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A Blue Devil of France

CHAPTER ONE

A SMALL CITY IN SWITZERLAND.

August 2, 1914.

War is declared!

I feel I must leave all, family, home, position.

I clasp my wife and three little ones in my arms. … The iron gate closes behind me and I almost break into tears—the happiest moments of my life are ended and I go toward the UNKNOWN——

One must heed Destiny!

MY ENLISTMENT, ANTWERP.

August 6, 1914.

Already I curse war. I have journeyed seventy-two hours on the railroad to enlist as a soldier.

The recruiting officer in charge said to me when I faced him:

"Ha! another. This is a double invasion, the German invasion and that of the volunteers!"

THE OLD MAN AND THE GOAT, ANTWERP.

August 14, 1914.

All morning there is an uninterrupted cortège of civilians fleeing from the onrushing hordes. They have taken with them everything capable of being carried in their hands. The pathetic sight makes one feel the precipitateness of the flight, the despair, the panic!

A bent old man arrives presently; he walks slowly, fixedly regarding the ground. He is leading a little white goat, which, every ten paces or so, butts the old man with its horns, as if urging him to go faster. The latter does not falter—he walks straight ahead.

One doesn't know whether to laugh or weep.

THE SOLDIER WHO BAYONETS HIS

FIRST BOCHE, BELGIUM.

September, 1914.

A young soldier was seated alongside the road. He belonged to a Regiment of the Division quartered in the neighboring villages. He had a sad and dejected air.

I seated myself at his side because I wanted to know the impression of the men who had already been in battle.

"Have you been under fire?" I queried.

"Yes, corporal."

"How many Germans have you killed?"

I saw a haze of anger pass over the eyes of this young chap who regarded me with a fixed look.

"Just one! I hate the Germans, I swear it, but I tremble to think what I have done—yes, I killed him dead enough!

"Voilà! I am a gardener by trade. I live in the Luxembourg. The garden of my masters—it is all my life. Why has this accursed war broken out? Can they no longer stay at home, the pigs?

"Then I was called and you know the rest, because I will not speak of the first days of the campaign.

"But, voilà! one night we made an ambuscade on a farm in the outskirts of Vilvorde. It was dark. They told us the Germans would possibly attempt a reconnaissance in the village and it was necessary to open their eyes.

"We were placed in a house closer to the enemy lines than the others and it was forbidden to enter the street. Some of my comrades were hidden above on the second floor, but I was hiding back of the front stairs and observed the entrance-way.

"My nerves were overexcited by this long wait. A single ray of the moon wandered over the ground above the gate; it recalled one of my ambushes for flower poachers.

"Night advanced and finally I believed they would never come. Suddenly a well-sustained fire broke out a short distance away. I had fixed my bayonet and now grasped my rifle tightly.

"The gate opened brusquely. The night was clear and I saw a big devil of a German officer, revolver in hand, pass through and enter the walk. He desired without doubt to seek shelter, for he slammed the gate after him.

"This is what passed then in a flash. I left my hiding place—he saw me. In his eyes there was the look of distress one always sees in those of a trapped beast. He shot at me, but so quickly that he did not aim. The report awoke the whole house.

"Already I had jumped at him—and I literally nailed him to the gate.

"Ah! To feel the crushing of bones—when one is accustomed to cultivate flowers—to feel the crushing of bones!"

BRITISH STOLIDITY, BELGIUM.

October 9, 1914.

War? At the beginning no one knew then what it was. The enemy bombarded us with shells of an enormous caliber, which excited, more than anything else, our curiosity.

Two "Tommies" started to swim across the river Nèthe to where the enemy had but recently been thrown back. They repeated to everyone who asked them where they were going:

"We want to see the BIG cannon, yes the BIG cannon!"

THE PRISONERS OF

GENERAL DE MAUD'HUY, NEAR ARRAS.

January, 1915.

Upon leaving table one day with General de Maud'huy, we came upon a group of German prisoners, who immediately looked at us, saluting respectfully.

"These are 'my prisoners,'" the general told me, "they work in the cantonment."

"I had at the beginning about a dozen boches and mustered them every night because we were only ten miles from the line of fire."

"Several escaped?" I asked.

"On the contrary," he replied. "The second night we counted eleven, the third, fifteen. Now there are fifty. We never knew where they came from!"

"I have enough boches. I mustered them all yesterday and told them that if their number kept on increasing I would send them all back. You will agree that it is impossible to keep a strict count under these conditions!"

THE ADMIRAL, NIEUPORT.

March 7, 1915.

I saw Admiral Ronarc'h for the first time to-day.

All morning the city of Nieuport was bombarded with shells of a very large caliber, crushing and enveloping the poor little Flemish homes in great clouds of brick-dust and smoke. The ground trembled. Our Marine Fusiliers[2] must have paid them back in full, for they returned a heavy fire from the large guns of the fortress.

I arrived at Nieuport-Baths along the river Yser with Captain Ricard, who said to me:

"With all that racket, to-day, we are sure to find the Admiral and Commandant Delage——"

At the moment we reached the locks we were well serenaded—the shells literally rained around us. At regular intervals the larger ones burst in the city. Abject ruins—I no longer recognized this once lively little city which I visited during my childhood, dead and deserted to-day!

Finally we came, about four o'clock, to the admiral's shelter, where we found him, with Commandant Delage and the chaplain.

I was received with smiles and hearty handshakes; on similar days one is always sure to be received by the admiral in a most charming manner.

"Lucky chap," he said, "well have you chosen the day of your first visit to Nieuport. What a bombardment, hey! fortunately all goes well, practically no losses—that right, Delage?"

Commandant Delage smiled all over.

"Yes, admiral."

At that moment a shell burst so close that pictures were torn from the walls and a chair was turned upside down. A cloud of dust spouted through the ventilating shaft—at the same time we heard a rumbling of falling walls, the clattering of splintered glass and broken tiling falling on the ground.

Shell hole in the courtyard of Admiral Ronarc'h's commanding post in Nieuport.

We had, for our protection, an arch made of half-thicknesses of bricks. If we must be struck, then we should have, at least, the opportunity of not suffering very long!

Each told his story, tales of the sea and of the war—then—that was not all, there was a programme of work to accomplish, and we at once set about the task.

Toward nightfall, I left the shelter or cave, which I shall never forget. The shell which shook us fell in the courtyard of a house, scooping out a funnel-shaped crater thirty feet in diameter. A Marine discovered the base of the projectile: a 420![3]

A comrade who helped him carry it said:

"They are foolish if they think they can kill our admiral with a 420, and also be sure that St. Anne of Brittany will curse their German God!"

A TELEGRAM FROM ATTILA, NIEUPORT-BATHS.

March, 1915.

Returning from the Great Dune after several days, Captain Perroud and myself stop before the old Nieuport-Baths' station. It is in a pretty state. We enter the ruins and have penetrated as far as the office of the Passenger Agent, all in a tumult, papers scattered everywhere——

Sealed telegrams are seen on the floor, and, it is strange, they have not excited the curiosity of the plunderers, for these latter would have found some fastidious reading. I confess, what concerned me was the desire to open some of them to see what persons could have said at the moment of evacuating Nieuport-Baths.

The first was addressed to an English woman, "Mrs. Smith, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It said: "Things are beginning to get worse where you are. Nevertheless, do whatever you think best. Smith."

I opened the second telegram:

"Mademoiselle Y——, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It was dated Ostend, October, 1914, and read: "Here there is absolute safety. Come at once. Many kisses! Attila."

Among all this tragedy and desolation here, above all, was the final comedy. I folded the telegram and placed it in my pocket.

Some weeks later I was dining in Paris at the home of Madame L——, wife of a professor in the Conservatoire; I had as my dinner partner the great artiste, Suzanne Desprès.

Target practice at Sardine Cans, before St. Georges.

After having told a thousand details of our life in the trenches, some frightful enough, others sad, the moment had arrived to inject a note of gaiety into the sombre tableau which I had sketched for them—I drew forth Attila's telegram.

A cry escaped my partner. "Mlle. Y——, she was one of my company in the Théâtre de l'Œuvre!"

"And Attila?"

"He is the Director of the Théâtre des Galeries St. Hubert, in Brussels and well known in Paris!"

Attila's telegram has been safely delivered to Mlle. Y——, who, this time, will not complain of the remissness of the telegraph company, but perhaps, of her own indiscretion.

TARGET PRACTICE AT SARDINE CANS, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.

March, 1915.

The Marines have found a way to divert German rifle fire from our loopholes in the trenches.

They have tied a number of empty sardine cans on the ends of sticks and fixed the latter firmly in the parapet, at which the boches shoot continually.

Since then "Fritz" spends his spare time in trying to knock them down; our losses have perceptibly diminished.

MASKED BALL, NIEUPORT-BATHS.

March, 1915.

Less than a mile from the enemy——

Rifle balls whistle to-night through the streets oftener than usual; there is a certain amount of nervousness in the sector.

But these wandering bullets will not thwart the soirée we have planned with some officers of the First Zouaves: a masked ball in the Casino!

We found plenty of odd and strange bits of apparel among the ruined villas; and our masked ball took on an odd appearance with the extraordinary costumes. The toubib[4] clipped his flowing mustaches and wore a lady's gown—he was good to look at! Young and fair, as he is, one had to regard him closely not to be deceived. Major Peigné was naturally taken for a "chicken" and there was much rivalry for a few moments, I swear it!

Degove with his old straw hat and battered valise was a scream, while Ricard, in his uniform of a Belgian officer of the First Empire, was absolutely funny——

The strident singing of bullets kept on——

We had a great time that night!

THE BEAUTIFUL PARISIAN PRINCESS,

THE GREAT DUNE.

March, 1915.

We are going to install an electrical machine on the right bank of the river Yser. My men are bringing the heavy box in which it was transported. With its timbers protruding from each end, which makes the carrying less difficult, the gray covering looks more like a sedan chair.

And I think of a pretty princess taking her daily promenade along the edge of the water, which is unusually beautiful——

The weather, alas, is very bad, and the men are tired. The first rays of the spring sun have not come to warm the earth. In fact my poilus have more the air of carrying a funeral urn.

"Hey," I shouted, addressing them, "what would you say if you had a beautiful Parisian Princess in that box?"

"What would I say," returned an old corporal, "what would I say? I would say nothing, but I would put her in my bunk to warm my feet, and you fellows could battle among yourselves!"

LA CORVÉE, THE GREAT DUNE.

April, 1915.

The rumble of the surf and the noise of the big guns do not sound well together.

This trench is bad to-night—the shifting sand obstructs my progress.

It is the time when the tide ceases to rise and the Territorials begin their work.

The trench is empty. No, there is someone sitting on the sand. At his side is a frame shelter made of ammunition boxes. He is alone. I imagined the boy had lost his way.

"Where have you been?"

"I dunno."

"Where are you going?"

"Over there."

"Who are you with?"

"With the others."

Not another word.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the whole damned army!"[5]

A STRAYED LETTER, THE GREAT DUNE.

April, 1915.

I came accidentally in the trench, among a lot of leaves, upon a letter from a girl. It was almost covered by the sand.

"It is very lonesome, here, without you," it ran, "I think of you night and day, on the farm, in the fields, always. How wonderful it would be to clasp you in my arms, very, very tightly. I hope a baby will come. If it is a boy we will make him a strong poilu like yourself—if it is a girl we will call her VICTORY—and you see how beautiful the little one—our little one—will be. I will work a bit harder to bring her up well——"

A PERPLEXED CHAPLAIN, THE GREAT DUNE.

April, 1915.

A group of Zouaves have thrown themselves upon the sand. They are discussing animatedly German atrocities and cruelties in the invaded region.

The soldier-chaplain, seated by their side, says nothing, but contents himself with gazing steadily into the sand at their feet.

"Those cutthroats over there have done everything: they have violated women, young girls——"

"And the priests?"

"No, you idiot, why bring them into it——"

"—they have burned villages, massacred, killed old men, pillaged, robbed——"

"We will repay them—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."

"Yes. When we get into their country, we will organize bands. We will have violaters, pillagers—incendiaries——"

"In what category do you want to be, Father?"

A CORPSE BETWEEN THE LINES, THE GREAT DUNE.

May, 1915.

While returning from a night reconnaissance between the lines one of our Zouaves had been killed; his body lay for several days in the sand about forty feet from our first line.

His corporal, a very brave Alsatian, could not look over the parapet without noticing his comrade's body did not shrink fast enough. Morning and night he was seen very pensive, talking to himself, irritable with the men——

Then one day when it was quiet, at full noon, he was seen to leave the trench, a shovel in one hand and a wooden cross in the other. Everyone, breathless, saw him advance slowly, calmly——

At first the Germans fired at him several times, missing him, notwithstanding the fact they were only about ninety feet away. Then they ceased firing to see, no doubt, what this fool was going to do!

He stopped close to the Zouave's body placed his cross on the sand and staidly began to dig a grave——

When he judged it to be deep enough he put the rigid body of his comrade in and began covering him with great shovelfuls of sand. Then he smoothed the tomb, planted the cross and adjusted the red badge of death——[6]

In an impressive moment of silence—for both sides looked on without losing a single movement—they saw him advance to the head of the knoll, his face to the cross, click his heels and give the military salute——

He came back slowly to our lines and jumped briskly into the trench. Immediately he began to pace up and down before his squad back of the parapet, with fixed bayonet, facing the grave his hands had dug.

"Stand at ease!" said he, "listen carefully. My men who fall will not lack a burial nor will they lie in the open air like rotting dogs. Break!"

Fifteen days later a German bullet struck him in the head back of a loophole. He was killed instantly. His comrades interred him in the Zouave cemetery at Nieuport-Baths. They wrote his name on a piece of paper, which they rolled up and placed in a bottle——

THE DEATH OF THE TERRITORIAL, NIEUPORT.

May, 1915.

It has rained all day. Toward nightfall only did rain cease to fall. The sky is gray and heavy, but the air is fresh. The Marines in their dripping oilskins walk to and fro in the trench. The air is so clear that we can see, over there on the horizon, the silhouette of Bruges, with its old houses and high towers.

"It is sad to see you so mirage-like and far away, oh! Bruges the captive, brave city, in all your history you have thirsted for liberty——"

Two hours pass and it is time to rejoin my comrades at the cantonment. But I turn again and again to review the panorama before me.

I come at last to Nieuport. As I enter the principal street, I see going ahead a brave Territorial, who also returns to the cantonment unshaven and unkempt after his long vigil in the trenches. He is completely equipped with all his personal belongings, but is in no hurry. This brave man is leaving the front for good because he is the father of five children. He precedes me some thirty paces and I hasten to catch up with him.

We arrive at the top of the Casino, when, suddenly, a whistling announces the arrival of a shell—explosion, smoke—a jagged piece of metal strikes him in the head and I see the man fall in front of me.

The acrid smoke gags me, but I am quickly at his side. He is dead: fractured skull—his face purple—mouth open—his brains strewn on the pavement——

That night while I am at dinner with my comrades, an orderly comes to say that there is someone outside who wishes to speak with me. In the darkened passageway I scarcely recognize the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, a man very simple and good.

"Lieutenant, you know, without doubt, that we have had one of our men killed but a short while ago. We are going to bury him at sunrise. Unfortunately we have no one to play the organ—Figon is in the trenches—you will be very kind to play something for us."

"Good; you can count on me."

All night long the sight of distant Bruges and the death of the poor Territorial haunt me. I am seated before the piano in our "Villa" where we have installed our entire ménage.

I begin to improvise a melody, sweet and infinitely sad and the theme recurs again and again, developing into a funeral chant—yes, very soon I will play that for him——

Toward dawn a man comes to find me. It is very calm outside and the sector has a sleepy air.

I enter the church where can be seen large breaches in the walls and roof. A coffin hastily constructed, and covered with the Tricolor, red, white and blue, is in the choir, resting on two wooden supports. The organ is at its side, so close, so close, that I see the man's blood, which flows drop by drop, through the boards of the rudely built coffin—a brilliant red spot glistens on the white flagstone.

A few men of the 16th and some stretcher-bearers are kneeling in the nave; others arrive one by one, helmet in hand, without noise——

Scarcely had the service commenced and the priest begun his chant for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing.

At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon everything seemed to grow dark within me—saw in the distance the towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood——

"Dies irae, Dies illa——"

ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES.

May, 1915.

Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its scabbard and slipped it in my pocket.

I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow." An ensign from the cruiser X—— accompanies me with a dozen or so men.

Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a good turn at their game——

As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal. All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand. There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself around us, and during this interval, with my two poilus, I install the snare for the boches!

The work ended, we fall silently back.

Not a shot!

We have returned to our lines without an incident!

LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE.

May, 1915.

We are at table. Major Peigné presides at breakfast of the officers of the 19th Company, 2nd Battalion. The subjects of conversation which recur each day in a sappers' kitchen have been exhausted: progress of work along the sector, effect of the last bombardment, news of the absent ones, criticism of work accomplished by the soldiers, next permissions;[7] then we take up the eternal question, the only one which counts, assuredly, woman.

There have been many weeks in which not a one of us has seen a woman's petticoat, not a one, I swear it!

To be in this cursed city of Nieuport is not an enviable "visit at the seashore"—the enemy systematically persists in destroying it: the Casino, the villas and the approaches to the pier are completely torn to pieces. Can you imagine a woman in such a place?

Stories of woman, adventures of woman, anecdotes of woman, serve as topics of conversations. "When you haven't the object of your desires," said a profound philosopher, "you speak of it."

The conversation became general again, when, all at once, Lieutenant Divisia silenced us with a finger before him. No, it was impossible to be deceived, my word upon it, a woman's voice was heard in the next room!

Had a 420 fallen in the midst of us, the silence could not have been more impressive—of course realizing that it would have flattened us like pancakes. But, quickly and with remarkable unison, we arose quietly with the same intention——

Yet, with an energetic gesture, Major Peigné, who never lost a bet, stopped us and made for the door.

"Remain here," he said, "I will see what it is!" He entered the room at the side, nimbly closing the door after him. It was very malicious! We looked at each other with stupor and regret. Then we cautiously approached the crack in the boards that separated the two spaces. It was, in effect, a woman, a young woman deliciously beautiful, I assure you—an indelible vision in this terrible, stricken little city. Lady Dorothy, with her pretty khaki costume, appeared before us for the first time! She had the air of a warlike Amazon which became her perfectly, and, at first sight, we all had fallen in love with her——

She was engaged in a lengthy conversation with our corporal-secretary to whom she had been sent to do her bit among the soldiers, all unknown to us.

We all thought: "Little Lady Dorothy, the gold of your blonde hair which we see through the slit in the partition is as precious a bit as that you are offering to our corporal——"

After that we saw several times the fugitive vision of this angel with the blonde locks searching among the ruins for our wounded. She drove her own automobile with a steady hand, with enemy shells breaking around her, vainly seeking to blow her to bits.

THE CONSCIENTIOUS POILU, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.

May, 1915.

The nights are still very cold and to warm ourselves we have builded a comfortable fire by the sea. Sacks of sand, skillfully fixed by Richard, mask the flashes from the brazier, for otherwise they would certainly invite 77's and 105's which the enemy would not lose time dropping among us to disturb our momentary comfort in the first line.

Reymond and I have many things to discuss and the hours pass relatively fast; the Marine Fusiliers come and go in the trenches and communicating lines with a sort of nervous activity that never leaves them night or day, a trait found only in men that follow the sea.

The sector is extremely calm, the tide has gone out a bit and Reymond has sent a patrol to the other side of the evacuation canal.

Soon the poilu in charge of the patrol returns and, walking up to his superior, says:

"Captain, we have been out reconnoitering the enemy; we saw a boche on sentinel duty; he did not see us—I believe I can get him."

"How far is he?"

"About half a mile away."

"Go—get him!"

We continued the conversation as the poilu went on his errand; it struck us that the man had been deceived. As on a certain night they had charged on a blind, about a hundred yards from here——

The night was passing without incident when soon our brave chap returned and, assuming his former position before his officer, said:

"Captain, I cannot get him—there is a network of barbed wire. Can I kill him?"

"Why, certainly. Always use your own judgment. You don't usually have time to come back for instructions——"

Again he started out and the heavens began to pale; we searched once more for images of the past in the glowing embers of the wood fire which was fast dying out.

Suddenly, over there, toward the German lines, a rifle shot broke the stillness of the night, followed by the well-known machine-gun serenade; immediately rockets, star shell and the artillery came to life——

Reymond rises, standing very stiff and straight.

"Ah, hang it! The poor devil must be shot to pieces——"

Our own cannon begin to mix in the fray. Reymond decides to send some men after the others. He is visibly concerned about our soldiers and is on the verge of going himself.

Just then the poilu stands before him for the third time, saluting respectfully:

"Captain—I have killed him!"

And he said it with a kind of accent that made a shiver run down the spine.

The sky commences to resolve itself into long yellow and gray stripes—ah, Flanders!—ah, Flanders!——