Читать книгу In the Field (1914-1915): The Impressions of an Officer of Light Cavalry - Marcel Dupont - Страница 5

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September 4.

Six o'clock in the evening.

The atmosphere was heavy and stifling. The regiment had been formed into two columns, to the right and the left of the high-road from Vauchamps to Montmirail. The men, tired out, their faces black with dust, had hardly dismounted when they threw themselves on the ground and slept in a field of cut corn. The officers chatted together in groups to keep themselves awake. Nights are short when you are on campaign. The bivouac was pitched at midnight and was to be struck at three o'clock in the morning.

And since six o'clock the battle had been raging, for the enemy had engaged our rearguard almost immediately. This had happened each day of that unforgettable retreat, begun at the Sambre and pushed beyond the Marne. Each day we had had to fight. Each day the enemy was repulsed. Each day we were obliged to retire.

Brother-soldiers!—you who came through those painful hours—shall you ever forget them? Shall you ever forget the anguish that wrung your hearts when, as the sun was sinking, you, who had seen so many of your comrades fall, had to give up a further portion of our sweet France; to deliver up some of our lovely hamlets, some of our fields, our orchards, our gardens, some of our vineyards, to the barbarians? … You were ordered to do so. We have learnt, since then, how important such sacrifices were. But, at the time, we did not know … and doubt came into our minds. We passed through cruel days, and nothing will ever efface the impression of physical and moral prostration that overcame us then.

The regiment was sleeping—tired out.

Alone, calm, phlegmatic, the Colonel kept watch, standing in the middle of the road. With his pipe between his teeth, beneath his ruddy drooping moustache, his cap pulled over his eyes, his arms crossed on his light-blue tunic, he seemed to be the ever-watchful shepherd of that immense flock. At such moments the chief must be able to seem unconscious of the self-abandonment, the disorder and the exhaustion of his men. Human powers have their limits. They had been expended for days without stint. Every moment of cessation from actual fighting had to be a moment of repose. The important thing is that the chief should keep watch. Brave little Chasseurs! sleep in peace; your Colonel is watching over you.

I looked at the men of my troop, on the ground in front of their horses. How could I recognise the smart, brilliantly accoutred horsemen, whose uniforms used to make such a gay note in the old-fashioned streets of the little garrison town?

Under the battered shakoes with their shapeless peaks, the tanned and emaciated faces looked like masks of wax. Youthful faces had been invaded by beards which made them look like those of men of thirty or more. The dust of roads and fields, raised by horses, waggons, and limbers, had settled on them, showing up their wrinkles and getting into eyes, noses, and moustaches.

Their clothes, patched as chance allowed during a halt under some hedge, were enamels of many-coloured pieces. A few more days of such unremitting war, and we should have vied with the glorious tatterdemalions of the armies of Italy and of the Sambre et Meuse, as Raffet paints them.

With their noses in the air, their mouths open, their eyes half shut, my Chasseurs lay stretched out among the legs of their horses and slept heavily. Poor horses! Poor, pretty creatures, so delicate, so fiery, in their glossy summer coats! They had followed their masters' fortunes. How many of them had already fallen under the Prussian bullets; how many had been left dying of exhaustion or starvation after our terrible rides! They seemed to sleep, absorbed in some miserable dream of nothing but burdens to carry, blows to bear, and wounds to suffer. They were hanging their heads, but had not even the strength to crop the green blades growing here and there among the stalks of corn.

I felt uneasy, wondering whether they would still be equal to an effort for the fight that was always likely and always desired.

Suddenly, from the ridge some 800 yards behind us, coming down like a bolt, I saw a horse, at full gallop. Its rider was gesticulating wildly. Strange to say, though not a word had been said, as though awakened by an electric current, every man had got up and had fixed his astonished eyes on the newcomer. He was an artillery non-commissioned officer; his face was crimson, his hair unkempt, his cap had come off his head and was dangling behind by the chin-strap. With a violent jerk he pulled up his foaming horse for a second: "Where is the Colonel—the Colonel?" With one voice the whole squadron replied: "There, on the road. What's the matter?"

He had already set off again at full speed, had reached the Colonel, and was bending down towards him. Even at that distance we could hear some of his words: "Uhlans … near the woods, … our guns, our teams. … "

Then it was like a miracle. Without any word of command, without any sign, in a moment the whole regiment was on horseback, sword in hand. The Colonel alone had remained standing. With the greatest calmness he asked the sergeant in an undertone for some information; and the man answered him with emphatic gestures. All eyes were fixed upon the group. Everybody waited breathlessly for the order which was going to be given and repeated by five hundred voices, by five hundred men drunk with joy.

We believed the glorious hour was at last come, which we had been awaiting with so much impatience since the opening of the campaign. The charge! That indescribable thing which is the raison d'être of the trooper, that sublime act which pierces, rends, and crushes by a furious onslaught—wild gallop, with uplifted sword, yelling mouth, and frenzied eyes. The charge! The charge of our great ancestors, of those demi-gods, Murat, Lasalle, Curély, Kellermann and so many others! The charge we had been asking for, with all our hearts, ever since the opening of the campaign, and which had always been denied us!