Thursday, 17th December.
I leave the hospital and make my way to the Achains' to wait for my five mates, who at nightfall will come down from the trenches2 with the rest of the company. I lay the cover: heavy plates with pieces broken off, tin forks and spoons, thick glasses. No knives; each man must supply his own.
Here they come at last.... What a state they are in! Mud from head to foot. Quick with their letters, slippers3, and something to eat. We stay up late, chatting by the fireside.
Friday, 18th December.
This evening the section is on guard at the Montagne farm, but Reymond, momentarily requisitioned for some design work at the commander's bureau, remains4 at Bucy; I also stay behind, having just left the hospital.
This Montagne farm is anything but a pleasant spot. Yesterday another light infantryman was carried away with his head shattered by a 150-gun shell.
[Pg 197]
Our friends start at four. We should be glad to see them back again already.
"Now, be careful. No nonsense, remember!"
A tête-à-tête dinner, a very quiet affair, after which we lie down on our beds.
"How comfortable!"
Yes, indeed, this is the real thing. We might almost imagine ourselves back in civil life!
The low-roofed room, which receives air and light only by way of the door, was evidently white-washed long ago. There are spiders' webs in every corner. The floor consists of beaten earth. The walls are bare except for two chromos—Nicholas II and Félix Faure—just visible beneath fly-stained glasses. The beds take up almost the entire space available. We sleep right through the night and late into the next morning. The hours spent in profound slumber6 represent so much gained from the war.
Saturday, 19th December.
Yesterday we were right in feeling anxious about our friends. From daybreak onwards the farm has been bombarded over our heads. The shells roar with varying intensity7 as they pass, according to their size. The little ten-year-old girl, skipping about the yard in her sabots, hums out—
"There! That's a 210 at least, and this one a 105. Oh, that little one's but a 77!"
A loud crash, however, sends her flying into the cellar. When she comes up again she tremblingly[Pg 198] clutches her mother's skirt. Madame Achain gives her a good shaking.
"What's the matter with you, little stupid?"
"Oh, I'm frightened of the shells!"
"A fine tale, indeed! Look at these messieurs, are they frightened?"
These messieurs, quietly seated, affect an impassive attitude, to reassure8 the child.
About three o'clock a lull9. We walk over to visit the hospital attendants. A hearty10 welcome, cups of tea, every one very polite. A couple of armchairs are provided for us by the fireplace. We are treated like lords of a manor11.
The Germans are now firing upon Vénizel, some distance farther away. The petrol works seem to be in flames. Our hosts invite us to view the spectacle from the second floor. It is hazy12, however, and nothing can be distinguished13 except a dense14 cloud of yellowish smoke on the other bank of the Aisne.
"Really, you have no luck at all!" exclaim the attendants; "generally we can make out Vénizel as distinctly as though we were in the town itself."
Soissons also is being violently bombarded.
At night our friends return from the Montagne farm. Varlet affirms—
"We were awfully15 sorry for you. You missed the marmites falling all about your ears."
A couple of projectiles17, it seems, had fallen right on to the cattle-shed; a shrapnel had crashed through the dormer-window of the stable where[Pg 199] the squadron lay stretched on the ground, and riddled18 the door with bullets. The section had to take refuge in the grotto-like sheep-fold in the midst of the sheep, now bleating19 louder than ever.
Sunday, 20th December.
The hours pass very slowly. This morning, for a couple of hours, we had to return to the trenches, to clear away the earth and make them deeper, and so counteract20 the ravages21 of the rain.
Back in Bucy, each of us settles down in a corner with a book or newspaper. During the past few days we have resumed a liking22 for printed characters. People may send us books, no matter on what subject, if only they will help to pass the time. Whatever takes the poor soldier out of a purely23 animal life to some extent is welcome.
Another shower of projectiles on Bucy. The windows shake and the little girl begins to cry. Madame Achain sighs.
"Do the savages24 want to demolish25 our house?"
Suddenly there is a lull. Why does a bombardment begin? Why does it stop? A mystery: the designs of gunners are inscrutable.
Girard, a hospital attendant, pays us a return visit. We thank him for his kind intentions.
"Oh, it's nothing at all," he says.
Is Bucy to become a society rendez-vous? Girard, who just misses falling as he seats himself on a tottering26 chair, remarks cheerfully—
"What nice quarters you have here!"
Madame Achain is flattered; so are we.
[Pg 200]
The village streets are strewn with sulphur from to-day's shells. A hayrick has been set on fire and a horse killed close to Madame Maillard's.
Varlet takes me to see this Madame Maillard. Arm in arm we pass along the main street. Right and left ruined and disembowelled houses alternate with buildings almost or wholly intact.
Poor village! Last September it was a pretty little market-town, like many another on the banks of the Aisne, where the houses have a style distinctively27 their own. The white stone doorways28 and flights of steps, the violet slate29 roofs of Champagne30 and the Ile-de-France, match the staircase gables of neighbouring Flanders. Now the bright, cheerful houses are dilapidated and shattered; the tax-collector's house is empty, so is the baker's. Nor has the church been spared; the recent cannonade has added to the former ruin and desolation.
The civilians32, too, are away. We talk to those who have stayed, and daily make progress in the dialect of the place. We know that ce ch'tiot ila means "this little boy," as we have already discovered that parents and grandparents call themselves tayons and ratayons. Brave civilians! No one ever mentions them. Now, this isn't right. Not only have they seen the young ones leave for the front, not only do they live through the horrors of war, but many of them have relations in neighbouring villages occupied by the enemy. Scarcely any are left except women and old men. The latter have passed through 1870; they give their[Pg 201] reasons for their present confidence in the result of the war and tell of the miseries33 of former days.
On the town hall square are drawn34 up the carriages of the regimental train. Opposite are two ruined hovels and a farm, the roof of which has fallen in, a yard strewn with debris36, now the playground of dogs and cats, ducks and hens. Between two calcined pieces of wall stands Madame Maillard's little house. We knock at the door.
"Come in!"
We now find ourselves in one of the gayest corners of Bucy; a very select place, moreover, to which one can only gain admittance by introduction. Here Milliard the postman is the oracle37, along with Henriot, his acolyte38. Here lodges39 the train de combat, i.e. the conductors of the regimental carriages. These infantry5, who ride on horseback all the same, form a separate corporation. Even their dress is different from that of other soldiers: leather jackets and spurs. Their names are Charlot, Petit-Louis, and Grand-Victor. Their functions take them to Soissons and bring them daily into contact with the rearguard service.
Varlet, as a friend, has requested permission to introduce me. His request has been backed by Milliard and Henriot.
"Bring him along, then," they said.
At any hour of the day one can always find at Madame Maillard's white wine, cards and tobacco. In a corner Henriot is sorting the letters. Milliard,[Pg 202] after noting the parcels in a book, encloses them in a big bag.
"Are the letters for Achains' ready?" asks Varlet.
"Yes, here's the packet. We will bring you the parcels shortly."
The first thing we do on our return is to shout out—
"We have each had a pint40 of white wine at the train de combat."
"White wine, impossible! You lucky fellows!"
I have no idea why white wine is so scarce. In war there are hosts of things one cannot understand at all.
Monday, 21st December.
During the night a regiment35 of territorials41 have arrived who have not yet seen fire. They make a fine début, for Bucy is subjected to a heavier bombardment than ever; explosions for three hours without a break. A rain of iron splinters and balls falls upon the roof of our lodging42. The tiles come toppling down into the yard. Varlet, who has gone for some of the famous white wine to the train de combat, rushes into the room, looking horribly scared as he clasps three bottles to his breast. At the corner of the street he had encountered two shrapnels.
"The first," he said, "went on its way, but I thought the second had got me. It knocked a piece off the doorpost beneath which I had rushed for shelter."
[Pg 203]
"Oh, you wouldn't have been any great loss, but the bottles——"
The house shakes with the shock of the explosions, which come nearer and nearer. Sabots are clattering43 in the yard. The Achains and the women from neighbouring houses hurry to take refuge in the cellar. We should be wise to follow their example. That, however, would mean leaving the lunch, which is simmering on the fire! Besides, there's something attractive in the idea of brazening the thing out.
The explosions continue. By way of the chimney, which serves as an acoustic44 tube, we hear the dull, distant detonation45 as the shell leaves the gun, then the hissing46 sound, which increases in volume, and finally the violent explosion a few yards away.
A projectile16 crashes through the roof of the house opposite.
"Suppose we go and see how they are getting along in the cellar?" anxiously suggests Jules.
In a corner crouch47 the Achains and five or six other women. Sighs and lamentations; invocations to Jesus and Mary!
"Is the house demolished48?" asks Madame Achain.
"No, not yet."
At this very moment a shell bursts in the yard.
Ten minutes afterwards, Maxence, who prefers to be more at his ease, mutters—
"It's not very pleasant here. I'm going up."
We follow him. The six of us return to the[Pg 204] common room above. Well, suppose we lunch. We take our places at the table, whilst Jacquard carries a pan full of haricot beans to the refugees in the cellar.
Finally the bombardment ceases. Once more the streets are strewn with sulphur. By a miracle nothing is set on fire. A light infantryman and eight horses are killed. Some more rubbish is scattered49 about the village, where, by the way, life is soon going on as usual.
At five the company returns to the front line. The engineers have constructed shelters for the squadron, six feet below the surface, stoutly50 propped51 up by large pieces of timber. One of these tiny habitations is assigned to us, a tolerably warm and perfectly52 secure sort of room, where one can come for a nap between two watches, and, a more important matter, speak aloud, smoke, and light candles. The shelters of the previous days, being unsupported, have all been washed away by the rain.
Then comes a violent fusillade, beginning far away to the left, with a sound as of rending53 cloth; it spreads over the whole line. The lieutenant54 comes out of his dug-out; he orders Jacquard and myself to start the beacon55 burning.
We both try to light the great acetylene lantern, opening the tap when it should be closed, and closing it when it should be open. At last, to our great surprise, the flame bursts forth56. A corporal leaps on the little fuse-projecting rifle and fires it. The fuses rise into the air and fall[Pg 205] to the ground, shedding a strong white light over a radius57 of three hundred yards.
Sergeant58 Chaboy gives the command to fire. So we load and fire, until our rifles are burning hot. Each man's hundred and fifty cartridges59 are all gone in less than an hour. Firing slackens on both sides. A sudden return to a state of dead calm.
Munitions60 are distributed around. Only one man wounded in the 24th: a corporal, who was with a patrol that went out just before the alarm. He was surprised by the fusillade when on the point of rejoining his men, who had already returned to the trench1. Caught between two fires, he crouched61 behind a small elevation62, and instinctively63 protected his head with his right arm. This arm received six bullets, French and German alike. The sergeant in command of the patrol goes out into the hail of iron to bring back the wounded man, and returns intact, though his clothes are torn to shreds64 and his hands are all blood-stained. The corporal's arm is reduced to pulp65, and his thigh66 has also received a ball. The h?morrhage is stopped as well as circumstances permit.
The lieutenant comes round and says—
"Keep your eyes open, the attack will certainly recommence."
Has there really been an attack?
"They do that sort of thing to prevent our falling asleep," growls67 one man.
The rain has stopped. Each man leans against[Pg 206] the trench wall and groups form. We converse68 in low tones, hiding the light of the pipes in the hollow of the hand, and await events.
At midnight a fresh alarm. The fusillade upon Crouy begins again, and in a few seconds is raging along the entire line. The cannon31 also are firing. The field of beetroots is lit up by fuses. We maintain an uninterrupted fire under the quiet command of Sergeant Chaboy. A few balls ricochet into the trenches and eight men are wounded.
After forty-five minutes of furious firing everything again becomes calm. A few more salvos and a final crackling of the mitrailleuses, and it is over. Profound silence throughout the rest of the night. We cannot understand it.
The company has spent thirty thousand cartridges, perhaps without killing69 a single German.
Tuesday, 22nd December.
Still in the first line, though in a sector70 farther away from the enemy.
Reymond invites a few friends to inaugurate an exhibition of drawings he has just finished. Into the recesses71 of the trench walls enormous beetroots are fitted. On the slices of these hard white roots (they resemble in no way the beetroot of the salad-bowl), cut clean through with a chop from a spade, Reymond has sketched72, with a violet crayon, some of the heads of the section.
Here, with its prominent skull73 and nose, we[Pg 207] have the pessimist74 Mauventre, who at the faintest distant roar of the cannon sighs—
"Here come the marmites! They'll be the death of us all yet, see if they're not!"
Reymond has well caught the anxious, troubled features of this intrepid75 soldier.
On another slice of beetroot is the droll76 silhouette77 of Corporal Davor, his startled face almost hidden between his shoulders and his arms akimbo. Davor goes about, at night-time, to stir up those on sentry78 duty.
"Keep a watch on the right. Keep a watch on the left."
One source of diversion for us is to assume, whenever he passes, the indifferent air of one who ridicules79 the German attacks.
We all figure in the collection. Varlet is a striking type, with his badger80 profile immoderately lengthened81 out by a pipe in the form of a shell or conch, which appears to be soldered82 on to his nose.
The beetroot haunts our very dreams. Since we are fated to be tormented83 with the beetroot for all eternity84, we may as well extract what fun we can from it.
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1
trench
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| n./v.(挖)沟，(挖)战壕 | |
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trenches
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| 深沟，地沟( trench的名词复数 )； 战壕 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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infantry
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| n.[总称]步兵(部队) | |
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slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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lull
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| v.使安静，使入睡，缓和，哄骗；n.暂停，间歇 | |
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hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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manor
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| n.庄园，领地 | |
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hazy
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| adj.有薄雾的，朦胧的；不肯定的，模糊的 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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dense
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| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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projectile
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| n.投射物，发射体；adj.向前开进的；推进的；抛掷的 | |
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projectiles
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| n.抛射体( projectile的名词复数 )；（炮弹、子弹等）射弹，（火箭等）自动推进的武器 | |
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riddled
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| adj.布满的；充斥的；泛滥的v.解谜，出谜题(riddle的过去分词形式) | |
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19
bleating
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| v.（羊，小牛）叫( bleat的现在分词 )；哭诉；发出羊叫似的声音；轻声诉说 | |
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counteract
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| vt.对…起反作用，对抗，抵消 | |
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ravages
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| 劫掠后的残迹，破坏的结果，毁坏后的残迹 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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demolish
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| v.拆毁(建筑物等)，推翻(计划、制度等) | |
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tottering
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| adj.蹒跚的，动摇的v.走得或动得不稳( totter的现在分词 )；踉跄；蹒跚；摇摇欲坠 | |
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distinctively
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| adv.特殊地，区别地 | |
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28
doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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civilians
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| 平民，百姓( civilian的名词复数 )； 老百姓 | |
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miseries
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| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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debris
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| n.瓦砾堆，废墟，碎片 | |
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oracle
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| n.神谕，神谕处，预言 | |
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acolyte
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| n.助手，侍僧 | |
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lodges
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| v.存放( lodge的第三人称单数 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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pint
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| n.品脱 | |
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territorials
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| n.（常大写）地方自卫队士兵( territorial的名词复数 ) | |
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lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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clattering
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的现在分词形式） | |
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acoustic
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| adj.听觉的，声音的；(乐器)原声的 | |
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detonation
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| n.爆炸；巨响 | |
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hissing
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| n. 发嘶嘶声, 蔑视 动词hiss的现在分词形式 | |
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crouch
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| v.蹲伏，蜷缩，低头弯腰；n.蹲伏 | |
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demolished
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| v.摧毁( demolish的过去式和过去分词 )；推翻；拆毁（尤指大建筑物）；吃光 | |
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scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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stoutly
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| adv.牢固地，粗壮的 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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radius
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| n.半径，半径范围；有效航程，范围，界限 | |
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sergeant
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| n.警官，中士 | |
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cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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munitions
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| n.军火，弹药；v.供应…军需品 | |
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61
crouched
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| v.屈膝，蹲伏( crouch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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elevation
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| n.高度；海拔；高地；上升；提高 | |
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63
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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shreds
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| v.撕碎，切碎( shred的第三人称单数 )；用撕毁机撕毁（文件） | |
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pulp
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| n.果肉，纸浆；v.化成纸浆，除去...果肉，制成纸浆 | |
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66
thigh
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| n.大腿；股骨 | |
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growls
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的第三人称单数 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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converse
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| vi.谈话，谈天，闲聊；adv.相反的，相反 | |
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69
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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sector
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| n.部门，部分；防御地段，防区；扇形 | |
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recesses
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| n.壁凹( recess的名词复数 )；（工作或业务活动的）中止或暂停期间；学校的课间休息；某物内部的凹形空间v.把某物放在墙壁的凹处( recess的第三人称单数 )；将（墙）做成凹形，在（墙）上做壁龛；休息，休会，休庭 | |
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72
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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intrepid
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| adj.无畏的，刚毅的 | |
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droll
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| adj.古怪的，好笑的 | |
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silhouette
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| n.黑色半身侧面影，影子，轮廓；v.描绘成侧面影，照出影子来，仅仅显出轮廓 | |
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sentry
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| n.哨兵，警卫 | |
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ridicules
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| n.嘲笑( ridicule的名词复数 )；奚落；嘲弄；戏弄v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的第三人称单数 ) | |
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badger
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| v.一再烦扰，一再要求，纠缠 | |
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81
lengthened
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| （时间或空间）延长，伸长( lengthen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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soldered
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| v.（使）焊接，焊合( solder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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83
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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eternity
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| n.不朽，来世；永恒，无穷 | |
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