnel and bullets were being showered upon us in all directions. Hundreds of our lads dropped. Father Gwynn was undismayed, he seemed to be all over the place trying to give the last sacrament to the dying. Once I thought he was buried alive, for a shell exploded within a few yards of where he was, and the next moment I saw nothing but a great heap of earth. The plight of the wounded concealed beneath was harrowing. Out of the ground came cries, 'Father! Father! Father!' from those who were in their death agonies.

"Then, as if by a miracle, Father Gwynn was seen to fight his way through the earth. He must have been severely wounded, but he went on blessing the wounded and hearing their confessions. The last I saw of him he was kneeling by the side of a German soldier. It was a scene to make you cry. The shells continued to explode about the wounded, but they could not stop a little English priest from doing his duty, even to a dying German."

One more item to add to these vignettes of our soldiers. I have told you of the volunteer, the lieutenant, the zouave and the priests. Now of a soldier (by profession) of the Colonial infantry. He had served nine years, having received two medals for the Moroccan campaign.

Last October, the 30th, a very dangerous reconnaissance was necessary before a certain action in the Argonne. The colonel called for volunteers, Petit immediately volunteered. He was given ten men, warned of the desperate nature of his work, and wished God-speed. The Germans were supposed to be intrenched behind a small wood over the crest of a hill There was a long slope to climb, a road to cross, another abrupt ascent to the wood.

It was brilliant moonlight. The men crept forward, seeking every shadow or bush or hollow to cover them.

They had climbed the first slope, crossed the road and were well up the second hill when they were suddenly swept by German rifle fire.

Petit glanced behind. All but two were lying bleeding and dead. He called to the other two to race back to their trenches, if possible, but he himself continued to creep through the straggling undergrowth up the crest. After some minutes, having discovered what he came to seek, the position and force of the enemy, he hastily retreated down the hill. Of the two survivors, one had already cleared the road and escaped. The other was lying, a moaning heap, on the white moonlit highway.

The Germans were firing at his flying figure, but a few steps more and he would have crossed the road—when he fell. Presently he picked himself up. One eye was gone, the blood streaming down his cheeks. But he determined, as he said, to revenge his comrades and himself. Staggering to the road he, with great difficulty, dragged his wounded companion off the road and to the shelter of some bushes. Fortunately, at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon, and they were able to lie hidden for a while. Then, with many struggles, he succeeded in getting his one remaining companion on his shoulders, and dragged himself back to the French lines. His information was of importance, but he did not know of it, for he lost consciousness immediately on delivering it.

The next day his company went into action and was annihilated. Of the 200 men, he and the man whose life he saved were the only survivors.

Months afterward I was able to welcome this gallant son of France back to Dinard. He is my maid's only brother, and the night he arrived we had a fitting supper awaiting him. My brother and I, and my cheery little French maid drank his health and listened to this story from his own lips. I am happy to say he is strong and well and active, and makes light of the wound.

"After all, Madame," he said, "a man can see all he wants with one eye, and if later I find some pretty girl to marry me, she may find that one eye will see only good in her, whereas, perhaps, as the years went by, I might have perceived, with two eyes, some faults."

One fine day this autumn I was invited to a little ceremony. The general commanding this region, surrounded by the pickets, the soldiers able to hobble about, the Red Cross nurses, and some of Petit's personal friends. It was to decorate him for conspicuous bravery under fire. The bugle shrilled loudly, an adjutant read the official announcement, the general stepped up and pinned on Petit's breast the Médaillé Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Thus France recognizes and rewards her valiant soldiers.

October, 1915.

HAIL TO THE DEAD!

(Salut Aux Morts!)

How many sad hearts are in France this night of the Jour des Morts (All Soul's Day), in this third dolorous year of the Great War? All over the country, from earliest hours, thousands upon thousands of black-clad mourners have placed their homage of respect and love on the tombs of those who have died in the past twelve months. Churches held constant services, chants and prayers rose in unbroken succession; bells tolled, people flocked to the cemeteries; everywhere the "soul of the French" has been in communion with its dead and this great national and religious festival has been observed as never before.

In Paris and its suburbs nearly a million accomplished this sacred duty. Every town and village was filled with sorrowing throngs. Seeing all this desolation and sadness, one wonders how they can so steadfastly look forward to another year of war.

When one remembers how many beautiful lives have been sacrificed in the last twelve months, how much of talent, art, intellect and science has been ruthlessly destroyed when these promising men died, does it seem strange that the whole nation has gone forth to honor their dead? How many young fellows, just leaving the Lycée thoroughly prepared by years of hard study to accomplish great things in their chosen profession, have been wounded, or killed, or maimed? What humanity has lost will never be known, but that the loss is stupendous is acknowledged by everyone.

Each man and woman has someone to grieve for tonight. Countless young widows are facing the future, deprived forever of the companionship of their helpmates, some so young as to have had only a few months happiness. To how many childish eyes is shown (in tears and sorrow) the photograph of le pere mort pour la patrie (the father who died for his country). Poor little ones, they will never know his loving care, his solicitude for their welfare, his devoted protection. To them he will always be a wonderful heroic being, remote and impersonal, who cannot share their little pleasures and troubles, can never play with them or be their friend!

The poor old fathers and mothers, how bent and tragic they are! All they cherished on earth has gone! Slowly and painfully they move amongst the be-flowered graves, and life holds no further happiness for them. Let me describe the procession as it passed on the way to the burying ground. First came the school children in two long files on either side of the boulevard, leaving the center free, the little boys walking two by two, clutching their sprays of chrysanthemums, gay and laughing as if on a frolic, but sobering suddenly when the teacher's eye veered in their direction; following them a hundred little girls, much more demure, stepping daintily, well clad, even the poorest putting on their best for this great national fete.

The Mayor is escorted on either side by the French and Belgian "Commandants de Place," one in Belgian khaki and the other in horizon-blue, (the latter limping badly, a hero from Verdun where he won the Croix de Guerre and the Medalle Militaire), the doctors in uniform and the Red Cross nurses whose white dresses, blue caps and veils add a note of color, and present a cheering appearance in contrast to the convalescing Belgians who follow, very sombre, in their black uniforms and black caps.

Two hundred-odd Frenchmen, striding after them, are very different in appearance and behavior. The Belgians are gloomy and taciturn, moving along in silent ranks; the Frenchmen, on the contrary, are full of life and nerve (their wounds notwithstanding), attired in delicious shades of blues and reds and creamy-white—the light blue of the Hussars, the darker shades of the Chasseurs Alpins, the brilliant Zouaves, the red trousers of the Fantassians; even the black-faced scarlet-clad Senegalais give a lively note, for these men are convalescing, and old clothes are good enough, their new horizon-blue uniforms being kept for their return to the front.

A very pleasant crowd they form, with an eye towards the pretty Bretonne in her peasant coiffe and costume, with a laugh for a comrade, and a merry word for the bystander. Behind these plucky fellows (perhaps on the battlefield tomorrow) come the townspeople and peasants from the neighboring country. The procession moves on to the cemetery, where prayers and speeches, patriotic and religious, are made, wreaths placed on the little wooden crosses. White-coiffed heads are bowed in silent communion, and over all tolls the solemn notes of the church bell.

All over France today there has been a great coming and going. Flowers are placed lovingly and regretfully on the mounds. But to how many, even this last service is denied, for the northern battlefields hide many unknown graves. Only in spirit can these afflicted ones visit the last resting-place of father, husband, son, or fiancé. But who shall say that the great army of heroic souls, so lately passed over, are not present, consoling and comforting by their spiritual presence, their grieving people? The French have often been considered a frivolous race, but no one who has seen the solemn way in which they fulfil this pious duty can ever believe it again.

"One could kneel before our soldiers," said one of our great chiefs in one of the most tragic moments in the long agonizing siege before Verdun. In face of the most violent attacks, under the infernal bombardment, such acts of heroism and self-sacrifice and devotion took place, that one realized how deep is their sense of duty, and how great their determination, expressed in their own battle-cry, "They shall not get through." (Ils ne passerons pas!)

This same martial spirit is found all along the line. What can be more novel and inspiring than the aviators who fight their fantastic duels 3000 metres above the earth? Again, the sangfroid, the supreme devotion of the artillery, who amidst apalling losses and the heaviest bombardment, stick to their posts, regulating their fire and working their guns, taking every risk without a moment's hesitation. The infantry, that backbone of the army with their "élan" carry forward the banner of France or die heroically in no-man's land.

In every attack, glorious acts are done, often by the humblest of soldiers, whose abnegation and modesty is only equalled by their scorn of death! One is amazed at this wonderful state of mind. Men of all ages and all conditions excel in these heroic qualities. Fathers of families, who know how anxiously they are awaited in the home; young men, with the call of life ringing in their ears, go gaily into the combat—they have counted the cost—and lay down their lives with simplicity and dignity; with no other thought than their duty to their country; with no other ambition than "to be there when we get them (d'etre la quand on les aura)."

Pessimists and pacifists will say, "Oh, yes, that is very noble, very sublime; but when the heat of the battle is past, when excitement and furor has disappeared, what is left to the poor fellows, suffering from wounds, fever and pain? They must be greatly disillusioned then, these gay soldiers." Yet he who speaks thus, let him go to any ward in any of the great hospitals in Paris or elsewhere and there receive his answer. Here is a soldier of the class of 1914. When he left for the war, his family was in easy circumstances. His father a well-to-do merchant, his mother and sisters lived comfortably and happily in their charming home. Since then the father has died, poverty came, his sisters now are working for their living, supporting the mother, and he, young, vigorous, intelligent, and well-educated, who in ordinary times would have replaced the father, has received a terrific wound in the head, and is blind for life.

Does he whimper or complain? Hear his answer: "I ought to have been killed" he said pleasantly, "when they drew the bullet from my head. I might have remained an idiot or an epileptic, but, thank God, I am getting better and better, and I shall learn a trade. I am told there are good ones for the blind and I shall help support my dear ones."

Here again is a lad, a young soldier of the last class of 1916 sent to the front. He is almost a child, but he has the patience and courage of a man. A terrible wound in the spine, cutting it open to the marrow, did not cause him to despair. To his weeping parents he said: "Don't weep, dearest mother, I shall recover, I shall get well, I shall go home with you, to be your little boy again," and in panting voice he went on to praise the skill of the doctors, the tenderness of the infirmière, saying, "Yes, she hurts me terribly at times, so I must cry out, but she is so good, so kind, I forgive her when the dressing is over."

Further on, a man with a shattered shoulder suffers atrociously, but tells me with a cheerful grin that he is glad to have seen it, to have found himself surrounded by Germans with raised arms shouting "Kamerad!" One of the lady visitors offering to be his amanuensis (as he cannot write), he accepted with joy, and then, blushing, said: "But you see, Madame, it is a bit difficult, I am accustomed to calling my wife by a pet name; if I began my letter otherwise she would not believe it was from me."

"Yes, and how do you wish it to begin?" asked the lady. "Well, Madame, I always called her 'my little Rat'."

"All right, here goes for 'my little Rat'."

One more instance: A pale, emaciated man of middle age, with both hands amputated, suffering a martyrdom without a murmur, without a reference to what happened to him on the battlefield, accepts with gentle politeness the cakes and chocolates offered to him. Seeing a large letter on his bed, I asked if he had news from home. "No, madame, it is from the government announcing that I am decorated with the Médaillé Militaire and the Croix de Guerre. Please read it to me."

"N———, cannon-servant, was admirable for devotion and sang froid; when a shell wrecked his cannon and killed all his companions, severely wounded himself in both hands, he remained at his post alone, notwithstanding his atrocious pain, to guard the remains of his companions and his cannon."

To people upheld by such ideals, inspired with such patriotism, to whom France means all that is sacred and beautiful, "defeat cannot come." Until the detested enemy has been thrown across the Rhine, no suggestion of peace would be welcome; they will even call on the dead to defend their beloved land, as witnessed in the following story, vouched for by General Zurlinden, from whom I have also obtained some of the above facts: