L\NCE 
 
BOURRU, 
 SOLDIER OF FRANCE 
 
BOURRU, 
 SOLDIER OF FRANCE 
 
 By 
 JEAN DES VIGNES ROUGES 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 ERNEST HUNTER WRIGHT 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY 
 68 1 Fifth Avenue 
 
\ 
 
 Copyright, 1919, by 
 E. P. BUTTON & COMPANY 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
CONTENTS 
 PART I 
 
 CHAPTER PA<iK 
 
 I BOURRU 3 
 
 II TiiK Division Facing the Hill 8 
 
 III The Storming of Vauquois . 18 
 
 IV After the Attack .... 48 
 V A Night Attack 57 
 
 VI The Glory Grows .... OG 
 
 VII Holding the Position ... 70 
 
 VIII A Sinister Duty .... 00 
 
 IX Vauquois the Tragic . . . 100 
 
 X A Hand-Grenade Battle . . 113 
 
 XI The Cellar of the Engineers 124 
 
 XII Shift Folix)\vs Shift . . . 180 
 
 XIII Sentinel Duty 146 
 
 XIV A Visit from the Colonel . 154 
 XV The Gravl-s of September, 1914 159 
 
 XVI Bagging a Sentinel .... 170 
 
 XVII The Saddest Duty .... 180 
 
 XVIII Waiting for a Mine to Explode 191 
 
 XIX Occupying the Mine Pit . . 198 
 
 XX The Secret Garden .... 207 
 
 XXI The Days of Tunnels ... 214 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXII A Session with the Trench- 
 Mortars 218 
 
 XXIII A Day Underground in the 
 
 Time of the Mines . . 230 
 
 XXIV The Cannonade 242 
 
 XXV A Relief at Night .... 248 
 
 XXVI After Two "Weeks in the 
 
 Trenches 256 
 
 XXVII Honor to Those Who Fall . 265 
 
 XXVIII Under Bombardment . . . 274 
 
 XXIX BouRRU Visits Headquarters . 284 
 
 XXX An Expedition to the Rear 292 
 
 XXXI A Thought of Thoss Who Re- 
 
 I 2008 with funding from 
 IVIicrosL 
 
 301 
 
 THE WAR UNDERGROUND 
 
 I An Encounter Underground 
 
 II A Rescue 
 
 III An Explosion 
 
 IV Trapped Underground . . . 
 V The Exi^losion of March 23, 1916 
 
 315 
 325 
 334 
 343 
 354 
 
 APPENDIX 
 
 Resume of the Military Operations 
 
 AT Vauquois 367 
 
 wBb^ 
 
PART OXE 
 
BOURRU, 
 SOLDIER OF FRANCE 
 
 BOURRU 
 
 BOURRU I But you know him well 
 enough; he is the soldier, the very one 
 you met in the street the other day. 
 He was on furlough, going to Bligny, a vil- 
 lage of Burgundy, and he was taking good 
 advantage of his trip through Paris to ex- 
 amine the "City of Light," symbol of that 
 civilization which, gun in hand, he had been 
 defending for two years. Oh, one could 
 IHeasily see that he is a winegrower, as his 
 ' military papers show ; he was walking 
 slowly, cautiously, half afraid of the thou- 
 
 *sand dangers that lie hidden in your streets. 
 Being a good patriot, you looked at him 
 affectionately. 
 
4 BOURRU 
 
 "There goes one of our brave defenders," 
 you said to me. 
 
 What an honest face I A little thin, but 
 heaven knows they don't take on flesh in the 
 trenches; however, his thinness didn't pre- 
 vent him from having color in his cheeks, and 
 two sparkling eyes under a determined fore- 
 head. It was easy to guess that the man was 
 used to action, if only from the way his chin 
 projected. A fine fellow of thirty, this 
 Bourru, and not so flustered that he had for- 
 gotten to curl up his mustache so as to prove 
 to the Parisians that he was no more of a 
 hayseed than they were. No beard; they 
 don't wear them any more at the front, on 
 account of the gas-masks. You understand, 
 the hair keeps the thing from pressing close 
 to the skin, and the gas may penetrate. 
 "Shave yourselves" was the general's order, 
 and Bourru cut off his beard. 
 
 But he still had his good old overcoat 
 that had been washed by the April rains, 
 faded by the July sun, and decorated by the 
 
BOURRU 5 
 
 mud of the Argonne — one of those old rags 
 that look so glorious by the side of our 
 ridiculous street clothes. 
 
 And thus Bourru went on his way toward 
 the Gare de Lyon w ith a rolling gait, his sack 
 over his shoulder, his hat pulled down to his 
 ears, and his heart heavy from the sight of so 
 many scenes of death. 
 
 How I should like to look into the soul 
 fthat soldier!" you confided to me. "We 
 all the time hearing about some great 
 or other, and there is every reason for 
 But as for me, I wish I could look he- 
 ld the scenes of tlie great drama and share 
 emotions of it in imagination. It is some 
 lin soldier like our friend there that I 
 mid like to follow on his daily round — 
 le nameless toiler in the war, some trooper 
 in the multitude, some peasant who has 
 ren up the plow for tlie gun — tliat is the 
 td of hero who will remain the immortal 
 type of the savior of France." 
 
 'ou spoke with so much enthusiasm tliat 
 
6 BOURRU 
 
 I was moved by it; the more so because I 
 love this Bourru like a friend and brother, 
 and when you expressed your admiration for 
 him you made me feel very proud. So as 
 soon as I returned from my own furlough I 
 picked out a typical Bourru and kept my 
 eyes on him day by day ; and now I am try- 
 ing to sketch for you a fairly faithful picture 
 of him in broad strokes. 
 
 Of course you know we have no time here 
 in Camp 8 to put the finishing touches 
 on things; so I do not pretend that my 
 picture of Bourru is complete and per- 
 fect. I send him to you just sketched in. 
 He will be like one of those rude wooden ef- 
 figies of Saint Martin which you have seen 
 in old village churches, and in front of which 
 you felt your spirit moved because in your 
 mind's eye you could see the naive workman 
 of centuries gone by, armed with his sincere 
 piety and his shepherd's knife, hewing it out 
 of the trunk of a tree. 
 
 Only, alas! I am not possessed of that 
 
BOURRU 7 
 
 holy naivete of the worthy artists of primi- 
 tive days. I am only a plain man of to-day. 
 I have had ostentatious, complicated instru- 
 ments put into my hand, and I am bound 
 to use them. That is why I have been con- 
 vinced by a philosophical friend that I could 
 never really represent the soul of Bourru 
 unless I "posed" him in his "environment,'* 
 in his "milieu." ... So let me tell you first 
 about the moral atmosphere which reigns 
 over the region of Vauquois and which 
 Bourru has been breathing for many 
 months. 
 
II 
 
 THE DIVISION FACING THE 
 HILL 
 
 AT the outbreak of the war Bourru be- 
 longed to a division in no way 
 signally different from any other. 
 He was just one of a multitude of soldiers 
 moving together in the fluctuations of the 
 army — marching forward, then recoiling like 
 a wave, only to gather force again immedi- 
 ately and to dash over the rocks of the ene- 
 my's resistance, which were crumbling be- 
 fore the northward drive of our soldiers. 
 Up to now his division had been only one 
 great unit of the French army, and nothing 
 more. These men, wandering over the fields 
 and the meadows of the Meuse, had not yet 
 

 ■ THE DIVISION FACING THE HILL 9 
 
 felt the secret influences that spring from the 
 soil to create kindred souls such as were later 
 to make all the sectors of the front into so 
 many little provinces of France. 
 
 But now the division is to he hurled 
 against a hill in the Argonne that rises in a 
 wooded curve hefore them. It is Vauquois! 
 The enemy holds the summit and clings to 
 t . . . and a thrill runs through the throng 
 
 our men. 
 
 I must tell you that at the moment this 
 ivision is made up mainly of Parisians. 
 
 an you imagine how impetuous they are 
 coming to be? Paris means revolj: against 
 whatever is sinister and tlu-eatening. . . . 
 with clenched fists our soldiers are look- 
 ing up at the hill, a dark pedestal for the 
 men whose silhouettes at its top dishonor the 
 blue heavens. . . . How can we stay loiter- 
 ing at the base, in the shadow ? 
 
 Possibly if they were all Parisians they 
 might commit one of those sublime follies 
 that have made their history^ illustrious. But 
 
10 BOURRU 
 
 scattered through the division there are also 
 the "Bourrus" — the good winegrowers from 
 Touraine and Burgundy, the farmers from 
 Brie. These men are used to the lessons of 
 Nature; they have looked upon rugged 
 fields, and voiceless forests, and stern little 
 villages ; and they know that victory belongs 
 to the most patient. The spirit of Paris is 
 joined with this of the countryside, inter- 
 penetrating, each acting as corrective to the 
 other — and the soul of the division is com- 
 ing into being. It will grow and take form 
 as it attacks this great stronghold — Vau- 
 quois ! 
 
 The days pass. Trenches are dug, all 
 leading toward the base of the hill — like long 
 arms preparing to take it in their tentacles. 
 For many weary hours the men remain on 
 the lookout, contemplating the landscape. 
 Its lines are printed indelibly on the minds 
 of them all. In the morning, when the sun 
 comes up, the hill is luminous with rosy 
 light. ... It would be fine to breathe the 
 
THE DIVISION FACING THE HILL 11 
 
 air up there, and sing for joy, and survey the 
 reaches of the landscape 1 . . . 
 
 In their imaginations Vauquois is a glor- 
 ious prize, promised to the valiant. . . . 
 "When shall we take it?" 
 
 Once in a while some one mysteriously 
 whispers, "It's going to be next week I" But 
 the week crawls slowly by, and not yet has 
 the order come to storm the heights. The 
 obsession grows stronger and stronger — the 
 will strains at the leash. . . . Are the can- 
 non growling a little louder than usual? 
 There we are, the attack is coming! And 
 joy breaks its bounds; cartridges are exam- 
 ined, fingers are passed affectionately over 
 the edge of bayonets, souls are steeled for 
 the supreme effort. . . . But what are they 
 waiting for — aren't we going up ? 
 
 And yet, how many good reasons there 
 are for seizing that position! Those who 
 know affairs love to explain that the hill of- 
 fers the enemy a point of vantage from 
 which he can test the fire of his artillery by 
 
12 BOURRU 
 
 direct observation — that the whole region is 
 commanded by that hill — that the Boches at- 
 tach an extreme importance to it. "Of 
 course," chime in the listeners, "Vauquois 
 has to be taken, — it's the biggest military 
 operation, the most essential — ^the only one 
 that really is important for France. . . ." 
 
 "We'll get Vauquois, all right!" says 
 Bourru to himself. "There are twenty thou- 
 sand of us, and we want it. ..." And he 
 goes on thinking proudly of the multitude 
 of human wills charged with the common de- 
 sire. They will make a formidable mass, 
 which will break over the hill like a tidal 
 wave. 
 
 But patience is still necessary. The hour 
 has not yet come ; the commanders, who have 
 to regulate this particular action in accord- 
 ance with larger plans, are waiting for the 
 favorable moment. And destiny also, 
 doubtless, wills that the soul of the division 
 shall grow to full life before the terrible as- 
 sault be attempted. 
 
THE DIVISION FACING THE HILL 13 
 
 How everything prepares the men for itl 
 The rough work, the sudden alarms, the can- 
 nonades, the terrible trials of winter, — even 
 the landscape, which here certainly suggests 
 nothing voluptuous in life; for in the scen- 
 ery of the Argonne, that country which his- 
 tory has bathed in blood, there is something 
 like a mystic invitation to sacrifice. 
 
 Now and then a regiment will go a little 
 way to the rear, behind the forest, to a rest 
 camp; but the soldiers are so eager to see 
 Vauquois that they climb all the heights 
 about to gaze at that tragic hill — and they 
 talk about it and long for it as for a prom- 
 ised land. 
 
 The soul of the division flames higher and 
 higher. If you ask any one of these men 
 what part he is playing in the great drama 
 of the war, he will answer, "I am facing 
 Vauquois." It is a sacred mission and he 
 has accepted it with all his heart — as might 
 a paladin of the olden time, charged to de- 
 liver a noble and beautiful princess from the 
 
14 BOURRU 
 
 barbarians who keep her beleaguered. . . . 
 
 Yes, the division stands here with all eyes 
 on the hill over which it will some day surge. 
 Once in a while a nervous shock passes 
 through it, so great is the tension ; impatience 
 takes possession of our battalions and makes 
 them stretch out eager hands toward the cov- 
 eted height. . . . 
 
 Bourru remembers one of those crises. It 
 came on February 17, 1915. The excite- 
 ment broke out suddenly in his own battal- 
 ion — and it was a rainy day at that, but the 
 chill wind blowing over the hills wrought on 
 a man's nerves. . . . 
 
 A certain hour struck. It must have been 
 the signal for some mysterious focussing of 
 forces — for at that instant the battalion rose 
 as one man at the foot of the hill. In one 
 mad burst of valor and patriotism it rushed 
 up the sides of the hill, its officers in the 
 lead. In vain ! . . . Bullets were whistling, 
 but the men charged — like beings enrap- 
 tured, hypnotized, with eyes lifted to heaven 
 
THE DIVISION FACING THE HILL 15 
 
 as to the deliverance of the imprisoned 
 maid. 
 
 It was a sublime charge! Deatli was tak- 
 ing his toll, but on one thought of counting 
 the cost — and the soil of the Argonne once 
 again drank blood that would give it a mean- 
 ing still more tragic and still more fruitful 
 for the children of centuries to come. 
 
 Bourru was in the charge. Side by side 
 
 th him his comrades leaped forward, fir- 
 
 , scaling walls, plunging through clouds 
 
 smoke. Men were clamoring, and the 
 
 rth, torn to bits by exploding shells, flew 
 
 to their wide-open mouths. They swal- 
 
 ed it down, as if in patriotic communion. 
 
 superhuman energy urged them on and 
 
 They would stop a moment in a shell- 
 
 le, but only to scramble out again and rush 
 
 er forward, performing mad feats of 
 
 wess and valor. 
 
 Bourru acted like the rest of them. But 
 was it really he who acted? No, it was the 
 ill of the division, and Bourru was only a 
 
16 BOURRU 
 
 straw carried by that wind. In time to come, 
 he will never say, "I was at Vauquois," but 
 simply, "We stormed the hill at Vauquois." 
 It was because he knew the others wanted 
 Vauquois that he wanted it — and if the oth- 
 ers wanted it so madly, that was because he 
 was there to incite them and uphold them. 
 
 Thus infatuated, the battalion went to the 
 very top of the hill and dedicated to that 
 ground the great sacrifice of its children's 
 love, while from a ravine nearby the inspir- 
 ing strains of the Marseillaise sprang from 
 the throats of trumpets. . . . 
 
 At their post of command the generals 
 were exerting all their skill and resolution 
 in directing the fighters. In a critical mo- 
 ment, just when all the desperate yearnings 
 of the dying and all the heroic impulses of 
 the victors swept through their hearts, a tear 
 of tenderness and admiration fell from the 
 eyes of one of them. And this was as it 
 should be, for it is the noble habit of the 
 French officer to hold ascendancy over his 
 
THE DIVISION FACING THE HILL 17 
 
 men not only by his soverei^ will but by 
 his affectionate spirit. And all whom death 
 had overtaken on the hill could imagine that 
 the tear fell for their sake and could lie down 
 in sleep with the serenity of heroes who know 
 that their sacrifice has been understood. 
 
 Nevertheless, this day's work was only a 
 test, a bitter and glorious test, necessary, 
 doubtless, to fulfill the growth of the divi- 
 sion's soul and give it the sure faith of vic- 
 tory. Twelve days later the hill was to be 
 
 ►tured definitely. 
 
Ill 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 
 
 <( 
 
 w 
 
 E'VE got to wipe out that score!" 
 Bourru said to himself, as he 
 thought of the attack on the hill, 
 which had not completely succeeded. And 
 this meant quitting the trenches and advanc- 
 ing under shells and bullets, which appeared 
 to Bourru simply as a thing to be done — not 
 a heroic task at all, but just a piece of rough 
 work that would require energies at once 
 brutal and patient. 
 
 It is only the man who lives on an emi- 
 nence who thinks he sees magnificent out- 
 bursts of heroism here and there. Bourru, 
 in the rest-camp, was nothing but a soldier 
 grumbling, like a thousand others, because 
 
 18 
 
tf 
 
 THE STORxMING OF VAUQUOIS 19 
 
 it was raining and they had to turn out for 
 drill. He was even heard to say that he was 
 "fed up with it" — an expression of discon- 
 
 nt that witnesses to the saying that words 
 are given to man for the purpose of dissem- 
 bling his real thoughts. For here is some 
 ne yelling to the camp: "Attention! Fall 
 in in fifteen minutes — full packs!" And im- 
 mediately the soldiers hurn with excitement. 
 "Hello, there's something up!" they cry. 
 
 nd while it is not joy that fills their hearts 
 
 for down at the hottom there is sometliing 
 
 e anguish — they still offer every external 
 
 appearance of a feeling that resembles 
 
 aiety. It is the contradiction in the soul 
 
 of man — his way of dreading and loving in 
 
 he same instant those unforeseen dangers of 
 
 ar that set him afire. 
 
 They start for the forest of Allieux. No 
 one knows why. . . . 
 
 "We're going to storm Vauquois!" says 
 
 uguenin. 
 
 "The deuce we are!" answers Hubert. 
 
20 BOURRU 
 
 "Our battalion had its dose ten days ago. 
 It's not our turn." 
 
 The uncertainty makes everybody fidgety. 
 There is nothing more irritating than to play 
 a part in a mystery. You flounder round 
 in a fog that you would like to tear asunder, 
 and you imagine all sorts of things; and if 
 some one says something with a knowing air, 
 even though his supposition is improbable, 
 the faces of the most skeptical turn toward 
 him with eyes that show a willingness to be- 
 lieve. 
 
 "It's no such thing!" says Bourru. "Since 
 we have stacked arms and have a nice quiet 
 place here, we'd better be careful." 
 
 So he pulls a chunk of bread out of his 
 sack and eats it ; then he rolls himself up in 
 his blanket, stretches himself in the ditch, 
 and goes to sleep. 
 
 The chilly dew wakes him about five 
 o'clock. At eight, the cannonade is getting 
 livelier. No one is deceived this time — the 
 artillery is clearing the ground for an at- 
 
■I 
 
 n 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 21 
 
 ack. It is like a pack of hounds suddenly 
 let loose to rush bellowing on the quarry. 
 "Ah! Maybe those guns aren't having a 
 good time! Listen to that! Spit at 'em! 
 Blow 'em up! Give it to Wilhelm!" 
 
 "Anyhow, there's one thing sure," says the 
 sergeant; "it's not our battahon that's go- 
 ing to attack. If it were, we'd be in the first 
 ench already. They must be holding us 
 reserve." 
 
 Yes, that is it — the battalion is in reserve, 
 secret joy — the joy of the physical ani- 
 al, the unlovely joy that one hides — leaps 
 ip at the bottom of a few hearts. It is not 
 that they want to be slackers, O no! but — 
 well, you understand — in the cold gray dawn 
 of a dripping forest, after a night passed in 
 the bottom of a ditch, with a storm of shells 
 passing overhead, you haven't the same ar- 
 dor as a spectator in a reserved seat at the 
 cinema who is about to witness an attack. 
 Pie loses not a jot, that benignant spectator, 
 of the heroic emotion. But this Bourru that 
 
22 BOURRU 
 
 I am telling you about — well, he is just a 
 very ordinary soldier, an "average speci- 
 men" of humanity, as Montaigne would say. 
 So he soliloquizes: 
 
 "You've got to take what you get. . . . 
 'Twould have been great, of course, to be 
 one of the first at the top . . . but orders 
 are orders. And if I'm in reserve, well — 
 so much the better! Maybe I can save a 
 whole skin for the next time. . . ." 
 
 So the battalion stays in the woods. It 
 ought to remain very calm, since it is made 
 up of Bourrus — but you are going to see how 
 men in crowds do queer things without a mo- 
 ment's warning. 
 
 While the fusillade is crackling and the 
 cannonade is booming, they are anxiously 
 waiting on the other side of the height. "Is 
 it going right? Or isn't it?" There is no 
 information. Finally the wounded begin to 
 pass by, coming out of the battle. They are 
 very much worked up, and very merry. 
 Questions are thrown at them. 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 23 
 
 "Ah I We've done it this time — we've got 
 Vauquois!" cries one of them. . . . "It's all 
 going wrong," affirms another, with a som- 
 bre look. 
 
 A man whose face is covered with blood 
 aves his arms and cries out : 
 
 "Aha, old man, we've done it! If you 
 had seen the boys in my battalion — how they 
 left the trenches behind and went up there! 
 The Bodies were nowhere when we started 
 
 I or 'em ! We're there, all right, we're at Vau- 
 luois, I tell you! And it was us, the — th 
 tttalion of the — th regiment that got there 
 rst! It wasn't the others, it was us — us!" 
 L And his fist is beating at his swelling 
 reast, while an uncontrollable pride shines 
 fom his eyes. He carries it off proudly, 
 very proudly, before the pitiable little sol- 
 diers of the reserve battalion. Not for all 
 the gold in the world would he wash off the 
 glorious blood that has dried on his face. 
 Try to see this scene with a poet's imagina- 
 tion, and watch how the handsome heroes of 
 
24 BOURRU 
 
 older days, with their lace collars, sink back 
 into the shadow — those heroes whose por- 
 traits are displayed in the histories of 
 France. They withdraw with a salute be- 
 fore this shaggy, bare-breasted grandson 
 who, marching along through the mud, is 
 proclaiming a victory which to-morrow will 
 thrill the whole country. 
 
 In a twinkling the men of the battalion 
 felt their hearts fill with regret. The ignoble 
 joy of safety has disappeared. Had it even 
 existed? All of them are convinced that 
 their dearest wish was always to be in the 
 first attacking wave. Every one is exerting 
 himself to prove it to the man next him, and 
 in proving it to the others he proves it to 
 himself. And the poor, timid ones, in order 
 not to feel like monstrous exceptions in such 
 a field of valor, hasten to declare louder than 
 the others that they, too, wanted to win a 
 little of the fine glory that is going the 
 rounds up there in the summit, amid the 
 thunder of the cannon. 
 
c 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 25 
 
 Bourru, although he is vexed like the rest, 
 sagely saying to himself, "There's a time 
 
 for everything — there'll still be enough to 
 
 do to-morrow." 
 
 The night comes on. No new orders. 
 
 The men go to sleep once more in the ditches. 
 
 At two o'clock in the morning Bourru feels 
 me one shaking him. "Hey I G^t up !" 
 Orders are passed from squad to squad. 
 
 LLeave your packs behind — make a roll of 
 ur blankets and tent-covers — take rations 
 r two days, with two hundred shells and 
 o hand grenades for each man — fill your 
 
 canteens — one canteen of booze for each 
 
 squad." 
 
 In complete silence the soldiers get their 
 
 equipment ready automatically. They are 
 t thinking — it is too early in the morning 
 or thinking. 
 They are off through the woods. What 
 md in these paths! And what roots of 
 es slung across them! Ouch! Grossou 
 stumbled and run his head into the spine 
 
 foi 
 
26 BOURRU 
 
 of the man before him. Bourru hears 
 Lafut grumbhng all the way of his sleepy 
 march : 
 
 "Ain't that rotten ! One canteen of booze 
 for a whole squad! . . . Just enough to 
 wet a whistle . . . choir-boy's rations. . . . 
 Ought to have at least three canteens to a 
 squad ... or four . . . yes, four can- 
 teens. ... I said four, and I guess I know. 
 . . . Ain't that rotten!" 
 
 And he continues his litany indefi- 
 nitely. 
 
 Richard, the young man of a good family, 
 is consoling himself with the thought that if 
 he is killed to-day some one will send his 
 mother the letter in his pocket, in which he 
 has counselled her not to weep for him. 
 
 As for Bourru, he is saying to himself: 
 
 "Some of us won't get back, that's 
 sure . . . will it be me? or won't it? . . . 
 Oh, well, I'll do the best I can. . . . I'm no 
 fellow to hang back just because there's 
 trouble. So long as the Boches are up there, 
 
the] 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 27 
 
 we've got to drive them out, that's all there 
 is to it. . . ." 
 
 They arrive at the foot of the hill at a mo- 
 ment when there is no cannonade. By the 
 light of dawn they can see what took place 
 there the day before. The troops had taken 
 Vauquois, indeed, but they had not been able 
 to hold it. The Bodies had reoccupied the 
 enches. 
 
 At a turn in the road our troop can see a 
 
 p of corpses, those of the day before, 
 
 ich there has been time to bring together 
 
 t not to take away. Ough! It is like get- 
 
 g a blow in the pit of the stomach. 
 
 erybody turns pale and mute. . . . Later 
 
 story will be that there were three hun- 
 
 d of these bodies piled up like tree-trunks 
 
 b be measured off into cords. But you 
 
 know how it is — one's eyes multiply objects 
 
 in such circumstances. 
 
 The morning passes while the men stand 
 
 p in the mud with the rain pouring over 
 
 their backs. What is to be done? Up to 
 
28 BOURRU 
 
 the present no one has come to them. 
 Everything seems to point to an attack, 
 though nothing is absolutely certain. 
 
 But now the companies are massing in 
 parallel lines for the start. This time the 
 meaning is clear — the attack is coming. 
 
 "Anybody that wants to make his will," 
 cries a sergeant gaily, "need only ask for a 
 two-weeks' furlough to go and see his law- 
 yer." 
 
 "Above all," advises a corporal, "keep a 
 little brandy for a toast when it's all over!" 
 
 On the stroke of noon the artillery begins 
 to clear the way. And pretty work it is! 
 All the guns hidden in forests within a radius 
 of five miles are concentrating their fire on 
 the Boche trenches. The soil, pulverized, 
 leaps into the air and falls back in showers 
 of pebbles and mud. Here and there a hu- 
 man body soars aloft like a common bundle 
 of rags. The shells from the 270's land like 
 thunderbolts on the hill — they are so big that 
 you can see them passing overhead like great 
 
THE STOR.AIING OF VAUQUOIS 29 
 
 bottles of champagne, neck forward. \ATien 
 they burst the hill trembles from top to bot- 
 tom — but you must look sharp, for great 
 chunks of stone come crashing back as far as 
 our own trenches. 
 
 The last vestiges of the village that stood 
 on the top of the hill vanish like a shock of 
 oats caught in a whirlwind. Only the big 
 tree in front of what was the church is left 
 standing, stripped and torn, but erect. 
 
 The screaming of the shells in the air fi- 
 nally produces a curious state of nerves. 
 Foreheads are puckering, eyes are blinking, 
 shoulders are straining — and your fingers 
 twitch, your teeth are on edge, you beat the 
 ground with your feet. What an uproar! 
 It abrades your nerves and sends shocks 
 through your whole body — it bursts your 
 eardrums, shoots through your vitals, be- 
 numbs your brain, sends you mad. If only 
 that would stop! Then we could get down 
 to the bayonet — quietly. . . . 
 
 for Bourru, he has nerve-cells so well 
 
30 BOURRU 
 
 organized that it is hard to throw them into 
 much disorder. All the while he is looking 
 over the ground in front of him, picking out 
 points of vantage along the path that he is 
 soon to take. "Here, now . . . I'll get out 
 through this hole . . . then I'll go there. . . . 
 I'll be well protected . . . and then there 
 . . . and after that along behind the little 
 wall ... so then I can climb up that ditch 
 without being seen from above. . . ." 
 
 At two o'clock the guns take a longer 
 range. The officers are passing in and out 
 among the men. 
 
 "Boys, we're going up ! The army counts 
 on you — follow us!" 
 
 "All ready!" comes the reply. 
 
 Ladders are set up for going over the top. 
 The men look in one another's faces, grasp 
 one another's hands. Of course, there is 
 some agitation, but it is kept hidden imder 
 gaiety. 
 
 "Up we go, eh? Got to see this through !" 
 
 And a laugh accompanies the words. In- 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 31 
 
 stinctively a man's mind sees to its own de- 
 fence by refusing to attend to trouble or to 
 think of death. The deepest psychologists, 
 the most skilful analysts of the human mind, 
 have never found any better advice to give 
 men who want to be assured the mastery of 
 their own wills. But Bourru sums up the 
 whole theory in one piece of advice to 
 Huguenin : 
 
 "Don't give a rap!" 
 
 As for Richard, tlicre is just one thing 
 that surprises him, and that is his own com- 
 posure. He may say to himself as much as 
 he pleases that "This is going to be terrible"; 
 but it doesn't worry him — the words are just 
 empty sounds in his brain, like geometrical 
 terms. There is no anxiety. Of course, the 
 psychologist would explain that, in the cir- 
 cumstances, he has only an intellectual com- 
 prehension, but no "emotional" understand- 
 ing. 
 
 I^^But that's enough of your complicated 
 
32 BOURRU 
 
 things, as Bourru would say. The bugle 
 sounds the charge, and the men are plunging 
 over the top, some of them falling heavily 
 back. They are helping each other, pushing 
 each other on, and all of them are crying, 
 "Go to it ! Come on, boys ! Don't be afraid 
 — Vive la France!" 
 
 It is queer how each feels the need of re- 
 assuring those round him by throwing out 
 words of encouragement. 
 
 Bourru has taken a bee-line forward. 
 
 "Gad, but this hill is steep!" 
 
 "What shell-holes I You can stand up in- 
 side 'em!" 
 
 "Look at the Boche trench! Lord, what 
 a mess! . . . Ah, poor fellow! He's got 
 half his body blown away. . . . Look here, 
 by Jove, the beasts had all sorts of good 
 wine. ..." 
 
 "It's funny, but the Boches are hardly 
 shooting at all. That won't last. . . . 
 Wow! Did I say they weren't shooting? 
 Listen to those bullets! . . . Better look 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 33 
 
 out. . . . Still more corpses — those are yes- 
 terday's, though. . . . Here come our 
 chums! . . ." 
 
 Squads, platoons, and companies are all 
 dispersed. Every man is acting for himself, 
 scaling the hill as he can, scrambling over 
 walls, or stopping to spy out his way from 
 a shell-hole. 
 
 The Boches who still remain are them- 
 selves scattered everywhere, trying to get 
 away or to hide in any nook they can find. 
 It is a free-for-all fight, and cannon, ma- 
 chine-guns, grenades, and rifles are all in it. 
 The hill rumbles with the noise like a steel- 
 foundry at full blast. 
 
 At a certain moment, when Bourru is 
 scrambling to the top of a wall he spies two 
 Boches down below him, in a sort of hole, 
 for all the world like hares in their burrow. 
 One of them is wounded and trembling. 
 The other, erect, loads his gun when he sees 
 Bourru*s head appear. He is just at the 
 foot of the wall, and the two men are very 
 
84 BOURRU 
 
 close to each other. One of them must kill 
 the other. . . . Instantly Bourru's arm is 
 up, and — like a flash the bayonet enters the 
 German's shoulder and drives through his 
 body as he sinks, gasping. ... 
 
 Maybe you think it's fun, you civilians, to 
 kill a man. And in a case like this you hear 
 yourselves letting out a yell like a Sioux 
 scalping his enemy. But you must remem- 
 ber that our poor Bourru is no hero. Judge 
 for yourself, for when he feels his bayonet 
 running through soft flesh, he simply can- 
 not hold the gun. . . . What a wet beast, 
 pah! . . . Luckily the other Boche, down in 
 the hole, is too badly wounded to seize the 
 moment. 
 
 There is no lack of rifles, all you have to 
 do is to pick one up. Bourru starts climb- 
 ing again, up the path. "Crash! Boom!" 
 There are the cannon of Cheppy beginning 
 to pound us. We must look out — ^the bul- 
 lets are whistling fiercely. 
 
 "Hello ! There's a sergeant yelling to his 
 
I 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS C5 
 
 men to get together. . . . He'll never get 
 'em. . . ." 
 
 Certain platoons have got ahead faster 
 than others, and already some scared pris- 
 oners are coming down. That lends a man 
 courage. . . . 
 
 But what's all that up there? Ah, hullyl 
 Some of the boys are already at the summit, 
 and in the joy of being the first they are 
 standing on the fragments of walls, waving 
 their caps and calling to the others down be- 
 I^Br — at the risk of stopping a hundred hul- 
 ^Ks. It is magnificent! Andthe timidestman 
 ^£all is seized witli a mad desire to get up to 
 Bcm, as if he were climbing to paradise. 
 
 And at that moment these splendid en- 
 thusiasts are seen by thousands of eyes that 
 watch their silhouette against the sky from 
 a radius of ten kilometers — and far away in 
 the camps to the rear, thirty kilometers dis- 
 tant, people are crying out in village after 
 village: "Vauquois is ours! Vauquois is 
 si" 
 
36 BOURRU 
 
 At headquarters, the general takes off his 
 cap, and, turning toward his staff, says : 
 "Gentlemen, remove your hats." 
 One would say the men on the hilltop hear 
 the applause from all the countryside, for 
 they never pause in their dancing 'round the 
 summit, in the thick of exploding shells. 
 Beneath them, forests and valleys and riv- 
 ers spread beyond the eye's reach. , . . 
 
 Suddenly, at a recess in the walls, Bourru 
 recoils in horror. Gods! In this nook lies 
 the corpse of a French lieutenant, killed yes- 
 terday. He is riddled with bayonet thrusts, 
 his face mashed by boot-heels, his hands and 
 feet tied securely with wire. Bourru knows 
 what savage drama must have been enacted 
 the day before. 
 
 "Ah! the beasts! . . . I'll fix one of 'em 
 for that!" 
 
 Bang! That shot came from hard by — 
 it must have been from over there, at the 
 mouth of that cellar. Bourru cries out: 
 
r 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 37 
 
 "Some of 'em in the cellar!" 
 
 He seizes a grenade from his sack, lights 
 it, and throws it through the mouth of the 
 cellar. Another follows it, and the Boches 
 begin to howl, down inside. 
 
 One of his comrades passes. 
 
 "Gimme your grenades I" begs Bourni. 
 
 And he hurls two more into the black hole. 
 In a moment a heap of litter stirs at the 
 mouth of the cellar, and the Boches begin to 
 come out, hands in the air. "Kamerad!'* 
 Bourru would hke to kill — but no, that isn't 
 done. 
 
 "Here, take these geese away," he says to 
 his comrade. 
 
 And he goes on his way. 
 
 Zip! "Ouch!" Bourru shakes his head. 
 A bullet has just grazed his left thumb. 
 Nothing to worry about — he can stop for 
 five minutes in a hole somewhere and dress 
 it. 
 
 In the same hole a French soldier is ban- 
 daging a Boche. Queer sight for a moment 
 
88 BOURRU 
 
 like this! The Boche is joking, and empty- 
 ing his pockets and purse — ^he wants to pre- 
 sent even his handkerchief to his amateur 
 nurse, who declines it. 
 
 But a French soldier, who has fallen to 
 the bottom of the hole, is saying, "I've got 
 to see what is going on. . . ." 
 
 So he digs his knee into the wall of the 
 hole and looks round. Suddenly he gives a 
 wild cry and leaps erect, with his arms 
 aloft, as if a spring had been let loose in- 
 side him. A ball has just gone through his 
 heart. 
 
 The doctor will tell you that sometimes 
 the ball strikes a nerve center and produces 
 a reflex action from all the nerves and a 
 spasm from every muscle. That is why you 
 must not make fun of the colored cuts of 
 Epinal that always show a soldier falling 
 backward with his arms in the form of a 
 cross or making some wild gesture. It often 
 happens so. 
 
 Gaining more and more ground, our men's 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 39 
 
 advancing wave is close to the church. Then 
 suddenly there is a terrible cry. 
 
 "The Boches are counter-attacking. . . . 
 They've turned our flank. . . . Let's get 
 out of here!" 
 
 The men can see nothing, but there was 
 such anguish in the cry that without tliinking 
 they gave way. . . . Yes, indeed, they fell 
 back to the rear. . . . Oh I I gave you full 
 warning — these are no stage heroes, these 
 Bourrus of mine. One minute they are go- 
 ing ahead and the next they are retreating. 
 Of course, it would be better to have ma- 
 chine-made fellows who would go ahead all 
 the time. There would be no fear of a panic 
 — that would be just the thing I 
 
 But Bourru suddenly looks back. Are 
 those a couple of big brutes of Boches on 
 the wall there, laughing and showing their 
 yellow teeth? Yes, and one of them is put- 
 ting his thumb to his nose. . . . 
 
 It did not stay there long, I can assure 
 you. No one makes fun of my Bourrus with 
 
40 BOURRU 
 
 impunity. Huguenin and Grossou turn 
 round toward the right, and others conceal 
 themselves on the left. Bourru crawls up 
 behind the wall, . . , Ten minutes later the 
 brutes are lying low. They will never put 
 thumb to nose again. 
 
 Others have come to the rescue. The 
 squad of Frenchmen opens a murderous fire, 
 and the Boches fall or fly. 
 
 In a shell-hole nearby a poor little French 
 soldier of eighteen, in his agony, is saying to 
 his sergeant : 
 
 "Kiss me, sergeant, as mother would. 
 And tell her, like a nice fellow, that I died 
 nobly, thinking of her. . . .'* 
 
 Grossou is climbing out of a cellar that 
 has served to shelter the Germans. His 
 arms are laden with bottles and boxes of 
 food and cigars. Everybody is shouting 
 congratulations to him. But, in the future, 
 when Grossou tells the story, there is one 
 thing he will never fail to say: 
 
 "Oh, yes, it was bully stuff in the bot- 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 41 
 
 ties. . . . But it was there in that con- 
 founded cellar that I caught lice — real, live 
 cooties — for the first tinie. And IVe never 
 got rid of 'em since I" 
 
 I am only showing you a few episodes of 
 the battle. You must multiply them by a 
 hundred — by a thousand. Moreover, to un- 
 derstand what happened, you must needs 
 have been stationed very high and very far 
 away to see all these men climbing the hill 
 and swarming little by little to its top during 
 a cannonade that woke echoes all through the 
 Argonne. But no one can see a battle in its 
 entirety. And it is not possible to reproduce 
 the multitudinous scenes, of every kind be- 
 tween the sublime and the grotesque, that 
 take place side by side. 
 
 Every shell hole is a refuge for the 
 wounded, and there the one essential act of 
 the great drama plays itself out. One man 
 is dying with his lips to a photograph. An- 
 other is crying "Vive la FranceT A third 
 
42 BOURRU 
 
 is looking at his mutilated leg and murmur- 
 ing, "And how am I to plow my fields 
 now?" 
 
 Bravery, love, regret, anguish, devotion — 
 all the emotions of man are at the boil- 
 ing point in these earthen kettles hollowed 
 out by explosives. 
 
 Behind each bit of wall heroes are at 
 work, making peep-holes or laying out 
 trenches. 
 
 A moment comes when the human wave 
 gathers force to rush on further, past the 
 church. It overleaps every obstacle in its 
 way. . . . But our own artillery does not 
 know of this final rush, for all the telephone 
 wires have been cut. So the onrush of our 
 soldiers plunges them up to the barrage laid 
 down by our 75 's, which at this moment con- 
 stitutes an impassable barrier between them 
 and the enemy. They must needs pause 
 now. 
 
 They stop and wait. The night is coming 
 on. 
 
THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 43 
 
 Then an alarm sounds. The Germans 
 are counter-attacking and have just driven 
 a party of our troops back some two hun- 
 dred yards. But the artillery has been 
 warned. Our shells fall like thunderbolts. 
 Over the massed Germans the 75*s rain 
 shells that scatter among the men and send 
 limbs flying through the air. It is as if a 
 giant were planting his heel on an ant-hill. 
 And the corpulent Captain Cliartier, who is 
 conmianding the battery on the opposite 
 hill, is red in the face from the pleasant ex- 
 citement. He is shouting, swearing, bellow- 
 ing, gesticulating, stamping: 
 
 "Go to it! . . . wind your way! . . . strike 
 *em down! ... in tens, in fifties, in hun- 
 dreds! . . . Cut 'em down! Fire faster! 
 Don't stop. . .goit!. . . . Give 'em hell !" 
 
 Over there where the shells are falling the 
 grass grew green, last summer. . . . 
 
 "It's always well to put plenty of manure 
 in the soil," says Bourru. And he knows 
 the business. 
 
44 BOURRU 
 
 The night has come and spread peace over 
 all the countryside. But apparently the 
 heavens feel that darkness is insufficient 
 to hide the work of man, for snow begins 
 to fall softly, covering all the crumbled 
 walls and hideous corpses; covering the 
 moaning wounded, and the heroes who 
 sleep. 
 
 All day long brutality and uproar have 
 been masters here. Now another force — one 
 that reigns in silence — is taking possession 
 of the place. And such is the majesty of its 
 power that all the soldiers, motionless now, 
 give themselves up to it with the religious 
 fervor of a Carthusian, standing like a 
 statue on his promontory in the white moon- 
 light, and meditating on the fierce cata- 
 clysms out of which, centuries since, sprang 
 the wondrous landscapes of his Alpine 
 home. 
 
 "Some day," the soldiers are thinking, as 
 they rest from their work of bloodshed, 
 "some day there will be born out of our very 
 
i 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 45 
 
 fury of this hour a splendid tiling which men 
 will contemplate with awe and admiration." 
 The dread law that rules the universe de- 
 crees that everything of heauty must receive 
 at its birth the mark of violence and hor- 
 ror I 
 
 Motionless, behind a heap of stones, 
 Bourru has been standing guard for three 
 hours against a possible return of the enemy. 
 Not one of his fellows has come to his re- 
 ', though three or four are sleeping not 
 her than ten paces from him. In spite 
 
 the dark night he can easily distinguish 
 their bodies lying sheltered in the shell- 
 holes. 
 
 "This is pretty tough," he grumbles. 
 Bt's about time some of those fellows took 
 aturn. . . . I'll tell 'em so. . . ." 
 —And he goes over to shake one of the sleep- 
 
 "Hey there! Come and take my place a 
 while. . . ." 
 
46 BOURRU 
 
 But the man lies stiff and cold. He is a 
 corpse ! 
 
 "Ah! Forgive me, old chap," murmurs 
 Bourru, with a quick salute. 
 
 And the other human forms which the 
 snow is burying are also corpses. 
 
 "It's all right, boys," thinks Bourru. 
 "Rest easy. I'll watch over you and keep 
 you from harm. The Boches shall not have 
 you " 
 
 And he retires behind his heap of stones. 
 He feels his powers being multiplied, as they 
 were years ago, on the day when his dy- 
 ing father bequeathed to him the duty of 
 taking care of the fields and vineyards of 
 the family. It is the instinctive habit of 
 every Bourru to take the work that must be 
 done as a sacred obligation to which individ- 
 uals, families, races must submit their wills. 
 This is their substitute for the soulful ecsta- 
 sies in which some other men take such happy 
 pride. That is why our Bourru, serene in 
 soul, clings to the top of that hill of France. 
 
p 
 
 THE STORMING OF VAUQUOIS 47 
 
 "If I am hit," he thinks, "there will al- 
 ways be some good chap to take my place 
 and finish the job." 
 
IV 
 
 AFTER THE ATTACK 
 
 WE have taken Vauquois — and now 
 we must hold it! This afternoon, 
 on reaching the heights, our sol- 
 diers danced with joy on the hill-top, dis- 
 regarding shells and bullets ; by the way they 
 raised their arms and brandished their rifles 
 you would have thought the hill too low a 
 pedestal for their glory. Higher! still 
 higher! Up! the top of the ruins! There 
 let us leap and dance. Ah ! if one could only 
 soar into the heavens, above the peaks of the 
 Argonne, like angels on golden wings I 
 What joy! 
 
 But it is no such flight of glory that awaits 
 them. Stern necessity is going to impose its 
 
 48 
 
AFTER THE A' 
 
 [aw upon them. They must burrow down 
 into the conquered soil, bury themselves in 
 it in order to cling to it. 
 
 Little by little Bourru grows conscious of 
 the rude task. Around two o'clock in the 
 morning he says to himself: *'If I don't 
 want to stop a bullet like a fool as soon as 
 the day comes, I'd better dig a trench." 
 
 And, indeed, it is the moment for this. 
 The counter-attack against the church is 
 over, and all is quiet. The night is not too 
 dark. Bourru ought to make a burrow for 
 himself in the spot to which chance has 
 brought him. 
 
 But he is so tired! An overpowering 
 numbness pins him to the ground; the fall- 
 ing snow envelops him little by little in a 
 white coverlet which he has not even the 
 heart to shake off. Some hours ago, the ex- 
 citement of feeling that he was the guardian 
 l^fethese ruins and of his dead comrades sus- 
 tained him, but now he can do no more than 
 cast a glance from time to time in the direc- 
 
50 BOURRU 
 
 tion of the enemy, over the stones that are 
 protecting him. His mind is drifting in- 
 ertly. The scenes of the day just past flit 
 before it, as at the cinema, though he is not 
 directing the succession of them. The same 
 pictures pass and repass inexorably — crum- 
 bling walls, stiff corpses, smoke-clouds from 
 bursting shells. He hears the shells explod- 
 ing, the balls whistling, the men yelling. 
 Stupefied and sick at heart, Bourru looks 
 on and listens. . . . He is so weak . . . for 
 some fourteen hours he has eaten nothing, 
 and his last sleep was so long ago ! 
 
 From time to time, nevertheless, he makes 
 an exertion. "I'm here to stay, all the same, 
 and the Boches shall not pass I" 
 
 They have no wish to try it, moreover. 
 Twenty yards away, on the descending 
 slope, they can be heard stirring about. 
 Bourru has a good command of their posi- 
 tion and every so often he fires a shot 
 through the dark to let them know that 
 "there is company present." 
 
AFTER THE ATTACK .^l 
 
 But these fits of energ>' do not last long. 
 It is very cold, and Bourru has no feeling 
 left in his legs. That is rather pleasanter, if 
 anything; the numhness lays hold on his 
 spirits. And his thoughts run: "Suppose I 
 took one little nap? . . . Xo, no, I'd het- 
 ter scoop out a hole for myself. . . . But 
 pshaw! the Boches won't start anything 
 now. . . . Yes, but . . . Oh, well, I'll turn 
 in for just one minute. . . ." Hello, there's 
 a fog coming on. It invades the very soul of 
 the man; it envelops all things and holds 
 them motionless and soundless in its blan- 
 ket. Bourru dreams of the delights of warm 
 comfort and savory food . . . but in its turn 
 there comes gliding into his weary brain a 
 frightful nightmare. Suddenly he awakes, 
 and finds himself stammering: "Hold on 
 there! I'm choking! Help! I'm com- 
 ing " 
 
 "By Jove, I went to sleep!" says Bourru, 
 as he looks round. The snow makes the 
 night livid, and a bitter taste persists in 
 
52 BOURRU 
 
 our soldier's mouth. His tongue feels 
 heavy. 
 
 "I've got to begin digging a trench," he 
 thinks. 
 
 But where are the fellows to help him? 
 In vain he tries to remember when he lost 
 sight of them. Perhaps they are dead, like 
 those lying nearby, who look as if they are 
 sleeping but will never wake again. 
 
 Bourru feels terribly alone. "And the 
 Boches are going to counter-attack to-mor- 
 row, that's certain. . . . Well, I must get to 
 work, then, and dig a hole for myself! . . . 
 No, I'll rest just one little minute more. 
 Maybe some one will come to order me down 
 from here. And, anyway, what's the use of 
 fighting any more? I'm never again going 
 to see my little house sleeping by the side of 
 the vineyard, under the shade of the big 
 walnuts, where mother is waiting for me! 
 Oh, misery!" Bourru wants to cry like a 
 baby. 
 
 Heap no scorn on him. Possibly you are 
 
AFTER THE ATTACK 53 
 
 one of those that admire only the "super- 
 men" whose determination never flinches. 
 That is your privilege, only — well, go a little 
 easy, and don*t force my Bourru to feel too 
 keenly that he is nothing but an ordinary 
 mortal, because, you know, it is just ordinary 
 mortals like him that take Vauquois ! 
 
 But I know you understand him, this 
 plain soldier and brother of us all, and it may 
 even be that you sympathize with his fear — 
 for it is an honest, terrible fear that suddenly 
 seizes him as a volley of bullets goes whist- 
 ling over his head. You can hear them, eh ? 
 those ill-mannered bullets that as they pass 
 seem to spit out a message of hate at you — 
 "Ah, how I should like to pink you in a soft 
 place 1" But our man is flat on the ground. 
 In their spite the bullets spatter against the 
 rocks with a sound of a furiously cracked 
 whip. Under such displays of ill-will bent 
 on your destruction you first throw your- 
 self down and make yourself as small as you 
 can; but by and by exasperation gets the 
 
54 BOURRU 
 
 better of you. "No, you don't catch mel" 
 you say. 
 
 And that is why Bourru finally comes out 
 of his torpor. Seizing the pick and shovel 
 attached to his belt, though still keeping his 
 prone position, he begins to scrape the 
 soil. ... A stone turns up — good! that will 
 serve to reinforce the little pile now shelter- 
 ing him. 
 
 But the Boches in front have already 
 heard him working; at each noise he makes 
 the bullets redouble their rage. 
 
 Suddenly Bourru hears somebody crawl- 
 ing near him. . . . By Jove, it's Lach- 
 ardl . . . The two waste no time deciding 
 on a method of collaboration. One of them 
 keeps his gun to his shoulder, pointed at the 
 enemy; the moment he sees a shadow move 
 he fires — often, indeed, he lets fly a bullet 
 without seeing anything. Meanwhile the 
 other digs furiously. But what hard 
 ground! If on the surface there is mud 
 mixed with snow, just beneath is nothing but 
 
AFTER THE ATTACK 55 
 
 stones firmly ensconced. One tears them 
 out, somehow, and piles them up before him. 
 But it is too dark to balance them, and once 
 in a while they fall back again. 
 
 To do this work lying down is not easy. 
 You cannot raise your arm in the air to give 
 force to your pick; so you must bear down 
 liard on it from your prone position; still it 
 won't penetrate. The spade is no better — 
 you shove it under a little heap of mud you 
 want to throw out ; and the mud is so liquid 
 that it spreads about and runs off; you have 
 only a few ounces left to throw. In your rage 
 you take to scooping it up with your hands. 
 That is better, — but you must hurry up! 
 
 Every fifteen minutes the men relieve 
 each other, one watching, the other working. 
 It is queer, but for all that he is a Parisian 
 with soft, white hands, I^rachard can scoop up 
 stones and mud as if he had done nothing 
 else all his life. 
 
 The main thing is to hurry up and get a 
 hole dug, here and not elsewhere; for it is 
 
56 BOURRU 
 
 easy, now that the dawn is beginning to 
 break, to see that a little later on the spot 
 where the two men are working will be a 
 magnificent trench-site, from which they will 
 be able to survey the whole northeastern 
 slope of the hill. So one must hurry. 
 
 "But the other fellows, where are they?" 
 asks Bourru. 
 
 "They're coming," answers Lachard. 
 
 And, in fact, other shadowy forms crawl 
 into line with our two soldiers and begin in 
 their turn to scratch the surface of the 
 ground. 
 
 When the full light of day bathed the 
 peaks of the Argonne, there were no soldiers 
 to be seen above ground. Like so many in- 
 visible creatures of the soil, the men had sunk 
 into the surface of the hill. From now on 
 their silhouettes would never stand out to 
 view from the country round. . . . Death, 
 suddenly overcome with shame, had taken to 
 concealment underground in order to con- 
 tinue his work. 
 
A NIGHT ATTACK 
 
 ON the whole, that was easy enough, 
 the taking of Vauquois — so, I fancy, 
 you are thinking after what you 
 have read, and I readily admit that Bourru 
 did get to the top of the hill without great 
 damage. But I must tell you that I feel 
 some remorse, and that I have a sad sense of 
 the artificial character of my poor story. 
 How many emotions nmst remain untold — 
 emotions which, nevertheless, run the gamut 
 from suhlime ecstasy to mad terror. You 
 know well enough, of course, that tlie whole 
 soul of man, in all its glory and all its hase- 
 ness, exhibits itself in a bloody night-attack. 
 But will any one ever dare show you the en- 
 
 57 
 
68 BOURBU 
 
 tire picture? Your worship of our heroes is 
 so tender that from time to time the writer 
 feels a veil of idealism irresistibly thrown 
 over the visions that crowd each other in his 
 mind. 
 
 Still, you must not suppose that the Ger- 
 mans let us take Vauquois at our ease. 
 There was one corner of the village where a 
 troop of them, more spirited than the oth- 
 ers, held their position. The French ranks 
 had swarmed over the hill, seemingly with- 
 out regular order, though, of course, the 
 watchful eyes of their officers directed them, 
 and throughout the night the staff knew that 
 the site of the half-demolished village church 
 was an important center of resistance which 
 attacks from mere detachments could not re- 
 duce. A well-planned and determined ac- 
 tion would be necessary at that point. 
 
 Toward evening, therefore, two companies 
 receive an order to go up and shatter this 
 little isle of resistance. 
 
 It is already night when the men push into 
 
A NIGHT ATTACK 69 
 
 the wrecked connecting trenches. They 
 
 have to step over innumerable obstacles, 
 
 luckily covered by the snow. It is the first 
 
 time these soldiers have crossed this ground. 
 
 *' Which way is the enemy?" asks one. 
 
 *'What are we going to do?" others in- 
 
 uire anxiously. 
 
 hen they arrive at a certain point, or- 
 ers go round in mufiled tones. They are 
 going to storm the church site at the point 
 the bayonet, 
 ut where is it, this church? Staring all 
 about them in the dark, they can see nothing 
 but remnants of shattered walls full of holes. 
 A sergeant has his troop face precisely the 
 
 Pong direction. 
 PLook out, you're turning your back to 
 I objective," comes an officer's reprimand. 
 pYou think so, lieutenant?" 
 "Xo doubt about it." 
 The captain comes up. "Xo, no, not that 
 way! You are not to attack on the right, 
 but on the left, along by the wall." 
 
 qu ire 
 
 ders 
 goin 
 
60 BOURRU 
 
 All eyes are wide open, and everybody is 
 bracing himself on the stony ground. There 
 is muttered conversation. 
 
 "Keep quiet!" 
 
 "Now, you start from here . . . come on, 
 first platoon, take position in one line." 
 
 "No, no, — the major told me to place my 
 men in groups of four here." 
 
 Luckily the Boches have not been roused ; 
 there is only the crack of a rifle here and 
 there. 
 
 "Are you ready, sergeant? We'll attack 
 in half an hour when everybody is in posi- 
 tion." 
 
 "Yes, but my watch has stopped." 
 
 "Well, whatever you do, don't go striking 
 a match to see what time it is — ^we must sur- 
 prise those fellows. The other company will 
 attack over there on the right; we'll go for 
 them on the left." 
 
 For two hours the men have been champ- 
 ing the bit in this confusion. You can pic- 
 ture the scene, I suppose? You can see the 
 
A NIGHT ATTACK 61 
 
 dark forms in the shadows, hiding hehind 
 fragments of wall. This is no game of mov- 
 ing men about on paper or planting flags on 
 a map; this is a game where you may find 
 yourself grabbing the arm of some tired, ex- 
 cited, half-crazed man and telling him, "Xo, 
 no, old fellow, that's not the place to aim! 
 You were firing on our own men ; aim over 
 here!" The officers have to be everywhere 
 at once; the captains run from one platoon 
 to another, and platoon-leaders and squad- 
 leaders multiply warnings and commands. 
 They go from man to man, speaking in whis- 
 pers, giving to Paul, whom they do not 
 recognize in the dark, an order that was 
 meant for Pierre, straightening out the lines 
 of the troops, looking out for a possible cow- 
 ard who may perhaps try to evade the at- 
 tack by playing dead in a hole somewhere, 
 and holding back the impatient ones who 
 would start at once — to get it over more 
 quickly. 
 
 Ah! It was pleasanter in the old days 
 
62 BOURRU 
 
 when the officer, perched proudly on his 
 horse, turned to his troops in line of battle, 
 facing the sun, and cried: "Gentlemen, se- 
 cure your hats, for we are going to have the 
 honor of charging!" Here there is nothing 
 but darkness, mud, and ruins of houses, out 
 of which men must be brought to plunge for- 
 ward, all together, at one given moment — 
 men who will rush straight ahead without 
 seeing anything in front of them, and who 
 will not succeed in their enterprise unless 
 there is perfect coordination in their ef- 
 forts. 
 
 At last the sections of troops seem placed 
 correctly, the men all in straight lines — near 
 to their yet uncollected wounded comrades 
 of the afternoon, who are still groaning. 
 Some one is saying to them: 
 
 "Keep quiet, will you? You'll have them 
 spotting us — and it does no good to com- 
 plain." 
 
 Eleven o'clock ! In fifteen minutes we are 
 off. But a new order is going the rounds — 
 
A NIGHT ATTACK 63 
 
 the attack is put off till midnight. The men 
 lie down in their tracks. 
 
 "Anyway, I'm going to swallow every- 
 thing in my sack," declares one man; "then 
 if I'm killed, the Boches will get no grub 
 off me r 
 
 For the moment all is quiet on the top of 
 the hill. The night seems preparing for the 
 spectacle that is about to be presented. 
 
 Five minutes to twelve. . . . 
 
 "Fix bayonets," command the sergeants. 
 
 A man who has lain wounded since yes- 
 terday afternoon, and who has been com- 
 plaining, stops his groans to draw his bayo- 
 net and pushes it toward a comrade ready to 
 start : 
 
 "Here, old chap, take my bayonet; I had 
 sworn to plant it in a Boche — put it on the 
 end of your gun and square my account." 
 
 The start must be made in complete si- 
 lence. But suddenly, at the moment when 
 the men are getting to their feet, a bugle 
 rings out, sounding the charge — What a 
 
64 BOURRU 
 
 break ! Imagine a bugler in his bugling zeal 
 giving the alarm to the Boches! Go and 
 talk about it with the men who have lived 
 through that night on the hill; when they 
 think of that untimely bugler their faces still 
 screw up with scorn. For you may be as- 
 sured the Boches immediately knew what 
 threatened them and set their machine guns 
 spitting. 
 
 No one ever learned the name of that 
 bugler. I suppose it was some simpleton 
 full of legends of the brave days of old, of 
 pictures of Epinal and popular songs, who 
 thought to achieve glory at one bound by 
 giving voice to his trumpet at this historic 
 moment. I imagine, too, that in the sequel 
 he must have learned his mistake, and that, 
 since no one knows him, he must have writ- 
 ten his name among the "missing" whom the 
 upheaved sides of that hill still enclose* 
 
 The attack was launched, nevertheless, for 
 it was too late to stop it. It was brief. 
 From every side bullets sped in showers. 
 
A NIGHT ATTACK 65 
 
 Nothing could be seen but shadows that 
 moved for an instant against the sky and 
 then sank to earth. The two companies 
 eddied hke leaves caught in a tornado. Pla- 
 toons hurled themselves on each otlier in 
 their confusion ; men fled straight toward the 
 enemy, thinking they were retreating; ofli- 
 cers yelled orders that could not be lieard; 
 and soldiers vainly died whom wives and 
 mothers were to weep for. 
 
 Plalf an hour later it was all over; on each 
 side the combatants were regaining their 
 positions. It was probably deemed unneces- 
 sary to attaok again, for everywhere else on 
 the hill-top we held the important points. 
 
 And on the pages of the history of the 
 great war this infinitesimal incident will re- 
 ceive not even the tribute of a line. . . . An 
 insignificant episode, the historian of the fu- 
 ture will say, as he passes to another docu- 
 ment. 
 
VI 
 THE GLORY GROWS 
 
 COMING down from Vauquois 
 Bourru had no notion that he was a 
 hero — not in the least. Weariness 
 makes for a good deal of confusion in our 
 ideas of glory, cramping them and forbid- 
 ding their natural expansion. If some little 
 trace of pride comes into consciousness, a 
 wave of darkness immediately appears to 
 submerge it. However, after you say, 
 "Well, after all, we seem to have brought 
 off a victory," the idea will not radiate 
 through your mind and expand like the 
 splendid enthusiasms that filled you with 
 their warmth and light when you were rest- 
 ing comfortably after a good dinner. 
 
 66 
 
GROWS 67 
 
 for Bourru, to-night he just lets the 
 ranks of soldiers carry him along back to 
 A ; his head is hanging and he is stum- 
 bling over the shell-holes. He has already 
 tumbled down several times and has had 
 hard work regaining his feet. You must re- 
 member that he has had three days and 
 nights of working and fighting, and that is 
 enough to weaken any man's legs. They 
 are, indeed, so feeble that Bourru scarcely 
 has enough strength to pull tliem out of the 
 mud when tliey sink in to the knee. Ah I 
 that sticky clay, how it chngs! At the cast 
 of a shoe Bourru gets free from one place, 
 to find another hole a hundred yards 
 farther on and stick fast in that. This time, 
 strangely enough, it seems rather nice to be 
 caught in the mud. He would never liave 
 thought that it was so comfortable to lie 
 quiet in a mud-hole. No need to move ; it's 
 delightful just like this. So Bourru is 
 nearly off to sleep, stuck fast in the mud. 
 IHey, old chap, shake a leg! You don't 
 
68 BOURRU 
 
 want to stop here, do you?" It is Francois 
 scolding, while he seizes Bourru by the arm 
 and pulls him up. 
 
 And then they plod along, arm in arm. 
 
 * ^ * * 
 
 It is twenty-four hours later when 
 Bourru remembers that he was one of those 
 who "stormed Vauquois." Up to this mo- 
 ment he has been sleeping in the corner of 
 a barn. 
 
 Already the soldiers are writing history 
 — as you can see from the long letters they 
 are scrawling, their knees doing service for 
 desks. They fill pages upon pages. Ah! 
 The "old folks" and the wives and the chil- 
 dren will have something to read back home ! 
 
 Bourru does as the rest. He pretends that 
 he has his aged mother there before him, 
 and he starts in to "tell her about it." This 
 is one of the advantages of war in the 
 trenches — after a hard go at it, a man has 
 some leisure to collect his thoughts. It is no 
 longer what it was in the days of the Marne, 
 
THE GLORY GROWS 69 
 
 when one marched ahead without ever a 
 pause. 
 
 And certainly Bourru's mother, back in 
 BHgny, will have to be proud of her son 
 whenever some one asks her, "And have you 
 had any news from Louis?" 
 
 She has only to show the letter and let 
 them see for themselves — Father Chassagne, 
 with his florid Burgundy face, and Gaffer 
 Causeret, always so solemn with his ear- 
 rings, and old "Pope," so called because he 
 was once a soldier of the Pope, — all the old 
 fellows will see what the young man can do 
 — and the girls will know, too. 
 
 "Dear me!" the girls will say; "did you 
 hear that Louis Bourru was in the troop that 
 took Vauquois? Oh, he's a wonder, 
 Louis . . ." 
 
 Even M. Cyrot, the rich merchant of the 
 district, will ask in his reserved way, "Won't 
 you please let me see your boy's letter, 
 Madame Bourru ? And tell him we think he is 
 a brave boy and the village is proud of him.'* 
 
70 BOURRU 
 
 This is how the pride of heroism finds its 
 way into the soul of a brave man. It is in 
 meditating on what others think about us 
 that our personahty builds itself up. Ac- 
 cordingly as we fancy that others are prais- 
 ing or censoring us we become inflated 
 heroes or pitiful wretches. 
 
 T^ T^ V ^ ^^ 
 
 You cannot imagine how wonderful it is 
 to take your ease in a village on the Meuse 
 after leading a dog's life for a while. You 
 look on at the life of civilization with new- 
 born eyes — that is, at houses of mud-plaster, 
 at agricultural implements, and at narrow- 
 gauge railway ties. At Auzeville there are 
 even some civilians left, and you say to your- 
 self, "Heigh-ho! I came pretty near never 
 seeing all this any more !" 
 
 The streets are full of soldiers. But you 
 are not to imagine that any foolish gaiety 
 reigns here, reaction from the hours of 
 danger just past. No, it is still too early 
 for that. The soldiers are like people who 
 
THE GLORY GROWS 71 
 
 have got wet in the rain, and who have 
 reaehed a shelter but are not yet dry. 
 Moreover, they are still thinking only of 
 themselves. 
 
 "What became of Terrier?" one man is 
 asking of a comrade from the company next 
 his own. 
 
 "Missing." 
 
 "AndFanchois?" 
 
 "Killed — right next to the church." 
 
 "Oh! Poor fellow!" 
 
 The phrases pretend to no funeral elo- 
 quence, and yet when they report the death 
 of a dear friend they still bring a shock to 
 the nerves, and the best a man can do is 
 stammer out, "Is it possible? Is it pos- 
 sible? . . . What \vi\\ his poor wife do?" 
 
 Then the men talk of the vicissitudes of 
 the great battle they have just lived through. 
 Violent contradictions have already devel- 
 oped between their accounts of it. 
 
 "And what do you think Faraud did? 
 Absolutely nothing, I tell you — he was in 
 
72 BOURRU 
 
 soft! As for me, I kept running right up 
 to the top.'* 
 
 "Bah, what are you talking about? The 
 first platoon wasn't in it at all — it was my 
 platoon that went over the top before the 
 whistle blew, and the proof of that is that the 
 270's were still falling, and I stopped a splin- 
 ter from one." 
 
 "Oh, thunder!" protests another. "Cut 
 out the fairy-tales. It wasn't the — th com- 
 pany that got there first from the east, it 
 was our own. . . ." 
 
 Thus praise and blame keep increasing; 
 and the men go on disputing about the parts 
 played by the various battalions and regi- 
 ments during the course of the battle. Each 
 one defends the honor of the unit to which 
 he belongs. The "esprit" of each platoon, 
 each company, each battalion, each regiment, 
 grows inflamed ; and to the end of time there 
 will be some one to tell you that such and 
 such a regiment captured Vauquois all alone. 
 When the survivors of the battle are dead 
 
THE GLORY GROWS 78 
 
 the "esprit" of the troop will continue to in- 
 spire their sons and grandsons and great- 
 grandsons — "It is a worthy pride to keep 
 honor ever bright," as said an author of the 
 olden time. 
 
 In the afternoon of this day of rest a 
 great event takes place. By opening a news- 
 paper every soldier can read the official ac- 
 count of the taking of Vauquois, together 
 with the moving comments of eloquent jour- 
 nalists. It is his first document of the kind. 
 
 And suddenly Bourru says to himself, 
 "Say, it's really true — we*ve done something 
 stunning 1" 
 
 The account is read and reread, with re- 
 ligious attention to each word. It produces 
 a strange state of mind — not a line of it is 
 doubted for a moment ; the thing is in print. 
 It is as if the events of the day just past had 
 been modelled in bronze; they stand out in 
 clear view and pass into history as incontest- 
 able facts. It is, indeed, a relief to read the 
 account, for now one can know how to tell 
 
74 BOURRU 
 
 about what one has just been doing. No one 
 of these soldiers, in the absorption of his own 
 particular piece of work, has seen the battle 
 as it is described in the paper ; but no matter, 
 the words of the account are so harmonious 
 that they gain immediate adoption. They 
 will furnish the proper and impressive set 
 phrases that one will need, later on, for de- 
 scribing his own impressions, and they will 
 save one the work of thinking up words to 
 express vividly what one has seen and felt. 
 A little later and the real impressions, for 
 lack of use, will fade bit by bit from memory, 
 and pass into oblivion — and in their places 
 the stereotyped phrases will grow more and 
 more real from frequent repetition, and a 
 fictitious picture will be substituted for the 
 true one; and that is why you will be as- 
 tonished to hear my Bourrus tell about the 
 storming of Vauquois in great, ponipous, 
 and impressive words. 
 
 Still, if the newspaper destroys the fresh- 
 ness of war-stories on the one hand, it does 
 
THE GLORY GROWS 75 
 
 one fine piece of work on the other. Thanks 
 to it, our soldiers begin to know what glory 
 is. The paper with its flaming letters passes 
 from hand to hand, and the men have a feel- 
 ing that they are in the center of an aureole 
 on which all the eyes of France are fixed. 
 Wherever they may go from now on, they 
 can say proudly, **I have just come from 
 Vauquois." 
 
 And everybody will do them honor. 
 
 L « * ♦ Mtt ♦ 
 
 A month after the attack an officer of one 
 of the regiments engaged in it happened into 
 the buffet of a little railway station in a dis- 
 tant province and heard a rather tipsy sol- 
 dier cry out to a group of his fellows: 
 
 "I tell you one thing, boys, if you didn't 
 see Vauquois you don't know what war is!'* 
 
 And with eyes afire and his cap perched 
 saucily on one side he was lording it over the 
 whole assemblage. Without noticing the 
 uniform he even jostled the officer a little 
 upon the latter's entrance. But of a sud- 
 
76 BOURRU 
 
 den he caught, inscribed on the collar of the 
 new arrival, the number of a regiment that 
 had shared the glory of his own; his eyes 
 opened wide and a great hoarse cry escaped 
 him. 
 
 "Hey, you blokes, there's a man from 
 Vauquois, like me! ... A brother in 
 arms. . . . You can ask him about it, if you 
 want to. Gee, what luck! . . . Come on 
 and have one on me, captain, you can't re- 
 fuse a fellow that. . . . You've got to tell 
 'em what we did on that hill. . . ." 
 
 The officer simply had to toe the rail and 
 
 take his tipple. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 But it was at the review under full arms 
 for the award of decorations that Bourru 
 really felt himself becoming "somebody." 
 
 You know what a review is. 1 shall not 
 waste time describing it to you, for it takes 
 place at the front with the same ceremonies 
 that are observed on the fourteenth of July 
 at any county-seat ; only there is still a little 
 
THE GLORY GROWS 77 
 
 Vauquois mud on the men's coats, and here 
 and there some blood-stains. These things 
 are more moving than burnished buttons, I 
 assure you. Moreover, something indefin- 
 ably impressive hovers about these troops. 
 Bourru and Iluguenin, who had got used to 
 having Monier between them in the line, are 
 side by side now. Their missing comrade 
 remained behind on the hill. ... It leaves 
 a queer impression not to feel his elbow in 
 dressing the line. 
 It is with their faces toward the tragic hill, 
 IHjbg on the horizon, that the troops take 
 position. The colonels and generals seem to 
 speak with the voice of eternal France when, 
 between two blasts from the bugle, they an- 
 nounce in resounding words the merits of 
 those whom they are decorating. All the 
 regiments feel as one in this day of glory. 
 
 On the left the Argonne unfolds to view 
 its sombre hills, over which hovers a light 
 mist, such as one sees rising over the Alps 
 in the panoramas of the Italian battles at the 
 
78 BOURRU 
 
 palace of Versailles. The trees on the hill 
 of Clermont, forming a clear line against the 
 sky, compose a hedge of horror. On the 
 right spreads the wide expanse of the Meuse 
 country — valleys, villages hidden among 
 trees, fields, woods, all typifying the soil of 
 France for which the men have just been 
 fighting. 
 
VII 
 
 HOLDING THE POSITION 
 
 WHEN Bourru went back to the hill- 
 top, after fifteen days of rest, he 
 found certain changes in the posi- 
 )ns. In the midst of the ruins trenches 
 >w wound their way through the hattle- 
 Tcarred ground — two of tlieni, one some ten 
 fifteen yards from the Bodies and the 
 ler some fifty yards fartlier back. The 
 jtical problem imposed on the occupants 
 simple enough — ^to stay here fifteen days 
 witliout getting hit. They apply themselves 
 it with all their skill. I do not remember 
 lat philosopher it was who said that man 
 lessentially a constructive animal. If the 
 ilosopher came to Vauquois he could see 
 
 79 
 
80 BOURRU 
 
 his theory at work. The trenches are a veri- 
 table museum for every species of protec- 
 tive device that man can invent. Just re- 
 member that the, job is to occupy the place 
 in the pleasantest way compatible with 
 safety from trench-mortars. Various meth- 
 ods of procedure are in vogue. The sim- 
 plest consists in lying flat in a snug wrapper 
 of tent-cover, lolling in the bottom of the 
 trench. This is the method of the more lim- 
 ited intelligences, and it offers a thousand 
 difficulties — everybody jostles you and 
 walks over you, and really it is only the lazy 
 beasts that follow this course; and it is no 
 more than their due if the cooks, stumbling 
 over them, spill the contents of a pail on 
 them. 
 
 Why don't they act like Bourru, who, with 
 his peasant's wits, at once examines the bit 
 of trench that has fallen to his lot with an 
 eye to taking full advantage of its features? 
 He soon finds a plan. For here in the 
 trench-wall is an excavation already begun; 
 
■£ 
 
 ^v^ 
 
 HOLDING THE POSITION 81 
 
 you need only dig it a bit wider and deeper, 
 and you have a nice little niche in which you 
 can stay bundled up like a chrysalis in its 
 cocoon. It is not at all bad in here, with 
 twenty inches of earth above your head to 
 protect you from the rain, and partially — oh, 
 very partially — from the trench-mortars. 
 And then, above all, it's a "home." 
 
 But if the desire for luxury possesses you, 
 d it seems that all of us have it at the bot- 
 of our hearts, you do not stop witli this, 
 but go on to perfect your shelter. First you 
 place a piece of tent-canvas in front of it — 
 that does duty for a door; then you dig your 
 hole larger, for in the long run nothing is 
 more fatiguing than to sit forever with your 
 in on your knees. A few hours of work 
 and — what luxury! — you can stretch out 
 your legs. But this love of comfort, as was 
 long ago noted, is insatiable. Before you 
 know it Bourru is off through the connect- 
 ing trench to look for planks and joists in 
 the rubbish. The night is just coming down, 
 
82 BOURRU 
 
 and he can glide in and out among the ruins 
 and get a hundred things to furnish his niche. 
 He makes a shelf for his pipe, and the artis- 
 tic passion awakening in its turn, he is al- 
 ready sketching ornamental figures on his 
 planks. 
 
 But wait a moment! Already you are 
 fancying that the occupation of my poilus is 
 limited to living quietly in this second-line 
 trench. Of course, this is where they eat and 
 sleep; but just follow me along this connect- 
 ing trench, it will take us by a tortuous 
 course to the first-line trench. . . . S-sh! 
 Please speak very low ! The Boches are only 
 fifteen yards or so distant, you'll give your- 
 self away. This is where the men stand 
 guard, guns always within reach. 
 
 At the time of which we speak, the adver- 
 saries have not yet got accustomed to living 
 within a few yards of each other. Each one 
 keeps imagining that the other is going to 
 plunge suddenly upon him. Everybody is 
 suspicious, so much so that half the troops 
 
HOLDING THE POSITION 83 
 
 are kept constantly in the first line, listening 
 for the slightest noise. In the whole assem- 
 blage only the sentinels are standing, behind 
 a wall of sand-bags against which, from 
 time to time, bullets are slapping. Through 
 a little space between the bags, one can 
 watch and fire. Those who are not on the 
 look-out are taking shelter, more or less, 
 under the protection of boards. 
 
 So they are awaiting — what? The fire of 
 the trench-mortars. They await it as they 
 might a phenomenon of nature; the bom- 
 bardment is coming as surely as rain after 
 fine weather or winter after autumn. What 
 can you expect? Men who hate each other 
 with a deadly hate are standing here, a few 
 yards from each other. They have at their 
 disposal little trench cannon that slioot a 
 pound or so of melinite for a few hundred 
 yards; if they could, they would be flinging 
 IHbibs and grenades all day long. But there 
 are still some limits, even to the forces of 
 hate. Unable to throw their projectiles in- 
 
84. BOURRU 
 
 cessantly, each of the adversaries watches 
 for the favorable moment to fling them for 
 a half -hour, or an hour, or two. The mo- 
 ment always comes. If a noise reveals the 
 fact that the soup is being distributed, the 
 bombardment begins; if a sentinel sneezes, 
 the grenades begin again; and if there is no 
 sign to give information — well, the bom- 
 bardment is turned loose anyhow, on a 
 chance, on the second line as well as the first. 
 You live in anxious expectation of this 
 tragic moment. And it is important not to 
 lose your head, as you are going to see. 
 Boom! There goes a shot. Bourru sees a 
 thing like a great sausage rising in the air, 
 up, up. ... It is a shell. Where is it go- 
 ing to? Every eye is fastened on it. When 
 it reaches the top of its flight the thing seems 
 to hesitate as if undecided as to the point on 
 which it will be pleased to fall. Look out I 
 It's coming at us! A few seconds of 
 alarm. . . . You cannot imagine how easy 
 it is to make a mistake in your estimate of its 
 
HOLDING THE POSITION 85 
 
 destination. You can tell at once whether it 
 is coming in your direction, but it is the dis- 
 tance that is hard to gauge. 
 
 This time, for instance, all the poilus of the 
 first line, in trench 17, thought it was mak- 
 ing for them; not at all, it was the second 
 line that caught it. . . . But look out, here's 
 another one! Give way to the right 
 — quick I . . . And all the men rush to the 
 right. 
 
 It was time. . . . Vrroom! The shell 
 falls at the point they have just de- 
 serted. . . . And here's another! Run to 
 the left! Vrroom! Another close shave. . . . 
 
 Look out there, get back — into the con- 
 necting trench ! Holy Moses, some fool has 
 got himself stuck in it, and stops the whole 
 crowd! The men cannot get by, but they 
 have time to throw themselves flat, and the 
 splinters fly over them, hitting nobody. 
 
 So it goes for two hours. 
 
 What a session to-day ! There are always 
 three or four shells in the air at once, and 
 
86 BOURRU 
 
 you never know which one to keep your eyes 
 on. 
 
 Luckily Bourru has not lost his head. He 
 has rallied five or six frantic comrades round 
 him and is on the look-out for them. It is 
 he who orders them to rush, now to the right 
 and now to the left ; but the thing is too much 
 for them, and some of those who are un- 
 strung, instead of letting a cool-headed man 
 guide them, lift their heads into the air, hyp- 
 notized by the shells. They stand still, with 
 bulging eyes, and watch death coming. The 
 sweat runs down their foreheads, their 
 mouths hang open, and their motions seem 
 no longer to obey any intelligence. Judge 
 for yourself: 
 
 "To the right!" shouts Bourru. 
 
 Dufaut, in complete frenzy, starts to the 
 right, comes back to the left, and then finally 
 plunges into the connecting trench in the 
 rear. He reaches the exact point where the 
 shell falls, and it explodes, flinging him three 
 yards into the air. 
 
HOLDING THE POSITION 87 
 
 As for Candec, a little Breton with a mys- 
 tic countenance, he has adopted liis usual tac- 
 tics in case of hombardnient. lie has placed 
 himself in an angle of the connecting trench, 
 covered his head with tent-canvas, and thus, 
 assured he will see nothing, is waiting for 
 destiny to decide. You can hear him pray- 
 ing out loud: "Dear Jesus, do with me as 
 you will." His faith is effective, for he has 
 gone through five or six homhardnit'iits with- 
 out a scratch. 
 
 the second line there are two theories 
 available as to the best manner of meeting a 
 bombardment of this kind. The first is to 
 run hither and thither, as in the first line; 
 and the second is to sit tight in your shelter 
 and say over and over, in order that you may 
 believe it: "I've got half a yard of earth 
 above my head, and tliat's some protection." 
 
 Even those who have but a pitiful plank 
 to protect them try to reassure themselves: 
 "I've got a good stout plank, and it will take 
 a big piece of shell to go through it." 
 
88 BOURRU 
 
 But whatever certain philosophers may 
 say, an idea is not reality, and the conviction 
 that you are protected is no assurance of 
 protection. From time to time you hear 
 cries — from soldiers struggling in a cave-in. 
 
 No matter, the instinct to interpose some- 
 thing between oneself and death is stronger 
 than all the lessons of experience. In the 
 second line, as soon as one of these shells ap- 
 pears in the sky, nearly all the soldiers are 
 like mice looking for their hole — not any 
 hole whatever, but their own hole, the one 
 that they have prepared, in which they can 
 be much safer than in that of the man next 
 them. 
 
 That is why Brimbeuf will not pause be- 
 fore Bourru's shelter, although, at need, 
 two could squeeze into it. The shells are 
 flying. 
 
 "Come on, shove in here!" cries Bourru. 
 
 But Brimbeuf doesn't even listen; the vis- 
 ion of his own hole draws him irresistibly, 
 like a scared animal that always runs for its 
 
HOLDING THE POSITIOxN 89 
 
 lair. If only he can get to his own pack, his 
 own sack, among all his own familiar pos- 
 sessions, he will he saved. A bomb rolls up 
 behind him, chasing him as he flies down the 
 connecting trenches, and suddenly it ex- 
 plodes. . . . One man more will fail to an- 
 swer "present" to-morrow. 
 
 Where is the heroism in all this, you ask? 
 While death is raging over the hill-top, cast 
 your eye upon the country round. Three 
 hundred yards down the hillside all is quiet. 
 A two-minute dash would be enough to get 
 out of the fatal zone — and it would be so 
 easy running down hill. But not a man 
 dreams of trying it. The groups of frenzied 
 soldiers dash from right to left, and from 
 left to right, running from the first to the 
 second line and back, whirling round — but 
 they stay on top. That is their heroism. 
 
VIII 
 A SINISTER DUTY 
 
 YOU are shuddering already! Before 
 I have begun you have guessed my 
 subject. What a horror the idea of 
 a corpse rouses in our souls! The authors 
 of the old military regulations — all of two 
 years old — ^were not ignorant of it, and like 
 skilful psychologists they directed that the 
 work of "sanitation" on the battlefield 
 should be done by special troops. A wise 
 precaution! Thus the combatants need not 
 know the horror of interring their compan- 
 ions in danger. 
 
 Well, that horror is but one more of those 
 which our soldiers in the great war must 
 master, and since you still say that you want 
 
 90 
 
Jial 
 
 A SINISTER DUTY 91 
 
 to learn the lessons of the moral school of our 
 "admirable poilus," I am obliged to show 
 you what is in the soul of Bourru just after 
 he is detailed for "corpse duty" on the night 
 t is coming. 
 
 [Above all things, do not expect the cold 
 professional indifference of an attendant in 
 a surgical clinic. Of course, Bourru has seen 
 a great many corpses, but he has preserved 
 a tender and sympathetic soul in spite of 
 that. For instance, he has never passed the 
 
 |;rance of the eastern connecting-trench 
 iiout a shudder. . . . 
 STou must know that the uptorn soil has 
 ver been cleared round the position cap- 
 'ed by storm two weeks ago. There is no 
 y to carry off the soldiers whose course 
 was stopped by a bullet. Once the men had 
 pushed their attack to the utmost limit, they 
 had to dig trenches wherever they found 
 themselves, groping in the dark, witliout 
 ing a noise, stirring the least that was 
 sible in order noc to reveal their positions. 
 
92 BOURRU 
 
 for the Boches were only fifteen yards 
 away. . . . One morning it was discovered 
 that a human leg was sticking out of a para- 
 pet that had just been thrown up, all but 
 barring the way in the connecting-trench, 
 with the rest of the body firmly planted in 
 the earth. What was to be done? Take 
 away the entire body? That would have 
 meant tearing down two yards of parapet, 
 an operation that would be dangerous. Cut 
 off the leg? No — could you? So they 
 had to resign themselves to rubbing against 
 the thing hanging loose from the wall at 
 the entrance to the eastern connecting- 
 trench. . . . 
 
 Ghastly! Horrible! Sickening! You 
 say. . . . On the contrary, I should like to 
 lift you above that trite, effeminate horror of 
 a corpse. But it is exceedingly difficult for 
 me to explain to you the state of mind of the 
 soldier who jostles against corpses as famil- 
 iars and who, nevertheless, preserves a re- 
 ligious respect for them. It is really a new 
 
I 
 
 A SINISTER DUTY 93 
 
 feeling, born of the war ; and when the psy- 
 chologists come to write their subtle histories 
 of the soldiers* souls I hope they will not 
 forget to explain the feelings of the man 
 who, handling the body of a companion in 
 arms, says to himself: "To-morrow I may be 
 where he is ; I must bury him as I should like 
 to be buried." 
 
 It is such a feeling, dimly realized, that 
 animates "Rourru when, with Cormier, he is 
 preparing to leave the trench and explore the 
 ground between the first and second lines, on 
 which the combatants have fallen. It is not 
 possible to go and look for them during 
 the day, you must slip out, crawling, at 
 night; and above all, you must take care 
 not to stand up — your outline would be 
 l^kn against the sky and the bullets would 
 whistle. 
 
 The thing is to find the bodies. Bourru 
 and Cormier grope through the debris of 
 wood and stone. Their hands meet a thou- 
 sand strange objects . . . suddenly they 
 
94 BOURRU 
 
 touch something soft . . . this is "one." 
 The first movement is to draw back, instinc- 
 tively. After this moment, if you would ful- 
 fil your duty, your whole being must strug- 
 gle with all its moral strength against the 
 horror ; your mind must control your senses 
 fully enough for the touch of the viscous and 
 the smell of the nauseous to be transformed 
 into chastened sensations. What a miracle 
 these soldiers perform! Crushing down 
 their revolting sensations by the exertion of 
 a sublime resolution, these rude and simple 
 peasants attain that lofty state of mind 
 which animated the pious buriers of an older 
 day. The mind transfigures the repug- 
 nant reality. It is not flesh in putrefac- 
 tion that they are dragging over the stones, 
 it is a great human idea, — ^the same one 
 that makes us bow respectfully before a 
 coffin. 
 
 "It's all in the day's work,'* says Bourru. 
 "But a corpse is a heavy thing — and hard 
 to handle! How can we get it down below? 
 
A SINISTER DUTY 
 
 95 
 
 There's no way to carry it, the connecting 
 trench is too narrow. We'll have to keep on 
 dragging it, worse luck!" 
 
 They make their way down hill through 
 the twisting trenches whose hollowed walls 
 serve to protect the soldiers. In passing they 
 wake up some sleepers, who stretch out a 
 ind to learn what is ruhhing against them 
 -and draw it back quickly. 
 Then they nmst begin again. They re- 
 in i to the open ground and search anew. 
 !his time they find several bodies together, 
 ;aped in a hole. Sliall I describe the scene 
 you? Yes, I must, for it is not in ab- 
 -act terms that I can convey to you the sol- 
 r's actual state of mind, at once mystic 
 id brutal, which you wish to realize. The 
 •eat difficulty is to separate the corpses. I 
 lust whisper it in your ear, that something 
 profoundly mysterious takes place in the 
 ights on battlefields. All of us have wit- 
 jssed it, we who have slept and dreamed on 
 lose mortal fields, but we scarcely dare to 
 
96 BOURRU 
 
 say it, so strange does it seem. In death, the 
 bodies intertwine! When the shells have 
 rent the pitiful flesh, all those who lie in the 
 same hole seem to draw together, to cohere, 
 and to mingle ; and the weird embracements 
 take place, even if chance has placed side by 
 side the bodies of enemies. It is as if the 
 souls, before quitting the bodies, had ef- 
 fected a final reconciliation, a fusion for all 
 eternity. 
 
 So you understand why Bourru is forced 
 to pull very hard on the single arm that 
 emerges. The whole heap of bodies trembles 
 as he pulls. Imagine a man tugging with all 
 his physical force at an arm; think also of 
 the odor of coagulated blood — ^how your fin- 
 gers twitch as you imagine the humid, soft 
 touch. . . . But the thing must be done I 
 Here we are not dealing with the fantasies 
 of lovers of the Macaberesque as they have 
 been shown us by certain degenerate poets; 
 we are not shaking up the dead for the pleas- 
 ure of straining our nerves with new sensa- 
 
I 
 I 
 
 r 
 
 A SINISTER DUTY 97 
 
 tions; no, it is sad reality that is imposed 
 upon us. . . . Come on, pull at this arm! 
 So much the worse if it comes off in your 
 hands ! 
 
 And if you do not understand the awful 
 grandeur of your deed, it is because you have 
 not comprehended all that is meant by the 
 word Duty. Bourru, however, knows every- 
 thing there is in this great word. I^istcn to 
 him as he uses it. His comrade Cormier has 
 
 st come upon the head of one soldier in the 
 battered-in breast of another. Cormier is on 
 the point of fainting. 
 
 *Bourru! Bourru! I'm afraid I'm going 
 
 keel over !" 
 
 "Brace up, old chap, brace up! It's the 
 duty." 
 
 And the sublime word once more produces 
 is magical effect. . . . You can see them, 
 
 n you not, my two soldiers working 
 
 rough the silent night out there where 
 death is stalking? Around them, nothing 
 ut corpses ; no flag unfurled, no bugle blow- 
 
98 BOURRU 
 
 ing, not even a human voice, nothing at all 
 to sustain their courage, and still these two 
 poilus of mine are winning the hardest strug- 
 gle that a man can gain over himself, they 
 are getting the best of a horror which nature 
 has placed deep in the innermost recesses of 
 our souls. 
 
 They will have their reward. Never will 
 any poet be impressed as they are with the 
 moving fact that all the soil trodden under 
 foot of man is made of the ashes of the dead ! 
 O Mother-land, soil of our fathers, soil of 
 our brothers, too, the man who has buried 
 his companions in arms on the hill knows 
 what tender love one can have for his sa- 
 cred land ! And as time goes by, their deeds 
 of horror will be idealized; the two soldiers 
 will remember only the accomplishment of 
 a holy duty. Death in her fury had left on 
 the hideous soil grinning corpses in ignoble 
 postures, which the lieavens themselves 
 scarcely dared look upon. Bourru and his 
 friend, rude but respectful pall-bearers, were 
 
A SINISTER DUTY 
 
 99 
 
 the workers of a divine harmony. They put 
 the bodies of their comrades back into the 
 decent posture in which a brave man may 
 worthily await the day when he will arise to 
 receive his eternal reward. 
 
IX 
 
 VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 
 
 INCESSANTLY new faces appear 
 among Bourru's comrades — for death 
 is stalking abroad at Vauquois. At 
 every moment arrive reinforcements from 
 the interior. I must tell you of the state of 
 mind of these new combatants on their ar- 
 rival, for they compose one of the elements 
 of the moral atmosphere in which Bourru 
 passes his life. 
 
 In the little village of the cantonment — 
 far back in the interior — already they say 
 merely "up there"; they hardly dare pro- 
 nounce the word "Vauquois," for that awak- 
 ens visions of mystery, of grandeur and of 
 terror. Modesty also liinders one from 
 
 100 
 
VAUQUOIS THIP TtlAXilC ' idX 
 
 speaking too much of it. Do you not lower 
 your voice when you mention the cemetery 
 where your clear ones are sleeping? For ten 
 months the regiment has been battling on 
 that hill in the Argonne — and how many 
 comrades are reposing there for eternity! 
 
 When ''one of our regiment" comes back 
 from "up there" — veteran, or wounded, or 
 ill — a halo seems to shine round his head. 
 He has seen VauquoisI The whole town 
 gathers round him, and he tells inexhaustible 
 stories — magnificent, trivial, grandiose, dis- 
 astrous! So many times is the tragic hill de- 
 scribed that, in the imagination of the vil- 
 lage, it comes to seem a stupendous moun- 
 tain covered with the smoke of bursting 
 shells, like a volcano in a dream. 
 
 It takes possession of the people's souls. 
 The territorials think of it witli melanclioly 
 resignation; it is perhaps tliither that des- 
 tiny will soon lead them to complete their 
 sacrifice. For the young soldiers in training 
 Vauquois is a marvellous stimulant ; it is that 
 
102 BOURRU 
 
 which makes their voices so clear and strong 
 when the Marseillaise bursts forth along the 
 march. For everyone the word has strange 
 properties. It claws and tears like a vul- 
 ture; and it also calls up I know not what 
 mocking gesture of valor in the face of death. 
 
 The day comes when the attraction of this 
 magic magnet triumphs. An order has been 
 given by the general staff — and a battalion 
 has left for Vauquois! 
 
 What excitement in the farewells! And 
 what long-drawn-out shouts of glory in the 
 wake of the departing train! You would 
 think that all France would be stirred by 
 them. The peasants look upon the convoy 
 with the astonished eyes that one sees, in 
 pious pictures, in the faces of those who 
 watch one of the elect ascend into heaven. 
 
 "Off for Vauquois!" cry the young men. 
 "All aboard for 'up there' I" 
 
 "We are going to Vauquois," the terri- 
 torials confide gravely to the employees at 
 the station. 
 
VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 103 
 
 And everyone trembles. 
 
 No one approaches the hill with easy fa- 
 miliarity; as if one were about to draw near 
 to a goddess enthroned in the depths of some 
 mysterious temple, there must be an initia- 
 tion. One must make himself worthy of the 
 terrible kiss she will accord him. 
 
 In the little villages beliind the ITnes the 
 young soldiers go on completing their train- 
 ing. They find a suitable atmosphere for 
 it. There was a battle here, last September, 
 and there remain prodigious evidences to 
 speak for it — villages burned, forests cut 
 down by shell-fire, graves scattered over the 
 plain. 
 
 Often one's foot strikes a fragment of 
 shell, a piece of old clothing, a rifle. The 
 young soldier picks up the rehc and exam- 
 ines it — and thinks. Before the graves he 
 stands for long moments with head bowed 
 and with mind troubled. 
 
 It is the night, above all, that renders him 
 worthy to approach the sacred hill. 
 
104 BOURRU 
 
 When the weather is clear, the hill is vis- 
 ible over the top of the rising ground of the 
 Argonne. A little to the left the sun is sink- 
 ing in the blood which, for months, men have 
 been casting up into the face of the heavens. 
 At the moment when it is about to disappear, 
 Vauquois stands out on the horizon, in white 
 outline, clear and vivid, emerging from the 
 somber woods a tragic vision. 
 
 One expected to see a dark mass, as in 
 mourning. Unlike all the other billowy- 
 waves petrified in the earth of the Argonne, 
 this one is as white as if its crest were still 
 boiling with the foam of a terrible tempest. 
 
 Long after the night has fallen the young 
 neophyte is still standing on his eminence 
 with his face turned toward the place where 
 the white apparition vanished. In his soul 
 anguish and ambition are at combat; con- 
 fusedly the great problems of life ask for so- 
 lution in his mind. 
 
 A day comes when the cannon "up there" 
 rumble louder than usual. A mute anxiety 
 
VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 105 
 
 and also a vague hope set the battalion 
 aquiver. What is happening? Are they 
 going to send us? Suddenly an automobile 
 arrives ; an officer alights, carrying an order. 
 Everyone understands at once: we are off I 
 Tumult and shouting ensue; and an hour 
 later the column^ moving as one man, fades 
 beneath the northern horizon. Every eye 
 strains toward the heights behind which 
 stands the heroic Hill; and every mouth, 
 with an indescribable fervor, utters: 
 
 ''La liherte guide nos pas!" 
 
 Wliat tranquillity in the zone immediately 
 behind the line of fire! All appears simple, 
 well-ordered, functioning systematically. 
 The battalion pauses in a wood ; for the mo- 
 ment it is in reserve. Trenches wind their 
 way through the soil; silently the men slip 
 into them. The bullets whistle a welcome 
 over their heads. 
 
 Here the young soldiers are to live 
 
106 BOURRU 
 
 through one more stage of training. They 
 look through the loop-hole — Vauquois is 
 there, quite close to them. Their hearts beat 
 hard, and their eyes are as troubled as if a 
 radiance shone into them from the white 
 crest. 
 
 They are never tired of standing look-out. 
 Never has there been a grander or simpler 
 spectacle. The whiteness of the hill is ex- 
 plained now ; the chalky earth has been torn 
 from its depths; for ten months mines have 
 been exploding and shells bursting in this 
 ground — a tempest of steel has fallen, 
 shattering and pulverizing everything in 
 sight. 
 
 Nothing remains of the village but frag- 
 ments of crushed stone. Not a tree, not a 
 plant, not a blade of grass, nothing — abso- 
 lutely nothing — remains alive on that height 
 over which, at this moment, hovers the silence 
 of death. The hill looks like the crumbled 
 skeleton of some gigantic animal, bleached 
 by the desert sun. Nevertheless we know 
 
VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 107 
 
 that in the bowels of the hill men are living 
 and keeping guard. . . . 
 
 Suddenly a black object seems to spring 
 out of the earth, mounts into the sky, slowly 
 winds down again. It is an aerial torpedo. 
 As it touches the ground there bursts a ter- 
 rific explosion, an enormous cloud rises to 
 heaven . . . and weird things are flung into 
 the air. 
 
 An instant later, the bombardment — a 
 shower of shells — is let loose; petards, gren- 
 bombs, "turtles," "rat-tails," and "va- 
 ises' — everything that human genius has 
 contrived for throwing explosives comes 
 into play. The earth trembles even at 
 our distance, and the hill has become a 
 volcano. 
 
 Chunks of earth fly through the air. 
 Black, gray, and yellow smoke-clouds rise 
 like plumes upon the height. And always 
 ou keep seeing, flung into the air, those 
 d things that represent wreckage of all 
 sorts — clothing, kit-bags, gabions, and per- 
 
 mm- 
 
 lises 
 
 you 
 
108 BOURRU 
 
 haps — human limbs. One cannot tell — from 
 our distance. 
 
 Nearly all the young soldiers are looking 
 on, bewildered, hypnotized. The sweat 
 stands out in beads on their foreheads, and 
 they are trembling — in admiration or in ter- 
 ror? Others have not been able to endure 
 the spectacle of horror ; stricken down by the 
 goddess, they have sunk to the floor of the 
 trench and are scratching mechanically at 
 the ground. 
 
 During the night a mysterious process 
 takes place in their minds. Face to face with 
 the hill of death, which now stands out in 
 somber profile against the sky, every man 
 looks down once more into the depths of his 
 soul. First comes temptation, with its 
 prayer of anguish — let this cup of bitterness 
 pass from me. 
 
 Then grace steals softly into the heart and 
 fills it . . . and the spirit yields submission 
 to the sacred cross. The life of the individ- 
 ual may be only an illusion — what does it 
 
VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 109 
 
 weigh in the scales against the great social 
 ideas that make for all that is noble in man- 
 kind — against the idea of native land, of 
 justice, of freedom? What matters it to 
 have been no more than a fugitive gleam in 
 the world, a will-o'-the-wisp flaring for an 
 instant out of the night of eternitj^? If my 
 sacrifice be made with a good will, may I not 
 repeat, I also, the ancient words : 
 
 *'0 death, where is thy sting? O grave, 
 where is thy victory?" 
 
 Sharp sensations run along the nen^es. 
 • . . Perhaps it is the cold? 
 
 The morning liglit steals across the sky, 
 slowly at first, then all at once bursts into 
 brilliance. ^Vith it is born an unconquerable 
 hope for a radiant future — the others, per- 
 haps, will be hit, but I shall escape. . . . 
 Something whispers this in every ear. 
 
 A general passes — square-shouldered, 
 thick-set, with a countenance at once smiling 
 and calm; the tuft on his chin accentuates 
 his expression of firm will. Passing the new 
 
110 BOURRU 
 
 soldiers, whose faces are a little pale, he says 
 a few words of affectionate pleasantry, and 
 immediately cheeks regain their color and 
 shoulders straighten in confidence. Vau- 
 quois is funereal no longer. 
 
 A light mist envelopes the hill, so that it 
 resembles some precious relic protected in 
 thin gauze. All is quiet. The moment 
 seems like a solemn pause in a religious cere- 
 mony. The young soldier may now climb 
 "up there" to win his spurs of knighthood. 
 
 Here we are, then, in the interminable 
 maze of trenches leading up to Vauquois. 
 There is a moment, in passing, for a glance 
 at the historic heights of Mamelon Blanc, of 
 the Bois-Noir, of the Cigaleric; then the as- 
 cent begins. The balls, passing overhead, 
 emit a sharp cry like that of angry little ani- 
 mals. 
 
 In the connecting-trench are men lying 
 down, some of them sleeping, others busy 
 over trivial tasks. We can ask them ques- 
 tions familiarly. For several days they have 
 
o 
 
 shoe 
 
 VAUQUOIS THE TRAGIC 111 
 
 been living under the momentary threat of 
 death, and we might expect impatient rephes 
 from them or even a certain dismal anguish. 
 Not at all ! They are merry. But it is by no 
 means the rough, untutored merriment of 
 hours of leisure ; it is rather a kind of buoy- 
 ancy of the spirit, in which one senses a 
 noble pride, a thoughtful serenity, and, at 
 bottom, even a certain gaiety. 
 
 On every side the soil, torn to pieces, is 
 
 sheer chaos of amazing objects. One 
 ht think an earthquake had just sent its 
 snock through the hill. 
 
 "It's nothing but a yard for wreckage," 
 says Sergeant Fougeres, — "or maybe for 
 building." 
 
 Pregnant words! It is, indeed, a work- 
 yard, this, on a vast scale. For materials, 
 it uses men, corpses, earth, guns, shells; and 
 its work is, first of all, demolition — that of 
 the spirit of savagery — and then construc- 
 tion — ^that of the France of to-morrow. 
 
 I can understand now the peculiar gaiety 
 
112 BOURRU 
 
 of the men who live here; it is the pride of 
 being toilers in a vast task. So must the 
 happy masons have worked on the splendid 
 cathedrals of the Middle Ages. 
 
 The mysterious virtue of this hill is that it 
 awakens unknown forces in the soul of 
 everyone who sets foot on it. . . . Before 
 coming here he used to be tormented by the 
 thought that dishonorable fear might over- 
 come him when he should arrive "up there!'* 
 
 But a miracle has happened. All notion 
 of dismay has taken flight. Every man can 
 feel expanding within him an inspiration of 
 unusual vigor, which in the days to come — 
 as with the old sailor who regrets the storms 
 he can no longer breast — he will look back 
 upon with a proud feeling of melancholy. 
 Even if death must take him, the young war- 
 rior has now come to know that he has lived 
 through the sacred moment in which, with a 
 single thrill, the soul is filled with a richer 
 life than any offered by a whole century of 
 paltry and tedious incidents. 
 
A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 
 
 mat 
 
 WHEN the others said, "Well, we're 
 ^oin^ on up, eh?" Bourru would 
 re})ly with a slip^ht air of presump- 
 tion, ''Sure thin^! One of these days '' 
 
 But that was pure hoastin^. Deep in his 
 heart Bourru felt sure that it was silly to 
 t out of one trench only to ^o and di^ an- 
 er one twenty yards higher up, ri^ht at 
 the top of the peak. Of course, from this 
 new site they would he ahle to command the 
 Boche positions; but hadn't they already 
 tried several times to get to the top, and 
 didn't they have to come down again leaving 
 their dead on the ground? No, honestly, it, 
 better for the French and the Boches to 
 
 113 
 
114 BOURRU 
 
 stay where they were, each on his own side 
 of the hill-top. 
 
 But in the squad there are four or five 
 "rookies" who will not stay in their places 
 and are always up to some trick or other. 
 You can hear Aubouin declaring, "Hang 
 the Boches! If they once saw us up tliere, 
 they'd beat it like scared rabbits!" And 
 here is Tschieret in his defiant mood — 
 "Give me three good fellows to follow me 
 and we'll take the top." And all the rest 
 try to crow a little louder. 
 
 So they have been crowing for a week. 
 Oh, the good mothers who keep writing to 
 their boys, "Above all, don't do anything 
 imprudent," have no idea how difficult the 
 life of a prudent man is. Of course you 
 understand too that Bourru is not going to 
 give up his place in the expedition — Bourru, 
 to whom the general said one day, while 
 decorating him, "Aha ! So you're from Bur- 
 gundy, my good fellow! So am I. The 
 fellows from our part of the country don't 
 
kn 
 
 A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 115 
 
 ow what fear is, eh ?" At that solemn mo- 
 ment, — while the general was twisting the 
 pepper-and-salt tuft on his chin, — Bourru 
 had decided that he would be brave to the 
 end of his days. 
 
 That is why our soldier and his comrades 
 are all busy digging a trench up on top to- 
 night. . . . Yes, they have "gone up" — 
 and, what is more, without orders. It wasn*t 
 hard to do — the Boche sentinel must have 
 been sleeping, and no star-shell disclosed 
 them at their work. All the while they are 
 digging, the "rookies" are laughing to them- 
 selves. 
 
 ■ "Aha I Maybe the boys in the regiment 
 won*t open their eyes to-morrow. . . . And 
 the captain, too ! . . . And the major! . . . 
 And the colonel !" 
 
 As for Bourru, he has just one thing on 
 mind — "If only we can get a hole dug 
 
 fore the grenades come!" 
 
 But if there is a providence for drunk- 
 
 ds there is another for dare-devils. Not 
 
116 BOURRU 
 
 a sound comes from the direction of the 
 Boches. What luck ! The picks cut rapidly 
 into a soil torn to pieces during previous 
 attacks and never "tidied up." Hello, 
 here's an old platter — a rusty gun — an over- 
 coat. . . . Suddenly Bourru's pick rebounds 
 as if it had struck something elastic. "I 
 thought so," mutters Bourru; "it's a corpse 
 from three weeks ago. . . . All right, old 
 fellow, I'm not going to disturb you!" And 
 he digs a little to one side, so as to leave the 
 body on the parapet — that's the best place 
 for it! 
 
 Bang! Zing! Bing! Boom! Grenades 
 begin to fall only a few paces from the work- 
 ers. They thought they were concealed; not 
 a bit of it ! The whole heaven can see them 
 and spit bombs in their faces. That is the 
 feeling you have when treacherous hatred, 
 lying in wait, suddenly catches you. 
 
 The rookies have thrown themselves on 
 the ground. If you could look into their 
 hearts you would see that fear has sub- 
 
I 
 
 A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 117 
 
 merged them at one stroke, as a wave breaks 
 over an unsuspecting bather when the sea 
 grows suddenly angry. All thought is 
 drowned under the shock, and the soul is 
 blinded, but the physical man seeks to de- 
 fend himself and rises to flee. 
 
 A shadowy form has risen on the hill-top. 
 Before it can plunge to the rear Bourru has 
 seized the coat of the frantic soldier who is 
 making for safety. 
 
 "Hey! Where are you running off to?" 
 
 "I — I — I forgot my canteen!" 
 ^"I'll lend you mine. Great Scott, can't 
 ^Bu see that the Boches are missing us?" 
 
 It is true. In their ignorance of the exact 
 location of the noise that alarmed them, the 
 Germans are dropping their grenades short 
 of the mark, and the bombs go rolling down 
 hill. Yes, but when daylight comes, the 
 Boches will see where to aim. . . . The dig- 
 ging goes on furiously, for every man feels 
 that, a little later, his life will depend on 
 the depth of his hole. 
 
118 BOURRU 
 
 The day dawns. Our men command the 
 whole valley, rosy in the sunlight, as well 
 as the enemy trench, twenty paces dis- 
 tant. 
 
 "And now it's going to rain steel,*' thinks 
 Bourru. Sure enough, the German gren- 
 ades fall closer by. 
 
 Had we better reply to the Boches? 
 That's the problem. Under our projec- 
 tiles perhaps they would keep quiet, over- 
 whelmed. But perhaps it would only enrage 
 them to a fury to say the last word. And 
 they have better stores than we have, because 
 they are in their trenches, whereas once our 
 sacks are emptied it will be hard to get more 
 grenades. Also, if we stir round, we shall 
 give away the position of our defences, which 
 are still weak enough. ... So the soldiers 
 on the hill-top are as perplexed as a man 
 caught in a swarm of wasps, who stands 
 stock-still and thinks, "I'd better not stir 
 them up!" 
 
 It is finally decided — they will lie low. 
 
A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 119 
 
 ttt LI 
 
 But it is no easy thing to stay quiet and mo- 
 tionless when at any minute a grenade may 
 come down on your head. Your perspira- 
 tion runs as fast as if you were chopping 
 wood under a midday sun. 
 
 "Oh, confound it, this is too slow, sitting 
 here and doing nothing!'* 
 
 Bourru has seized a grenade. Snap! lie 
 strikes the cap on the palm of his hand and 
 with his good right arm he liurls tlic thing 
 at the Boches. . . . 
 
 nd then everything hegins crackling, 
 whistling, smoking, exploding. . . . 
 
 A Boche head appears, sticking out from 
 trench : 
 
 * Your turn, there, get him I . . . No, no, 
 my turn !" 
 
 "ni get him! . . . ni get him!..." 
 
 The men's arms are busy whipping the 
 grenades through the air. From time to 
 time they fling themselves flat, or take each 
 other's places. The Boches answer with a 
 will. 
 
120 BOURRU 
 
 "Hey, old man! Slip me one of your 
 grenades." 
 
 "Here, take 'em all. They've winged me. 
 I'm out of it." 
 
 Everything smells of smoke — a smoke 
 that gives you a fever and scrapes in your 
 throat. 
 
 "Look out, Jolly! Behind your feet — 
 pick it up!" 
 
 It was time. The fuse of the grenade, 
 just at the man's feet, was burning close. 
 It is deftly lifted and goes flying back at 
 the enemy. What a fellow this Jolly is! 
 He has installed a box of grenades at his 
 side, of old ones — ^the 1914 model, corru- 
 gated. He has hung a dozen of them on his 
 gun by leather thongs. It is like a bunch 
 of grapes — or of those real "grenades," the 
 pomegranates that come from Africa and 
 are on sale in the fruit-stalls. Everj'' so 
 often he grasps one, plucks it — and bang! 
 one more corrugated present has gone to the 
 Boches, only to fly to pieces on arriving. 
 
A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 121 
 
 Spat! . . . Spat! Two more German 
 bombs have just fallen at Jolly's feet. One 
 of them is quickly flung back, the other is 
 about to follow; he is just on the point of 
 hurling it, when — Bang! — the thing ex- 
 plodes. . . . Jolly's hand has vanished in 
 
 the smoke. 
 
 IHk * * m lit 
 
 '*Ah, here you are, stretcher-bearers! 
 id it's none too soon. Here, take along 
 Ily, and on the way down tell them to 
 id us up some grenades." 
 '*I'll go and get 'em myself," says a young 
 low who is trembling a little. 
 "No, no, my boy, stay where you are. 
 They're going to serve 'em up to us, like 
 princes." 
 
 "Look here, Bourru, this is getting hot. 
 Do you think we can hold out heie 
 long?" 
 
 Until the peace treaty, tenderfoot I Here 
 are, and here we stay. Come on, blaze 
 y and forget it!" 
 
122 BOURRU 
 
 "Ah, bully! Here comes Grossou crawl- 
 ing up with a sackful of grenades." 
 
 "That's not the way, boys," Bourru is 
 saying. "We've got to give 'em a volley, 
 all together, to make 'em shut up." 
 
 So the men practice a simultaneous fusil- 
 lade to demoralize the enemy by heaping 
 fire on him all along the line at once. 
 
 Bang! Bang! Bang! That was the first 
 shower. . . . By the fifth, complete silence 
 has settled down over the Boches. ... It is 
 only seven in the morning, and the exchange 
 of grenades has not lasted more than twenty 
 minutes. 
 
 "Ah! The gentlemen won't play any 
 more," says Lachard. "What a pity." 
 
 The younger fellows laugh in a nervous 
 way. Their effort has been so tremendous, 
 as it seems to them, that surely nothing can 
 be left for the neighboring troops to do. 
 The war is over, quite over. . . . One of 
 them timidly proposes: 
 
 "Now that we've shown the Boches that 
 
A HAND-GRENADE BATTLE 123 
 
 we've got their number, we might as well 
 clear out ... it might be more prudent.'* 
 "Not on your life," says Bourru; "you 
 wanted to come here, and here you stayl" 
 
XI 
 
 THE CELLAR OF THE 
 ENGINEERS 
 
 THIS is the picture that Bourru pre- 
 serves of the place. There is a 
 good, strong cellar, left from one 
 of the houses of the village, and above it so 
 much rubbish lies heaped up as to form a 
 stout protection against shells; that is why 
 the engineers put their explosives here. The 
 place will hold out against bombardment for 
 two good months. When an attack is on and 
 you are in reserve, you stop here and await 
 your turn to go into action. A first-aid sta- 
 tion has been established in one corner. You 
 can look at the wounded before you depart 
 to fight at the very place where these agon- 
 
 124 
 
HE CELLAR OF THE ENGINEERS 125 
 
 ized men received the kiss of death. What 
 else is there to do? This is the only cellar 
 up here where you can be safe, and it must 
 be used for all it is worth. Outside the shells 
 are bursting, the earth is trembling. . . . 
 
 Bourru is not thinking ; his mind is merely 
 crowded with pictures. Some one is bring- 
 ing in a wounded man. 
 
 "He was hit in the abdomen,'' says the 
 stretcher-bearer. 
 
 The man is groaning and uttering little 
 jH^s; they undress him, and find his abdo- 
 men so covered with blood that they have to 
 search for the wound. Ah, here it is! Com- 
 presses are gently applied, and the wounded 
 man is left alone. He still groans, but very 
 ^HD the little cries begin to grow fainter — 
 as if a singer were descending the scale. By 
 the gleam of the candle you see him grow 
 paler, still paler . . . and soon he ceases to 
 groan. A stretcher-bearer lifts up his 
 hand and it falls back, inert. "He is dead," 
 e word; "put him into a tent-cloth 
 
126 BOURRU 
 
 . . . we'll take him down to-night or to- 
 morrow." 
 
 Nearby they are undressing another 
 wounded man. A piece of shell has torn 
 through his buttock — the wound looks like 
 a monstrous mouth with great, red, bleeding 
 lips. 
 
 Farther on, an attendant is searching the 
 dead, collecting their purses, their notebooks, 
 and other possessions, and making a rapid 
 inventory of the relics. In his hand you can 
 see photographs, locks of hair, letters. . . . 
 
 "Turn me loose, turn me loose!" cries a 
 soldier whom they are bringing in. "I want 
 to go back there. . . . Ah, the dirty Boches. 
 They sha'n't say they got me!" 
 
 And through the blood that covers his 
 face two eyes glare with passion. 
 
 "Ah, old chap I" another is saying, "it's the 
 devil's own luck. We'd been in that hole for 
 two hours. There was a wall in front, and 
 I was sure the Boches were all gone. Bang! 
 Just like that I felt a hand come down on 
 
THE CELLAR OF THE ENGINEERS 127 
 
 my shoulder — I honestly thought it was 
 Mazel hitting me. I can't see where it could 
 have come from, that bullet." 
 
 "Oh, say now!" cries a stretcher-bearer to 
 a wounded man who is yelling: "don't roar 
 like that; you've only got a scratch, you 
 lucky dog! You'll get three months on the 
 Cote d'Azur between white sheets." 
 
 Here is young Dr. Bon jean, adored by all 
 the troopers for his courage and devotion. 
 A week ago he received the cross of the Le- 
 gion of Honor that he so well deserved. 
 They bring in a man whose leg is so shat- 
 tered that it holds only by a few shreds of 
 flesh. The physician is going about his duty 
 of completing the amputation, when sud- 
 denly the wounded man awakens from his 
 coma, opens his eyes, and sees the bright new 
 ribbon on the doctor's breast. 
 
 j"Ah, my dear major!" he says with his 
 ik voice, "I have been wanting to con- 
 gratulate you — allow me to make use of this 
 occasion. . . ." 
 
128 BOURRU 
 
 "No! No!" another man is howling, 
 "I don't want to die. Mother! Help! 
 Mother!" 
 
 JNlany of the wounded say nothing at all. 
 
 "This is awfully slow — awfully!" mur- 
 murs Bourru. "I'd like to get out of here!" 
 
 But not all the soldiers agree with him; 
 everybody knows that this cellar of the en- 
 gineers is a very safe place in case of bom- 
 bardment. As soon as the bombing begins 
 one feels himself irresistibly drawn to it. 
 Ah, if only one could plunge into it when- 
 ever a volley of explosives is falling in his 
 tracks — what relief ! The memory you carry 
 of this cave haunts you like a past joy. 
 
 Things are pretty hot outside to-day, and 
 several men have made their way to the door 
 of the cellar, but great heavens! you can't 
 let everybody in here. A petty officer of the 
 engineers cries out: 
 
 "Get out of here, damn you!" 
 
 "Let me in, just a minute," says the feeb- 
 lest of them. 
 
THE CELLAR OF THE ENGINEERS 129 
 
 Sometimes the voice is so pitiful that tlie 
 sergeant lets the frantic man enter for a few 
 minutes. The man will stand still, breath- 
 less, shivering, silent. He looks at the group 
 of the wounded in the candle-light toward 
 the rear of the cellar. 
 
 You do not know what he is thinking. 
 For that matter no one does think, in this 
 cave of the engineers; one waits, one suf- 
 fers, and one fills his ears with cries and his 
 with sights which at a later day may be 
 isformed into thoughts. 
 
XII 
 SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 
 
 I MIGHT continue to show you Bourru 
 pursuing the humbler tasks of his Hfe 
 from day to day, and let you follow my 
 man through his monotonous work as a sol- 
 dier of the trenches. Days "in the line" suc- 
 ceed interminably upon days of "rest": two 
 weeks on the hill and two in the cantonment 
 — and so on forever. All that would be very 
 uninteresting to you, so I prefer to paint in 
 rapid strokes. 
 
 The shifts that follow on each other's heels 
 make clean-cut divisions in the soldier's life. 
 Regiments work in relays like the bands of 
 laborers who dig in subway tunnels, and one 
 comes to count time only in terms of shifts. 
 
 130 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 131 
 
 No one says "last month" or "next week"; 
 the word "shift" has replaced all the terms 
 for periods of time that are in usage in civil- 
 ian language. 
 
 Hi'he very work of the comhatants feels the 
 influence of this stagnation; it is governed 
 by administration, by a bureaucracy. Ev- 
 erything is planned out, organized. Oh! 
 that somber word "organization," that is the 
 word that the Boches intone with so much 
 ^Kde — telling us that tlieir civilization has 
 achieved the last word in organization; and 
 
 ■order to beat them, we have had to follow 
 pi into this field. But at what loss! War 
 I lost that romantic aureole, that allure- 
 pt of the unforeseen which made it so in- 
 vesting when we used to read of it in the 
 imoirs of soldiers of an older day. Gone 
 ^^ is the gay humor of hussars on a tourney in 
 ^H^B fields where were a thousand opportuni- 
 ^H^B for laughter or for fighting. Day after 
 oay Bourru goes into battle as he might to 
 actory, from a given hour to a given hour, 
 
132 BOURRU 
 
 and when he is not in the trenches, some- 
 thing extraordinary indeed would be neces- 
 sary to rouse his interest. 
 
 At the cantonment, during a period of 
 rest, the troops fall back into the life of the 
 garrison — daily exercise, reviews, tiresome 
 routine. 
 
 In the trench, the battalions alternate in 
 the various positions, now at Vauquois itself, 
 on the east or on the west, and now in the 
 second-line positions, at Bois Noir, or la 
 Maize, or Allieux. Each battalion takes its 
 turn at each place. 
 
 A favorite kind of conversation is the de- 
 bate as to whether your troop is not doing 
 more work than some other one. It is a re- 
 markable thing, but if you interrogate the 
 men of the — th regiment, they will prove to 
 you that their regiment is always "sacrificed" 
 — that is to say, it does from twelve to 
 twenty-four hours more trench duty on each 
 trip than does its neighboring regiment. 
 "Ah! those fellows in the — th," declare the 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 
 
 133 
 
 gea 
 
 ■I 
 
 poilus, "they are lucky dogs ; they must have 
 a pull — they never do more than two weeks 
 in the line, and we stay there fifteen days — 
 even sixteen!" 
 
 But if you go and open an investigation 
 in the privileged regiment, they will prove 
 exactly the opposite thing to you. In all 
 this, Bourru is just like everybody else. 
 Frequently he is grumbling about the ser- 
 eant or the platoon-leader who plants him 
 the look-out oftener than is his due. It 
 ison his shoulders, he claims, that all the dis- 
 agi'eeable duties fall. If somebody has to 
 put in a night witli a spade rebuilding a 
 ruined parapet, it is Bourru who gets the 
 order; if somebody has to go three miles and 
 get some gabions and planks, Bourru is the 
 man; it's Bourru here and Bourru there, 
 and you'd think there wasn't anybody but 
 Bourru in the squad. Oh! the corporal 
 knows well enough that he is not a "kicker," 
 and there's no danger of the corporal's giv- 
 ing the order to Faraud, because Faraud 
 
134 BOURRU 
 
 would advise him to "tell it to the Marines." 
 But the thing has got to stop ! Bourru has 
 made up his mind that next time he won't let 
 them force more than his share on him. He 
 declares to his friend Revel that he will kick 
 over the traces, that he will complain to the 
 lieutenant, to the captain, the major, the 
 colonel, if he has to! But somehow there 
 must be a secret predestination for each one 
 of us. Hardly has Bourru finished declar- 
 ing his rights to equality of treatment when 
 the corporal calls to him: 
 
 "Hey, Bourru! Go and help get the 
 soup !" 
 
 "All right, I'm going," growls the soldier. 
 
 Thus conversation reflects the monotony 
 of the life. In default of worthy subjects, 
 one must be content with comment on the 
 little everyday happenings. To-day, for in- 
 stance, there is a great sensation going the 
 rounds of Company 6, which is in the second 
 line at la Maize. It is said that the captain 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 135 
 
 has dismissed his orderly, Mezerette. A tre- 
 mendous piece of news ! 
 
 The thing was in the air, to be sure; for 
 some time the "old man" had been "cussing" 
 IMezerette more than usual. If a fellow 
 passed by headquarters he was likely to hear 
 the officer yelling, "Mezerette, you danmed 
 idiot, where did you put my toothbrush? 
 You must be using it to clean your alumi- 
 num rings, you damned pig! Here, bring 
 me some water, and be quick about it !" And 
 a fellow said : "It's certainly getting hot for 
 Mezerette." But the last straw, it seems, 
 was when the "old man" surprised his or- 
 derly in the act of emptying a bottle on 
 which he had written, "Moral Force — Sov- 
 ereign Remedy in a Crisis — Superfine Qual- 
 ity." For a long time IMezerette had been 
 talking about this bottle in the chief's trunk. 
 It puzzled him so much that he finally tasted 
 it one day, and found it most excellent cog- 
 nac. Just as he was getting mellow, the cap- 
 tain arrived on the scene. 
 
136 BOURRU 
 
 "And oh, say!" exclaims Fabri, "what a 
 cussing Mezerette did catch! If you had 
 heard that ..." 
 
 For a week this story will be going the 
 rounds of the trenches. Mezerette declares 
 to all inquirers that he would just as lief 
 take his turn doing duty ; but that is not true, 
 and he is really very much ashamed of him- 
 self. Whom is the captain going to pick in 
 his place? It is a serious question for all 
 those who attach any importance to that 
 other weighty question, — the question of 
 "soft berths." Certain soldiers are always 
 in quest of a soft berth; and you cannot 
 imagine how much intriguing and parleying 
 and wire-pulling are necessary when you 
 want to be a driver, a cook, a hospital at- 
 tendant, or an orderly. Lahurie invariably 
 offers himself for these duties; it's no mat- 
 ter what berth he gets so long as it isn't in 
 the front line. You see it isn't everyone who 
 itches for grenade fights. 
 
 But our Bourru is too proud to ask for a 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 137 
 
 soft berth. As a Burgundy peasant, in civil 
 life, "he just knows how to cultivate his 
 fields and his vines"; as a soldier he knows 
 only the trade of fighting — it is rather a 
 point of pride with him. Deep down in his 
 heart he might not be at all vexed at being 
 made a driver, for he loves horses, but so 
 many people are intriguing for that job that 
 he frankly prefers to abstain from making 
 any request for it. Moreover, he feels a pro- 
 found satisfaction within himself for not do- 
 ing so. Luckily, men of Bourru's sort are 
 in the majority in the company; those brave 
 fellows, who may be none too quick-witted, 
 though they keep a clear head on the firing- 
 post, are the solid foundation on which 
 France is built, and they know it and derive 
 from it a satisfaction of mind that gives them 
 keen enjoyment. 
 
 Thus they go on, day in and day out, with 
 insignificant interests filling the intervals 
 between the hours of tragedy, of attacks and 
 bombardments. 
 
138 BOURRU 
 
 After this description of their monoton- 
 ous life, possibly you will be tempted to re- 
 peat the stereotyped words which have so 
 often fretted our poilus: 
 
 "After all, I suppose your worst enemy is 
 the idleness of the long days, the bore- 
 dom. . . ." 
 
 When you say that, you are thinking of 
 the feeling of boredom as you have known 
 it. Stop right there! For we are not talk- 
 ing about the same thing. The trouble is 
 with the French language, which gives the 
 same name to two very different feelings. 
 Boredom ! When you use the word you have 
 the vision of some sleek functionary yawn- 
 ing behind an office window. I have heard 
 good women voicing their pity, in identical 
 words and with identical sympathies, for 
 the boredom that may oppress a sleepy nurse 
 in a hospital in the rear and for the "bore- 
 dom" of the soldier doing sentinel duty in 
 the trenches, twenty yards from the Boches. 
 Identical words make us think the feelings 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 139 
 
 are identicaL In the name of Bourru, I 
 protest. The thing which you call the bore- 
 dom of the trenches, my good people, is a 
 thing infinitely tragic. Ah! How I wish I 
 had the time to write a volume solely to ana- 
 lyze this feeling! I should like to throw a 
 little light on this somber side of the soldier's 
 heart, but how? You are well aware that I 
 am just noting down a few features of the 
 life of Bourru, and with great rapidity, like 
 ^■lan hurrying to record in his note-book 
 what he has done during the day. But let 
 me tell you that one thing which gives depth 
 to the boredom of the soldier is the sensation 
 of death prowling around him. . . . 
 
 one goes on, day after day, week after 
 , at the front. One passes a grave, or 
 shell-hole; one hears the batteries firing, 
 and knows that at any moment a salvo of 
 shells from the enemy may crash down on 
 the path he is treading, on the roof of boards 
 that protects him in the second line. Yes- 
 terday the kitchens were bombarded; the 
 
140 BOURRU 
 
 day before it was the mountain batteries. 
 When one is going up to the crest, the balls 
 will whistle at the place where he takes the 
 path leading to Mamelon-Blanc ; not a few 
 of his comrades have already fallen here, 
 and yet it is far behind the first line. At this 
 moment one is not in the battle, one is doing 
 a soldier's duty in the rear, making gabions 
 or hurdles, or carrying planks — the peaceful 
 work of a woodman — no, one is not really in 
 danger now ; Bourru does not have to run to 
 escape grenades; I repeat that at this mo- 
 ment his battalion is in the second line, three 
 or four kilometers behind the line of fire. 
 But to-morrow he will go back to the top, on 
 the east, where he will find the whole assem- 
 blage of dangers that modern war provides. 
 After that he will come down to the canton- 
 ment once more, and then go back up 
 again. . . . 
 
 And this continues through the weeks and 
 months. Oh, yes, Bourru gets bored, and he 
 will not tell you that this danger of death is 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 141 
 
 an element in his boredom, — he is too proud 
 for that. But as for myself, I will tell you 
 what I think. Man desires life with all the 
 force that his race has collected and com- 
 municated to his fibers. lie wants to en- 
 dure, to live on farther and farther into the 
 future. But by the exercise of his will he 
 can conquer this powerful instinct of his 
 physical being to live on, and can say to it : 
 "It is my will that you keep silence, that you 
 stay here in this forest where at any mo- 
 ment a shell may annihilate me." But that 
 IT no means enough, and Bourru is obliged 
 eep up tlie parley : 
 See here, you poor old ])ody of mine, you 
 't understand anything but mere life, 
 ■want to get away from here, and you are 
 always urging me to fight. When I wake 
 up in the morning it is because you are not 
 satisfied that I have that bitter taste in my 
 mouth, just from thinking of the new day 
 that is coming. It's all your fault that I 
 have nightmares when I'm asleep and see 
 
142 BOURRU 
 
 myself in the midst of exploding shells, 
 crushed under my shelter or breathing my 
 last in some abandoned hole. Quit it, you 
 old carcass ; we are here and we're going to 
 stay. You can't understand, you mere clod 
 of earth, all the reasons that have brought 
 us here. So I shall not tell them to you, 
 and for that matter, I couldn't if I would. 
 I feel them all as if they came from far 
 away in the past. . . . 
 
 "When we were nothing but boys and the 
 teacher at Bligny, M. Herard, told us about 
 Alsace-Lorraine, this thing was beginning 
 — for you were no longer the master of me, 
 and something was already being born in me 
 which, some day, was to prove stronger than 
 any mere longing for life. It was some- 
 thing which, it seems, they call patriotism; 
 and it's a very complicated thing. . . . You 
 remember, there was a worthy man in the 
 village, old father Baret, who told us one 
 day that in '70 the Prussians had appeared 
 in the village at the moment when he was at 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SfflFT 143 
 
 the cafe in the middle of a game of bil- 
 liards. 
 
 " 'I didn't interrupt my game,' he said, 
 *and just to let them see that I was not afraid 
 of them, I made a magnificent carom under 
 the nose of a Prussian sergeant who was 
 coming into the cafe. But I was holding 
 the billiard-cue very tight; if he had insulted 
 I'd have broken his head with it!' 
 *I remember how you used to tremble 
 n old father Baret told this little story 
 to the child that we were then. And also 
 there were the picture-books, and the Saint- 
 Baldoux, the festival of the patron saint of 
 the village, when from his pulpit the priest 
 would tell us of our forefathers, of the his- 
 y of France; and then there were the 
 eches of the deputy, who spoke about 
 ial justice, civilization, liberty, equal- 
 
 'You see, you poor old body of mine, it's 
 
 those things that have gone into our 
 
 Lking and which oblige us to stay here in 
 
144 BOURRU 
 
 this part of the Argonne where it rains 
 bombs. 
 
 "And then, too, you see, the others keep 
 staying here, and we've got to do as they do. 
 And then, anyhow, you are forced to staj^ 
 here. But you don't take to it easily, and I've 
 got to work to keep you down. If I let you 
 speak, you keep on telling me about the joy- 
 ous past, and the still more magnificent fu- 
 ture; you call up the picture of my mother 
 to move me to tears, you force great words 
 into my head hke Life, Happiness, Peace, 
 Tranquillity — you paint me pictures of 
 happy scenes where I am sitting with a 
 group of friends, glass in hand, under an 
 arbor. And you speak to me of love, of fam- 
 ily, of children. . . . Ah, how you cling to 
 life, you pleasure-lover! Down with you! 
 At every instant there rises in my mind a 
 longing for life to confront an image of 
 death. At least that is my supposition, you 
 understand, for as for me — I don't see all 
 this happening. I just see the landscape 
 
SHIFT FOLLOWS SHIFT 145 
 
 look gloomier, and the sky blacker from 
 clouds, and I hear the roar of the cannon 
 grow more sinister; I am just terribly tired, 
 and I find the soup unfit to eat. I sit mood- 
 ily waiting for the coming night, during 
 which I must do duty, up there! 
 
 "My face must be pretty mournful, for 
 Ladoue is calling to me — 'Iley, Bourru, 
 cheer up! I bet you are bored. Here, I'll 
 give you a tip that the cyclist just passed 
 out to me. lie said it just like this — *You 
 know,' he said, 'the rumor is going round 
 that the war won't last forever !' " 
 
 And Ladoue bursts out laughing. 
 
 "Well," concludes Bouri^, "I wish the 
 time for work would hurry up, I've got to 
 have something to do. I guess I've got the 
 blues to-night." 
 
XIII 
 SENTINEL DUTY 
 
 BOURRU, soldier of the second class, 
 is coming out of his hole in the 
 ground early this morning, as he does 
 every morning. Hardly has his head 
 reached the level of the trench when he rubs 
 his eyes and exclaims, "Hello! It's been 
 snowing!" Instantly his face lights up with 
 the joyful surprise, for it is not the mourn- 
 ful yellowish landscape of an aging winter 
 that is presented to his eyes, but the very 
 first snow of the year, clean, sparkling, 
 merry in the sunlight. Nature has put on 
 a fancy mask that she may laugh a little. 
 
 Bourru stands looking at the landscape. 
 Although he has been here for many months, 
 
 146 
 
SENTINEL DUTY 147 
 
 it is a long time since he has "seen" that 
 landscape with tlie eyes of the spirit. What 
 could you expect? When one is just a good 
 machine for kilhng Bodies, how can one find 
 the time for singling out the things of beauty 
 that live in the mists of the valleys or in dis- 
 tant woodland prospects? 
 
 But to-day Bourru stands fixed in con- 
 templative admiration. An old sentence 
 from his school-books is running through his 
 memory — "Nature is clad in her splendid 
 cloak of ermine" — and the words rouse in his 
 mind a long train of visions. He recalls his 
 boyish delight in rolling up great balls of 
 snow; he thinks of winter evenings in the 
 family circle on the farm, when they sat 
 around the ingle-nook drinking white wine 
 and munching chestnuts, while outside the 
 wind whistled and the dogs kept tune with 
 their howls and, within, the demure young 
 |H|s instinctively threw glances at the stout 
 Torms of the boys. And the old people 
 lid tell their long, long stories — they had 
 
148 BOURRU 
 
 time for it in the winter, that season of 
 holiday that would continue and con- 
 tinue . . . until springtime. And then, at 
 New Year's, there would be presents for the 
 mother to distribute to the children with 
 tears in her eyes. . . . All is naive, uncor- 
 rupted, white, in the childlike soul of my 
 Bourru. 
 
 Crash! Boom! Suddenly a great beast 
 of a shell explodes in the snow at a little dis- 
 tance, as incongruous as some coarse breach 
 of etiquette from a blundering fool in a 
 drawing-room during the recital of a rare, 
 noble poem. 
 
 "Shut up, you black beast ! You make me 
 sick!" 
 
 But in vain does Bourru try to recall his 
 tender and endearing vision — his soul has 
 once more become fierce and brutal, as be- 
 comes a man who is on his way to drink down 
 his "juice" and then take his turn on the 
 look-out. 
 
 He arrives at his post. 
 
SENTINEL DUTY 149 
 
 'Ah, here you are!'* says the comrade he 
 is reheving. 
 
 "Nothing new?" asks Bourru. 
 
 "Fritz is shooting this way. Be careful 
 and don't let him see you." 
 
 'No danger!" 
 
 And they change places. One man goes 
 off, glad of the chance to lie down for a few 
 peaceful hours in the depths of a dug-out; 
 another man has taken his place at a little 
 aperture opening toward the enemy. 
 
 Bourru takes a look round. The parapet 
 is unchanged; still the same wall of sand- 
 bags and gabions, thrown together pell-mell 
 in defiance of the laws of equilibrium. 
 There are logs to prop it up at the points 
 where it leans too dangerously; in this way 
 it will last for some hours yet, perhaps for 
 some days even, until the trench-mortars go 
 to work again and demolish it. 
 
 'he peep-hole opens through this wall — 
 a little slit between two sand-bags placed 
 crooked on purpose, so that the hole may 
 
150 BOURRU 
 
 seem to have come about by accident. In 
 order that the opening, seen from outside, 
 may not show against the sky, an empty sack 
 has been suspended inside it, to form a 
 "photographer's hood." When the observer 
 is looking out he has the hood behind his 
 head, and for the Boche out in front there is 
 no alteration in the appearance of the wall. 
 
 "IVe got to see what's going on," Bourru 
 says to himself, but he still waits a few min- 
 utes. It seems very simple, doubtless, to risk 
 a glance through the slit in the wall. But 
 when you know that Blanchard, Renaud, 
 Cortu, and many another got a bullet in the 
 head at the exact moment when he took a 
 peep — well, it's all right to be named 
 Bourru and to wear the croiiV de guerre, but 
 — you hesitate I 
 
 Not very long, of course. With great 
 caution Bourru slips his head under the 
 hood; the enemy's wall, made out of bags 
 just like ours, is thirty yards away. In front 
 of it is thrown up rubbish of all sorts, with 
 
SENTINEL DUTY 151 
 
 old gabions, twisted barbed-wire, and chcv- 
 aux-de-frise which the snow cannot com- 
 pletely disguise. In the distance the plain 
 opens out in a white expanse, dotted here 
 and there by dark little clumps of trees; on 
 the horizon a cliurch steeple stands out 
 above hills whose beautiful lines join har- 
 moniously in a dark blue base for the thin 
 white clouds above them. 
 
 "And to think that all that land is our 
 own! Ah, they've got to get off it, the rob- 
 bers!'' For a moment Bourru feels the rage 
 of a feudal lord dispossessed of a fine do- 
 
 f only I could see one of tlieir loop- 
 holes, the beasts! I'd start them jumping!'* 
 But no fissures can be seen in the opposing 
 wall. 
 
 Bourru lowers his head and retires. It is 
 time — spat! a bullet comes straight through 
 the opening. A hole remains in the hood as 
 indubitable evidence of the risk he has run. 
 
 Our man turns pale and staggers a little ; 
 
152 BOURRU 
 
 his heart beats fast and his fingers are 
 twitching. Does it surprise you? Perhaps 
 you thought that at the least the explosion 
 of a hundred-pound bomb was necessary to 
 kill a brave man? For Bourru is brave; he 
 is going to prove it, and without having to 
 leap over the parapet crying "Forward!" 
 
 The humble soldier first stands still for a 
 few minutes monotonously repeating, "Ah, 
 good! Good! That was a close shave!" 
 But then another idea comes to him. "I've 
 got to look out again — through that same 
 hole — for the deuce of it is that the bombing 
 last night closed up all the others !" 
 
 Do you understand that a mighty little 
 thing is needed to gain admission among the 
 heroes ? Bourru is all alone in his nook in the 
 trenches, under the winter sky, in the early 
 morning silence broken only by rare rifle 
 cracks, — is he going to move his head those 
 three or four inches to look out through the 
 hole? It would be so easy to sit down in the 
 bottom of the trench. . . . 
 
SENTINEL DUTY 168 
 
 Fifteen minutes later, the lieutenant ap- 
 pears unexpectedly on his round. Bour- 
 ru's head emerges from the liood under 
 which he is watching the enemy, and he re- 
 ports phlegmatically: 
 J'othing new." 
 Good; carry on," says the officer. 
 
 And our soldier takes his place again 
 under the hood, hcfore the opening through 
 which he can see the crows hovering over the 
 landscape. 
 
XIV 
 A VISIT FROM THE COLONEL 
 
 BOURRU and his comrades are at 
 work digging a new trench. Dur- 
 ing the last attack, some days ago, 
 they managed to push forward some ten 
 yards — which was great work! But what a 
 situation! It is a dare-devil's trench, pure 
 and simple. To get to it, you must first of 
 all crawl through a connecting trench less 
 than half a yard deep, slip under a rail that 
 used to serve as support to a ruined shelter, 
 then, still crawling, get across an old heam, — 
 and at this moment, with less than eight 
 inches of earth to protect you, you run the 
 risk of being seen from Cheppy — and in this 
 way you finally get to the trench. 
 
 154 
 
A VISIT FROM THE COLONEL 155 
 
 It cannot be dug fast, this trench — the 
 ground is very hard, you must work lying 
 down, and the balls are whistling. To make 
 his men hustle Sergeant Goupy has con- 
 ceived a bright idea. 
 
 "Say, boys, hurry up and get the trench in 
 shape — I just got word that the colonel is 
 coming this Wi^y!" 
 
 I^Df course, the sergeant made up that 
 story, but when you have to make men work, 
 you know you try whatever tricks you can 
 invent. 
 
 Ever since morning tlie men have been 
 talking about nothing but this visit, highly 
 nnprobable as it seems to them. 
 
 '*You bet your life he won't come," says 
 one; "he'd be a fool to try it!" 
 
 nd, as a matter of fact, a volley of 
 ades arrives every minute from the 
 r side, and the "Sis-Boom!" from the 
 alteries at Cheppy is never interrupted. 
 
 "I should say he won't come!" says 
 Bourru. "If I were in his place, you bet I 
 
 one; 
 Dattc 
 
156 BOURRU 
 
 wouldn't go and get myself blown up for 
 nothing !" 
 
 "Oh, thunder!" chimes in Lachard; "y^^ 
 never know what that fellow will do next — 
 he's always up to something queer !" 
 
 Lafut, nicknamed Booze, who has not yet 
 forgotten the two weeks he spent in jail for 
 a recent "jamboree," is grumbling: 
 
 "I'm telling you that he will come, all 
 right, and what's more he'll give hell to some- 
 body when he gets here!" 
 
 "Well, if the old boy ever gets into this 
 hole," puts in another, "he will need a damn 
 lot of nerve with him." 
 
 "While you're waiting, keep at it!" orders 
 the sergeant. 
 
 And they do keep at it, but under what 
 conditions! Bourru is placing an old Ger- 
 man shield on the crumbling earth thrown 
 up in front of him and with the tip of his 
 finger is trying to steady the mass of iron, 
 even while the bullets are flattening them- 
 selves against it. 
 
I 
 
 A VISIT FROM THE COLONEL 157 
 
 All at once, they hear a familiar, clean-cut 
 voice : 
 
 "Hello, boys! How goes it?" 
 It is the colonel! As usual, he is fault- 
 lessly neat, with waxed mustache, trim sky- 
 blue tunic, and spotless white cuffs. In de- 
 fiance of all regulations he is wearing his 
 eternally new cap with gold bands, and from 
 beneath the visor two sparkling eyes, made 
 to conmiand, are fastened on liourru, near 
 whom the colonel has just emerged from the 
 ecting-trench. 
 
 ut nothing like this can intimidate 
 rru, for hardly has the colonel appeared 
 n he feels the hand of our soldier seize 
 him by the skirt of his tunic, and in an in- 
 
 ■it the colonel is rudely flung flat on the 
 t was time. On top of the parapet, 
 yard behind the officer, sizzled a 
 nade. But for the quick movement of 
 our soldier in throwing the colonel prone 
 his face, there would have been one 
 
 whon 
 
 HKr 
 
 ^■Wen 
 
158 BOURRU 
 
 more vacancy in the ranks of the French 
 colonels. 
 
 "Thanks, old fellow," says the colonel; 
 "you have saved my life, and you will get a 
 citation for it. But you have made me soil 
 my tunic, hang it all ! For your punishment, 
 you can come and clean it, and then have 
 lunch with me." 
 
 "What did I tell you?" asks Lafut, when 
 the colonel has departed. "Didn't I tell you 
 he'd give hell to somebody?" 
 
XV 
 
 THE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 
 1914. 
 
 THE cantonments wliere the regi- 
 ments from Vauquois passed their 
 periods of rest were httle villages in 
 the Meuse country which, in ordinary times, 
 Id not have held a tourist's attention for 
 e minutes. They were all alike — Auze- 
 le, Jubecourt, Ville-sur-Cousance, Julve- 
 cpurt, Ippecourt ; a single street bordered by 
 ns, with walls of mud-plaster, in which 
 soldiers passed their lives huddled up on 
 aw that was none too fresh. "Why should 
 rouble you with the story of their insipid 
 e in the rest-camps? The insignificant 
 nts that filled it would be tiresome to re- 
 
 159 
 
160 BOURRU 
 
 port; you would only see Bourru and all the 
 others intent on the betterment of their ma- 
 terial surroundings. Bourru goes to buy 
 eggs and milk from mother Dupont or father 
 Minard ; he racks his wits to find a comfort- 
 able corner in a loft; he raises a fuss over 
 the tormenting rats that come in the night 
 and wake you up biting your hand; he com- 
 plains because he does not find the hospital- 
 ity of the Meuse folk warm enough, though 
 when he leaves the village he will go off with 
 a tender feeling in his heart, saying, "They 
 are good people, all right." Nor shall I ex- 
 patiate on the exercises and the manoeuvers, 
 those nightmares of the soldier's life. 
 
 But once in a while, there would arise out 
 of this monotonous existence grave moments, 
 carrying the souls of the men away as into 
 a dream. The graves of the soldiers in the 
 battle of September, 1914, were an occasion 
 for such an experience. I was speaking a 
 moment ago of the commonplace character 
 of the villages along the Meuse, but at the 
 
THE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 1914 161 
 
 very moment at which I am writing, if you 
 will look, you can see the landscape become 
 inexpressibly moving. Two years ago there 
 was fighting here, between the troops of the 
 mobile defence of Verdun and the army of 
 the Crown Prince. How far away it is, that 
 battle of the Marne, in 19141 How long 
 ago, when the soldiers had red trousers and 
 caps! 
 
 During every sojourn at Ville-sur-Cous- 
 at Jubecourt, or at Ippecourt, Bourru 
 d to feel that his comrades who had died 
 m the beginning of tlie war belonged already 
 to past history. A halo of glory shone upon 
 them. And nevertheless he had been one in 
 their ranks. The thing gave him a queer 
 ling of being an old man who remem- 
 ed having known, in his youth, men who 
 
 re illustrious. 
 
 What a spell those tombs thus have over 
 the soldiers! The most hardened among 
 them feel "something that stirs them up," 
 to use Bourru's words, when chance brings 
 
162 BOURRU 
 
 them face to face with a wooden cross stand- 
 ing in the middle of a field. And there are 
 many such crosses. On the hillsides, and in 
 the plain, they sometimes crowd each other. 
 In certain nooks, also, they rise isolated — 
 almost unsociable, it would seem. 
 
 Come, let us follow Bourru and some of 
 his fellows on a walk through a little valley 
 a few miles from Jubecourt. It is one of 
 those autumn afternoons in which nature 
 constrains us to tender meditation. The lit- 
 tle group of soldiers tread down suffering 
 plants as they walk ; in the distance the voice 
 of the cannonade rises like the great lamen- 
 tation of an agonized land. A soft melan- 
 choly rests upon the spirits of the men, and 
 its savor is pleasant to them, such is its con- 
 trast with the brutality of their customary 
 struggle. 
 
 Hard by a certain bush they suddenly no- 
 tice a grave. A mound all but hidden in the 
 grass, a cross, half-falling and without in- 
 scription, and a soldier's weather-beaten cap 
 
THE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 19U 1G3 
 
 are all that announce that here rests for eter- 
 nity a hero of the battle of September. All 
 about, in the damp vale, is silence, solitude, 
 and comfortless shade. The trees seem to 
 be rooted up in this valley of death where 
 the herbs are rottinp^. Your imagination 
 pauses over the terrible work of the earth 
 with the human body; it has disappeared in 
 the soil, is dissolving into brute matter. 
 Soon every trace of it will have vanished, and 
 here where a drama was enacted in men's 
 agony, the future passer-by will look upon 
 no more than a sea of grass rolling its in- 
 different waves. 
 
 The soldiers have paused, and confused 
 feelings are at work in their minds. They 
 would be quite incapable of putting these 
 feelings into words; but have they need of 
 words in order to know the melancholy 
 poetry of the grave ? Only look upon them, 
 these Bourrus, silent and motionless before 
 that cross — it is as if they were listening to 
 the sound of music within them. Poor, un- 
 
164. BOURRU 
 
 cultivated peasants, you say? To me they 
 seem like men inspired ! 
 
 Undoubtedly their first emotion sprang 
 from the selfish instinct of self-defence 
 which our love of life arouses at any image 
 of death. 
 
 "To think that I might be lying there 
 where he is!" thinks each one. 
 
 But now the melancholy that springs up 
 irresistibly at the sight of a grave is en- 
 nobling the faces of these rude soldiers. 
 
 It was long ago, in his native village, dur- 
 ing burial services at the church or the ceme- 
 tery, that Bourru began to feel that there 
 was something more in life than toiling along 
 the furrow like a beast of burden. All that 
 is philosophy, all that is religion, all that is 
 of the spirit, entered his soul at those mo- 
 ments as a ray of sunshine falls across a 
 misty landscape. Emotions and ideas lifted 
 themselves within him, coming from far 
 down in the depths of his unconscious self. 
 To-day the same process is at work in him. 
 
THE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 1914 165 
 
 IMeditating before this deserted grave, 
 Bourru is imbued with a new emotion — the 
 fear that his brother is sleeping there un- 
 known, forever forgotten. In this desolate 
 valley our soldier feels the force of the im- 
 placable law which provides that matter shall 
 efface the traces of even the most grandiose 
 dramas. And Bourru muses. He sees the 
 soldiers of 1914 marching forward through 
 this valley into battle. The terrain is pro- 
 pitious for an attack. What feelings must 
 have burned in their hearts! They looked 
 into each other's eyes in full conn*adeship, 
 while death hovered above them. 
 
 "If I fall," one of them was saying, "here 
 is the address of my wife ; write to her, won't 
 you?" 
 
 The other in turn gives the address of his 
 family, and a clasp of hands seals the agree- 
 ment. Suddenly the shrapnel descends, and 
 a soldier falls ; no one has time to come to 1ms 
 aid. But what gi-ief in the hearts of those 
 abandon him! In a wild burst of reso- 
 
166 BOURRU 
 
 lution they look back for the last time at 
 their fallen comrade and take oath that this 
 picture shall never leave their minds. Na- 
 ture herself seems to take part in this sol- 
 emn engagement, for the mutilated trees, the 
 torn plants, the shredded soil, all seem to 
 bleed for a wound that cannot heal, and the 
 ancient meadow seems to show the face of a 
 wild mother cradling her dead child. 
 
 Ah, no ! The soldier will not be forgotten, 
 for back at home, in the circle of his friends 
 and his family, when the news of his death 
 brought its shock, the memory of the hero 
 seemed immortal, so great was the emotion 
 of his comrades, the grief of his kindred. 
 
 "And yet, here you are, poor fellow," 
 murmurs Bourru, "here you are, all alone, 
 forgotten. Hardly two years have passed, 
 and I, who am still here, don't even know 
 your name. Where are they, those com- 
 rades who swore they would remember? 
 Dead, perhaps, or hardened by other griefs. 
 There is someone to remember you — wife. 
 
rHE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 1914 167 
 
 mother, children? And yet, who knows? 
 Ah'eady, perhaps, your picture is fading out 
 of their minds! And the winter is coming, 
 and then the spring; the plowmen will efface 
 tiie marks of cannon-balls, the lark will sing, 
 the trees will bud again, and complete obliv- 
 ion will swallow you up like a faded 
 leaf." 
 
 Oh, no, Bourru does not say all this! But 
 he feels it, sometimes in pity, sometimes in 
 revolt against the injustice of life, because 
 the living never turn to contemplate those 
 who remain immobile in the shadow. 
 
 And behold how, through this pity and 
 this revolt, our humble peasant rises to a 
 higher moral life. Bourru is determined not 
 to forget; in him the cult of the dead is be- 
 coming a reality. 
 
 Behold him now, my Bourru, see him busy 
 straightening crosses, putting graves in or- 
 der, tearing up the wild weeds on the 
 mounds, and then, baring his head, pray- 
 ing. .. . 
 
168 BOURRU 
 
 And now he goes back to the cantonment, 
 but with his mind musing in a vague melan- 
 choly. The hour has come for the festival of 
 the sunset ; far away, over the thatched roofs, 
 innumerable threads of gossamer stretched 
 above the ground form a silken carpet across 
 which the sun leaves a shining pathway as 
 when it sinks beneath the sea. And the sol- 
 diers think of that other shining pathway 
 which the memory of their fallen comrades 
 ought to leave in good men's minds. 
 
 Under the oblique rays, still brilliant, 
 every tree is resplendent with its peculiar 
 hues. The slender birches stand out pale 
 and yellow, almost diaphanous; the cherries 
 flame forth like red torches; the ruddiness 
 of the oaks triumphs over the somber green 
 of the pines. So should the glory of the sol- 
 diers who have died for their country illum- 
 inate the living, in such a way as to bring into 
 relief the virtues proper to each. 
 
 Over all the hill-crests, spread out as far 
 as the eye can reach, falls an ineffable peace 
 
THE GRAVES OF SEPTEMBER, 1914. 169 
 
 and majesty, and all nature vibrates in a di- 
 vine harmony. Oh, eternal beauty of this 
 splendid and simple spectacle! At the mo- 
 ment when the sun sinks to rest below the 
 horizon, is there a soul, even of the coarsest, 
 that does not feel some revelation of poetic 
 power, however unsuspected? 
 
 To-day Bourru and his friends have been 
 moved by the memory of a comrade; they 
 will keep the impression a long tune. The 
 spirit of the dead will live on in their hearts, 
 and it is this fact, perhaps, which explains 
 that strange impression of nobility that you 
 have experienced when Bourru, meeting you 
 in the street, at Paris, has fastened on you 
 his deep-seeing eyes. They were eyes which, 
 during the periods of rest at Jubccourt, at 
 Ville-sur-Cousance, at Julvecourt, at Ippe- 
 court, had often looked beneath the sod into 
 the graves of his conu'ades of September, 
 1914. 
 
XVI 
 BxlGGING A SENTINEL 
 
 WHEN you were a child were you 
 always itching to get away on an 
 expedition into the great black 
 forest in which your mother had seen hid- 
 eous serpents and warned you of them, that 
 forest which your imagination peopled with 
 beasts still more monstrous — but whom it 
 would be splendid to encounter? If you 
 were, you know the strange excitement of 
 hair-breadth risks, and you hardly need my 
 poor words to see the fire burning in the 
 eyes of Bourru while Sergeant Stokreisser 
 is mysteriously talking to him, in a hushed 
 voice, in a nook of the trenches. 
 
 "Yes, I saw the colonel. They want us 
 
 170 
 
BAGGING A SENTINEL 171 
 
 to see if we can get the Boche sentinel in the 
 woods. We'll get two weeks oflp — it's for to- 
 night. Are you game?" 
 
 Bourru's heart is jumping at the chance, 
 but he takes his time before giving in, like a 
 man who wants to enjoy his dive. 
 
 "That depends. . . . Who's going along?" 
 
 "There'll be Huguenin, Dufour — Au- 
 bouin — La Volige — nervy boys, ehl . . . 
 And maybe Faraud, too. . . ." 
 
 "Oh, that fellow!" grunts Bourru. "Bet- 
 ter look out — he'll have cold feet, for 
 sure. . . ." 
 
 All day long the sergeant is running 
 through tlie battalion's trenches. In great 
 secrecy he is making offers, dcchning oth- 
 ers . . . and coming to terms. One man ac- 
 cepts, but on condition that his pal shall be 
 in it; another one makes demands worthy 
 of an American milhonaire to whom a com- 
 bine is proposed. 
 
 Ten o'clock comes. The ^ve men and the 
 sergeant are near Cigalerie. Calm weather, 
 
172 BOURRU 
 
 a dark night — but none too dark. Far away 
 you hear the ordinary noises; with a few 
 crackling rifle-shots. 
 
 "I've a hunch that the Lord is for us," 
 says Dufour. "We'll make it!" 
 
 The men are armed with revolvers and 
 knives; their helmets are covered with blue 
 tent-canvas, of coarse texture, to prevent re- 
 flection from the rockets. 
 
 The sergeant explains his plan. Divided 
 into two gi'oups, twenty yards apart, they 
 are going to crawl to the little willow- tree; 
 then they will turn to the left, twenty paces 
 from the river, and they will come to the 
 wood where the Boche sentinels are. 
 
 "If I'm hit," he adds, "Bourru takes com- 
 mand. And we're going to see this thing 
 through, you know — we've got to bring back 
 a sentinel. . . ." 
 
 At the moment of going over the top, 
 Bourru is thinking: 
 
 "What an ass I am, starting into another 
 scrap to get my head broken ! Am I always 
 
BAGGING A SENTINEL 173 
 
 going to be like this? And I swore last time 
 I wouldn't do it again. . . . Well, anyway, 
 now is no time to hang back." 
 
 It is not easy, this crawling on your stom- 
 ach. After half an hour of it your shoulders 
 are wrenched out of joint, and yet you have 
 hardly come a hundred yards. But you have 
 to move slowly in order to make no slightest 
 noise. 
 
 Thunder! There's Dufour starting a peb- 
 ble I Up goes a rocket. Our men, plastered 
 to the ground, check every motion and even 
 stop breathing. If they are seen, the ma- 
 ^be gun will begin to spit. . . . 
 
 The rocket has gone out. All remains 
 quiet — thank heaven! The men breathe 
 freely again, but the silence seems to possess 
 a solemnity; one is afraid of profaning it by 
 resuming his course. 
 
 The gi'ound has been riddled with shell- 
 holes, and is obstructed by rubbish of every 
 sort. What's this? An old network of 
 barbed-wire that still stands firm. 
 
174 BOURRU 
 
 Luckily, Bourru has his shears with him. 
 He cuts a passage for himself. It is not 
 very hard — he is still two hundred yards 
 from the enemy sentinels. . . . Hello, 
 there's a dog barking! 
 
 "Ah, the beasts!" thinks La Voltige; 
 "they've got war-dogs to track us. We're 
 done for!" 
 
 For you know well enough, I suppose, 
 that if a man is discovered at a hundred and 
 jSf ty yards from the trench, there's no chance 
 of his escaping. He would be shot down be- 
 fore he had gone five yards. The best luck 
 he can have is to find a shell-hole where he 
 can wait — sometimes for two or three 
 days — for a good moment to run for his 
 trench. 
 
 The dog stops his noise. A light appears 
 over toward the German trench. It is mov- 
 ing — you can see it passing the loop-holes 
 one after another. Does it mean, maybe, 
 that the Germans are getting sometliing 
 :'"adv for us? 
 
BAGGING A SENTINEL 175 
 
 Here we are at last by the torn little wil- 
 low-tree; only a hundred yards more! 
 
 All at once a frog jumps into the brook. 
 Without a moment's tliought Faraud lets 
 off his revolver. 
 
 "Hang the idiot!" thinks Bourru. "I 
 knew he'd have cold feet !" 
 
 On the instant tlie fusillade grows fu- 
 rious. Bang! Bang! Bang! From every 
 quarter the machine guns spit out their whis- 
 tling balls. 
 
 Lucky our brave fellows are quick-witted. 
 They are well aware that at night the ma- 
 chine gams shave the ground in order to get 
 men lying down. Four of our scouts have 
 thrown themselves flat in a hole. Bourru, 
 who happened to be near the willow, seeing 
 no hole at the moment, climbed the tree and 
 flattened himself against the trunk. The 
 balls are passing in a sheet underneath him, 
 cutting the air between him and his com- 
 rades. 
 
 At the end of fifteen minutes the fury of 
 
176 BOURRU 
 
 the firing abates. After all, "they" had seen 
 nothing; so why should they keep it up? 
 But all the same enough has happened to 
 cool a man's ardor. Shall we go on? Our 
 men take counsel with one another. 
 
 "I'm going on, myself," says Aubouin. 
 "I want those two weeks off." 
 
 So the crawling continues, still more 
 slowly. Our men are coming up to the 
 enemy — the sentinels must be only ten or 
 fifteen yards away, behind that black thing 
 you think you see there. The motions of 
 our men are as soft and slow as those of a 
 eat about to leap on her prey. 
 
 Suddenly the man in the lead stops. One 
 yard in front of him he has just discovered 
 an unexpected wire entanglement that ap- 
 pears to surround the sentinels' position. 
 For their protection the Boches have made 
 themselves cages like those of beasts at the 
 menagerie. 
 
 "Oh, the devil! How are we going to get 
 at them?" 
 
BAGGING A SENTIxNEL 177 
 
 Stokreisser and Bourru lift tlieir heads 
 three inches from the ground and look de- 
 spairingly at the wires, which have old cans 
 suspended among them — the least touch will 
 start the whole thing clattering and raise the 
 alarm. 
 
 Bourru feels a hitter taste in his mouth. 
 It is the sign of moral defeat; Napoleon 
 watching the catastrophe at Waterloo felt 
 _for the same reason that Bourru does, as- 
 ining that his patrol is going to fail, 
 luddenly a man's shoulders move in the 
 :, above the net-work: it is the German 
 iinel, vaguely disturbed, investigating, 
 thing in sight — absolute quiet; the scouts 
 js their bodies flat to the ground. The 
 low disappears. What's to be done? 
 lergeant Stokreisser crawls along the 
 wire net-work to the right, while Bourru 
 does the same thing to the left. Suddenly 
 the sergeant's heart leaps up in a tumult of 
 joy — for he finds that when the net-work 
 reaches the brook it stops. The Boches 
 
178 BOURRU 
 
 thought the little river was protection 
 enough for their sentinel. 
 
 A signal is transmitted from man to man, 
 and the scouts crawl to the brook. Without 
 a spoken word, they come to agreement. Si- 
 lently — very silently — they let themselves 
 down into the water. Fortunately it is only 
 a yard and a half deep at its deepest. But 
 what a racket a man makes going through 
 the water! You can't imagine it — ^but try 
 it and you will know. 
 
 Fifteen yards more, and we are only four 
 paces from the sentinels. There they are in 
 the shadow. Hearts beat fast now. Here 
 is a lucky tree; Bourru helps Dufour up, 
 La Voltige pushes the sergeant. . . . 
 
 Well, yes, at the risk of making you smile, 
 I shall use the threadbare phrase of the dime 
 novel: "Quick as a flash" our soldiers have 
 leaped upon the Boches. . . . Five minutes 
 later the pair of them are bound, gagged, 
 and rolled up in a tent-cloth like big 
 
BAGGING A SENTINEL 
 
 179 
 
 sausages. They have had no chance to make 
 a sound. And a nightingale lamenting the 
 sorrows of her heart a few yards away has 
 not even interrupted her song. 
 
 "But see here!" says Stokreisser, "we 
 don't want to drag hoth those hundles there, 
 — one is a plenty." 
 
 "We've got to quiet the one we leave l)e- 
 hind," whispers La Voltige. "If we don't 
 he'll try to call out the minute we get away, 
 and if he gives the alarm it's good-night for 
 us on the way hack." 
 
 "Sure — we've got to fix him," the soldiers 
 agree. "It's him or us, and it had hetter he 
 him. All's fair in war." 
 
 "Well! What do you say?" 
 
 "Well, / haven't got the heart," says 
 Bourru. 
 
 "Neither have I," avow all the others. 
 
 And they go off, these sensitive creatures, 
 carrying one Boche and leaving on the spot 
 another who is blowing like a seal behind his 
 gag. 
 
XVII 
 
 THE SADDEST DUTY 
 
 A Letter from Madame Char el to Captain 
 
 Lair J in Command of a Company in the 
 
 — th Regiment of Infantry 
 
 MY dear friend, I am so happy to 
 know that my son is under your 
 command. IMy poor husband loved 
 you so much — and I have had many proofs 
 of the goodness of your heart. I have a pre- 
 sentiment that you will bring good fortune 
 to my dear Luke. You know how devoted 
 I am to him, for he is the only reason I have 
 for living, the only person who can carry on 
 the noble work his father left. 
 
 A moment ago, when I determined to 
 
 180 
 
THE SADDEST DUTY 181 
 
 write to you, I was intending to tell you that 
 Luke is a weak and sickly boy — that he 
 would give better service in some sedentary 
 employment than in the trenches. But I 
 hesitated. So many mothers repeat this pa- 
 thetic untruth. And yet it is true, Luke is 
 very delicate — but no, I am unwilling to 
 say more ; I know that your scrupulous con- 
 science will tell you what is just for him. 
 I know that you will spare him all you can 
 — for we must have young men for the 
 France of to-morrow! You will be a pro- 
 tector to him, as my poor husband once was 
 to you, when he did you a service that you 
 will remember — but pardon me, I am be- 
 ginning to beg. And yet when I think of 
 the ghastly things that might happen, when 
 I hear my beloved son, wounded, dying, call- 
 ing to me in the night, with great tears in 
 
 his boyish eyes Oh, there are moments 
 
 when I am almost beside myself! Tell me 
 that you will protect him, promise it to me ! I 
 cannot bear to think of his dear head pierced 
 
182 BOURRU 
 
 by a ball — it is too horrible! You will re- 
 member how pleasant they were, those even- 
 ings long ago when you used to come, as a 
 college-boy of eighteen, to spend your holi- 
 days with us ; and we walked along the river- 
 bank with Luke running in childish joy in 
 and out among the wild flowers. . . . But I 
 am beside myself. I hardly know what I am 
 saying to you, or what I ought to say. 
 
 No, I will be strong; I want my Luke to 
 do his duty nobly, like the fine man he is. 
 I shall be so proud of him. And I have 
 faith; if he is at your side, I am sure that 
 death will not dare take my poor boy from 
 me. 
 
 Part of a Letter from Private Bourru to His 
 Friend Jolly, in the Hospital 
 
 . . . And it was some fight, believe me. 
 Ever since the mine went off, we had been 
 there, all three platoons, in the hammer- 
 shaped trench — you know, the one on the 
 
THE SADDEST DUTY 183 
 
 left. And it was raining dynamite, believe 
 me! The "easter-eggs," the "turtles," the 
 ''rat-tails," and the "sand-bags" were com- 
 ing down like hail. All the same, they 
 couldn't faze us. The captain had sent Cor- 
 poral Taupin down in the dug-out with six 
 fellows. One of them was the Charel boy, of 
 the class of '16 — you remember him? — he 
 was always the captain's favorite, and a nice 
 lad, too, but he'd get blisters on his hands the 
 minute he touched a spade-handle. It w^as 
 their turn in the trenches, because we had 
 been there last time — guess you haven't for- 
 gotten that, eh, down there in your white 
 sheets? All of a sudden a big torpedo went 
 off right by their dug-out — Boom ! — and an- 
 other one just after it, and then another. It 
 was enough to scramble your brains like 
 eggs. Well, the blokes in the dug-out must 
 have thought, "If the Bochcs keep sho\nng 
 'em at us like that, we're gonners," because 
 of a sudden they came scrambling out of the 
 dug-out, making triple time. They were 
 
184 BOURRU 
 
 pretty scared rats, at that. Mouchereau's 
 eyes were sticking out of his head like a 
 skinned rabbit's, and the Charel kid was yell- 
 ing, "Mamma! Mamma!" 
 
 But what did they do but run right into 
 the captain, who was standing at the en- 
 trance to the trench? You know the cap- 
 tain, eh ? He's all right, but he's no Sunday- 
 school teacher when there's trouble on. 
 
 "Stop!" he yells; "or I'll blow your brains 
 out!" 
 
 And he started in to tell 'em a few things 
 — Lord, you ought to have heard it! "Call 
 yourselves soldiers! Running away like 
 scared rats ! I'm ashamed of you ! I'd never 
 have believed it of the boys of the Twelfth — 
 well, I'll turn in my resignation, I'm dishon- 
 ored ! . . . Look at the other fellows, they're 
 laughing at you! . . . Aren't you the 
 same fellows that did for two companies 
 of Boches the first of March? Pull your- 
 selves together! . . . duty . . . sacrifice . . • 
 France ..." and so on, and so on. 
 
THE SADDEST DUTY 185 
 
 There's no use talking, at times like that 
 the captain knows how to put ginger into 
 you. Well, in a minute those blokes were 
 beginning to say: "Pardon us, captain. . . . 
 We're going back. . . .'* 
 
 And it wasn't ten minutes after that when 
 the Charel boy was killed, in the dug-out, 
 by a shell that tore him to pieces. 
 
 As he was the captain's pet the fellows 
 carried him back nicely in a tent-cloth, to 
 please the "old man," and buried him at the 
 "Barricade." 
 
 Fragments from the Diary of Captain Lair 
 
 Luke is dead! The son of AHce and of 
 that fine man who was Pierre Charel. It is 
 liorrible! And I am tormented by a doubt 
 — I must put my words on paper in order 
 that I may try to know my mind. Poor boy I 
 He was such a pretty child when I used to 
 play with him years ago, in the days of the 
 long vacations, when life was all before me 
 
186 BOURRU 
 
 with its promises of love and happiness. His 
 poor mother! How will she bear it? Her 
 despair will be horrible, she will blame 
 me. ... I shall never dare look at her 
 again ! 
 
 Oh ! I need to take refuge on the heights 
 of the ideals to which I have devoted my- 
 self. There I may find rest. Come, let me 
 rise above the tragic things of the hour. Did 
 I not do my duty? All the logic I possess 
 answers in the affirmative. I am an officer 
 of the army; in the name of an ideal higher 
 than man I have command over my men. 
 Their strength has been entrusted to me that 
 I may employ it as best I can in the interest 
 of our native land. JNIy duty is therefore to 
 control that strength which, by a law of na- 
 ture, tends to exert itself in the line of the 
 least resistance. My men, like all others, 
 need to spur their wills at every instant in 
 order that devotion to duty may triumph 
 over the instincts of weariness and fear. My 
 role is to aid them to this victory over them- 
 
THE SADDEST DUTY 187 
 
 selves ; and I fill it almost always by appeal- 
 ing to their noble sentiments, so strong and 
 so pure, but sometimes . . . Oh, heavens, 
 these are not machines, my soldiers! They 
 are men, like myself. Like all men they 
 have moments when the animal gets the 
 upper hand — moments which later on they 
 bitterly regret — and my duty, when those 
 moments come, is to sustain, even by force 
 if necessary, the nobler part of their souls. 
 
 By employing all possible means I must 
 keep them from committing an act of cow- 
 ardice which would dishonor them. That is 
 what I did to-day. 
 
 I ought to congratulate myself. The of- 
 ficer of the army must not forget that he 
 does his work in the domain of brute force; 
 and lie who yielded to pity would be useless. 
 iVt this moment it is a question of the life 
 or death of our race. Individuals do not 
 count ; that is the full meaning of the orders 
 given us by our great leaders when they say : 
 "You must fall in your tracks sooner than 
 
188 BOURRU 
 
 yield." That is the voice of our whole peo- 
 ple. Oh, what a detestable sophist seems 
 the philosopher who counselled us to "con- 
 sider man not as a means but as an end." 
 There is but one end to make certain of, at 
 this hour — the life of the French nation, 
 which alone will make possible the life of the 
 individual. Such is the eternal law, and 
 those who have applied it in times gone by 
 appear in history as benefactors of human- 
 ity. I am thinking of our great kings and 
 our illustrious generals. . . . 
 
 But my logic, however stern it may be, 
 cannot prevent my heart from breaking when 
 I think of poor Luke. He was such a fine 
 fellow! To-day his fear got the best of him, 
 but what of that? I know what war is; 
 there does not live a man who can be brave 
 at every hour. The greatest of heroes has 
 his hours of misgiving. Just yesterday, did 
 he not show magnificent bravery, this boy? 
 And he was so devoted to me! When the 
 company would pass in review his great 
 
THE SADDEST DUTY 189 
 
 eyes would fasten upon nie and would seem 
 to say: "I love you, my captain, my old 
 friend. . . ." And to-morrow I must ^v^ite 
 to tell his mother that he is dead ! 
 
 "Ah, it is easy to be severe!" think the 
 humble people, sometimes, when a cruel ty- 
 rant bears them down. But who will ever 
 tell of the terrific struggles that take place 
 in the hearts of certain leaders when they or- 
 der their subordinates to sacrilSce themselves 
 — those secret struggles in which the victory 
 brings such grief! "Be firm!" How many 
 of the people who repeat the words have 
 really understood their terrible meaning? I 
 mean to be firm, not in the manner of the 
 cowards who do wrong and yet save their 
 own skins, nor in the manner of those who 
 command sacrifices merely on paper, but in 
 the manner of a true leader who, without 
 weakening, can watch the blood flowing from 
 the veins of those he loves — because duty 
 demands it. 
 
 That firmness is what I showed to-dav. 
 
190 BOURRU 
 
 My mind can but approve it; it was my 
 duty; I shall do the same to-morrow, if it 
 is necessary. But in this hour, alone with 
 myself, since the tears that rise to my eyes 
 hinder me from writing, it is also my human 
 privilege to weep. 
 
XVIII 
 
 WAITING FOR A MIXE TO 
 EXPLODE 
 
 THERE are six soldiers and a cor- 
 poral in the little post on the east 
 — you know, the one that stands less 
 than twenty yards from the Boches. For 
 the moment all is perfectly quiet here. 
 
 Bourru has just explained, for the hun- 
 dredth time, his favorite theory: 
 
 "For my part, I'd rather be in the first 
 line, because when the bombing begins it's 
 always the second line that gets the worst 
 of it. All you have to do out here is to 
 watch the bombs going over your head." 
 
 And since things are so quiet all the men 
 are doing much as they please ; whether pol- 
 
 191 
 
192 BOURRU 
 
 ishing their rings, or reading over old let- 
 ters, or scratching their backs, or looking at 
 the clouds, they are just * 'killing time." 
 
 To fill out the scene round them you may 
 imagine piles of sandbags forming a parapet 
 such as the illustrated papers have shown 
 you often enough. 
 
 Suddenly there comes a sergeant who says 
 in low tones — you never speak out at this 
 particular post — "Say, boys! You've got 
 to keep your eyes open for the next few min- 
 utes. It looks as if the Boches were going 
 to spring a mine on you — maybe twenty or 
 thirty yards off, nobody knows exactly. As 
 soon as it goes off jump into the hole it 
 leaves and wait for us — we'll come to the 
 rescue." 
 
 "All right," reply the men. 
 
 Let your mind rest on the soldiers a mo- 
 ment. You know them, they are the com- 
 mon troopers that you see every day — 
 Bourru, a Burgundy vinegrower; Grossou, 
 a brick-mason so heavy in his motions that 
 
WAITING FOR A MINE TO EXPLODE 193 
 
 he always appears stuck in his mortar; 
 Huguenin, whose cheeks went pale during 
 years in the factory; Richard, a blond boy 
 of the class of '15 who receives perfumed 
 letters from his pretty mother; Gruppeau, 
 the corporal, a farmer from the Brie country. 
 Take them all together, they are just ordi- 
 nary human creatures, with all tlie faults 
 and failings of common humanity. If a 
 moralist were to assign them their places in 
 a scale of moral values, he would certainly 
 not put them above the average of their fel- 
 lowmen. 
 
 But a sergeant has just come to say a 
 dozen words to them, and what a change! 
 In a few minutes an inferno may open be- 
 neath their feet, but not one makes a motion 
 to get away. They stand here, stoic, mute. 
 
 Do you understand what a tremendous 
 leap they have just made upward in the scale 
 of virtue and nobility? A moment ago they 
 were just soldiers wondering when their 
 soup would come ; now they are heroes look- 
 
194 BOURRU 
 
 ing without a quiver into the face of death 
 that at any moment may accept their volun- 
 tary sacrifice. 
 
 This sudden mounting to the heights of 
 moral valor is the reality we should see in 
 the sublime drama if our eyes could pene- 
 trate beneath appearances. But just like 
 myself, in all probability, you see nothing in 
 the acts of these men except little gestures 
 that seem insignificant and even ridiculous. 
 One of them has his jaw working rapidly 
 and appears to have difficulty in swallowing, 
 another has let fall the ring that he was 
 polishing and has forgotten to pick it up, 
 and still another is opening his mouth and 
 yawning incessantly. Grossou is mechanic- 
 ally repeating: 
 
 "This will blow the hd off." 
 
 Corporal Gruppeau speaks. "Listen," he 
 says, "this is the way we'll do it. See that 
 you've got plenty of cartridges, and fill your 
 sacks with grenades — j'^ou've got your can- 
 teens full, eh? When the thing goes off, let 
 
WAITING FOR A MINE TO EXPLODE 195 
 
 every man be ready at the parapet. If 
 you're blown up — oh, well, you're blown up. 
 But if you're not hurt, run for the hole. 
 And at that minute we've got to give the 
 Boches all the hell we can with the gren- 
 ades." 
 
 This advice given, silence reigns over the 
 little group. Except that Vanneau, who has 
 his ear to the ground, maintains he can hear 
 muffled sounds, right underneath him. 
 
 The waiting continues — and how long the 
 minutes seem! The soldiers are sitting 
 down, with their rifles between their knees; 
 and often their eyes are lowered to the 
 ground, as if they could already see the first 
 flames of the red terror. Is it possible that 
 this firm, hard soil supporting them is going 
 to fly to pieces like a soap-bubble? 
 
 As I look steadily into the eyes of Bourru 
 I seem to see pictures passing before them 
 — a peasant's cottage that stands dreaming 
 beside a vineyard overlooking a broad plain ; 
 a hollow willow and two walnut-trees, near 
 
196 BOURRU 
 
 the door, which lend poetry to the picture. 
 On the steps, half hidden by the shade of 
 the trellis, stands Bourru's mother, with the 
 gentle and anxious face of the peasant 
 woman, always disquieted about the future. 
 She is looking out into the dusk to see 
 whether her son, delayed in the fields, is not 
 yet coming. In the kitchen the soup is boil- 
 ing. . . . The dear old mother! Just the 
 other day she sent a money-order, piously 
 pretending that "she had lots too much 
 money for herself." 
 
 "Poor old mother!" thinks Bourru. "She 
 will be all alone to look after the vines, as 
 in the first years when she was a widow. To 
 think that she may have to wait every night, 
 all through her old age, for one who will not 
 have come back from the war! Her little 
 eyes may be trembling as she looks in vain 
 toward the horizon where the laborers are 
 returning, and the soup may not be on the 
 fire, because she may lack the heart to pre- 
 pare it." 
 
WAITING FOR A MINE TO EXPLODE 197 
 
 Bourru looks at Grossou, who seems mel- 
 ancholy. 
 
 ''Come, cheer up, old boy! Don't worry 
 about it! I'll bet you're still thinking about 
 your Berrichonne" — for that is Grossou's 
 name for his wife. 
 
 "Oh, I ain't worrying — but it*s good-by 
 to wifie if this tiling gets you." 
 
 Richard, tbe young fellow who is so full 
 of life, is convinced for his part, though with- 
 out knowing why, that their little post won't 
 be blown up. 
 
 But possibly you do not care to have me 
 go on with tbis story? A mine-explosion is 
 a very commonplace affair — every day the 
 communique announces a few of them. You 
 have a good picture, have you not, of the 
 possibilities? Either the little post is di- 
 rectly above the mine, and in tbat case — turn 
 your eyes away from the ghastly cauldron; 
 or the tunnel goes a little to the side of it, 
 and if so, you know that Bourru and his com- 
 rades are going to plunge into tlie pit. . . . 
 
XIX 
 
 OCCUPYING THE MINE PIT 
 
 THE Boches must have felt rather 
 foohsh when the mine exploded — 
 for the "funnel'* blew out hardly 
 fifteen yards in front of their line, and their 
 own parapet suffered considerable damage. 
 This often happens. You must remember 
 that the miner digs his tunnel in fear of be- 
 ing buried alive, asphyxiated, or blown up, 
 and he hurries to get through his perilous 
 job. If his superior does not keep a careful 
 eye on his work, the mine may explode far 
 from where it was meant to. 
 
 The Boches were astonished, as I was 
 saying; but that is merely a supposition, for 
 fear is infinitely stronger than surprise. 
 
 198 
 
OCCUPYING THE MINE PIT 199 
 
 In precipitate flight they have abandoned 
 the part of the trench where the parapet no 
 longer protected them. 
 
 Bourru and his five companions are al- 
 ready crouching in the bottom of their new 
 hole. Ilugiienin, at the noise of the explo- 
 sion, had a sudden rush of memory back to 
 a tragic moment long ago when the red flame 
 of a catastrophe wrought havoc in his fac- 
 tory. Richard closed his eyes that he might 
 not see the blocks of stone soaring into the 
 air. Grossou buried his shoulder still more 
 deeply between two protecting sand-bags. 
 Still another man iiiade a gesture with his 
 hands as if to ward off the flying stones. 
 
 For this was certainly a perilous moment 
 in the great drama — only, the actors here 
 were too much hardened to the risks of their 
 profession to lose their wits for long. 
 
 "Come on, boys!" yelled the corporal. 
 
 Hands clutched at the wall of sand-bags, 
 and bodies leapt up, stumbled, rose again — 
 and a moment later the soldiers reached the 
 
200 BOURRU 
 
 new hole, five yards in diameter ; for a heavy 
 smoke was masking their movements. 
 
 In a moment their new work-shop was 
 being organized. 
 
 "Come here, you two — pile up earth on 
 this side of the hole to make a parapet. 
 You, Bourru, keep your eye out for the 
 Boches. Richard! Get the grenades in 
 place!" 
 
 It is a simple task the men have — to stay 
 in the "funnel" until their comrades in the 
 rear can dig a trench to connect the French 
 line with the hole they have occupied. As 
 a tactical problem it is child's play; but re- 
 member that, from this minute on, the six 
 men can count on nothing but that future 
 connecting- trench for re-entering their lines, 
 because the bullets will always be shaving 
 the ground above. 
 
 Now that the last wreaths of smoke from 
 the explosion are rising to heaven, the Ger- 
 mans try to get back into their trench. It 
 is not easy — the trench mortars have been 
 
OCCUPYING THE MINE PIT 201 
 
 turned on the whole position. Grenades, 
 petards, torpedoes, and missiles of all kinds 
 are cutting the air in such numbers that one 
 cannot calculate their directions. 
 
 The six soldiers are hard at work in their 
 hole. Every thirty or forty seconds Rich- 
 ard and Iluguenin throw a grenade into the 
 opposing trenches to keep the Bodies from 
 reoccupying them. Bourru is shooting 
 without a pause. Grossou and another man 
 are building up a parapet. Not a man is 
 speaking a word. If you are listening for 
 heroic words you are losing your time, and 
 if you are looking for men to strike sublime 
 attitudes, you must go elsewhere. This is 
 nothing but a work-shop, where six good 
 hands are straining at their toil; you won't 
 hear anything but an occasional grunt, a 
 scolding word, an oath — and you will see 
 faces very pale or very red, as in moments 
 of intense effort. 
 
 But what are the boys behind doing? You 
 cannot hear them digging. ... If only the 
 
202 BOURRU 
 
 trench gets finished out to us before the 
 Boches come back in front ! 
 
 "Don't you worry about that, boys !" says 
 the corporal. "You get your job done and 
 the rest is easy." 
 
 But it's no fun, all the same. Grenades 
 go on exploding here and there, not far from 
 our soldiers — one can see that they have been 
 thrown wild. 
 
 "Well, what about it? Are they coming, 
 those fellows?" asks Richard. 
 
 One — two — three grenades fall, still 
 nearer to the hole, and the fragments go 
 whistling over our men. And then comes a 
 surprise — the grenades are coming from the 
 French side. It must be from a group that 
 does not know we have taken the hole. 
 
 "Stop! Stop! We're holding the hole!" 
 cry out six soldiers. 
 
 Their comrades recognize their mistake. 
 Now one can hear them digging. 
 
 But a German must have made his way 
 into the abandoned trench, for the projec- 
 
OCCUPYING THE MINE PIT 203 
 
 tiles from that side begin to come nearer. 
 All at once Grossou's hand flies to his throat, 
 in an effort to stop a hole from which the 
 blood is pouring; but he sinks to the ground 
 without a word. 
 
 A moment later a grenade falls in the mid- 
 dle of the group. It is smoking — in a sec- 
 ond it will burst. ... In a flasli the cor- 
 poral has seized it and sent it back . . . none 
 too soon! 
 
 They must chase away the enemy gren- 
 ade-throwers who have installed themselves 
 within easy reach in front. Iluguenin rips 
 out an oath, rises to get a better sight, and 
 in five seconds he hurls into the Boche 
 trenches three "spoon" grenades — you know, 
 the kind that explode on contact. Take my 
 advice, and when you have to occupy a trench 
 always use this kind; they are the best. But 
 a shower of bullets has passed, and Ilugue- 
 nin is now squatting in the bottom of the 
 hole, looking at his arm that hangs inert, 
 with blood running from the sleeve. 
 
204 BOURRU 
 
 Thanks to him, however, the enemy gren- 
 ade-throwers have stopped work — ^he must 
 have got some of them. Only those who are 
 out of reach continue to throw projectiles, 
 which come to the ground some yards away 
 from us. Richard is getting nervous. 
 
 "Come on, you fellows, hurry up with 
 your picks and spades. We can't hold 
 here " 
 
 They can hear the digging going on with 
 redoubled speed; the work ought to be well 
 advanced. This thing has already lasted 
 thirty minutes. And suddenly Bourru is 
 saying: "There are only ten grenades 
 left!" 
 
 They must be used sparingly, in order to 
 hold out at least fifteen minutes more. 
 There I That one was well placed. A Boche 
 had showed his head, and the missile fell 
 squarely on it. 
 
 It is lucky that the parapet opposite was 
 torn down, for but for that the Boches would 
 have come back long ago. 
 
OCCUPYING THE MINE PIT 205 
 
 "Attention! Look out! Here's a tor- 
 pedo coming our way!" 
 
 The thing swings down through the air 
 and falls a few yards away, with a formid- 
 able explosion. You can feel your lungs 
 bursting, your head going empty, and some- 
 thing like a fist-blow at the base of your 
 brain, — the characteristic sensation from the 
 shock. Red, green, and yellow lights dance 
 before your eyes. Richard has suddenly 
 leaped erect, with a wild look — you can see 
 that the commotion is driving him cr&zy. In 
 his instant of madness he will try to run — 
 no matter where. . . . Bourru has just time 
 to catch him by the foot and drag him 
 down. . . . None too soon! A shower of 
 bullets swings over the hole like the blade 
 of a guillotine. 
 
 "Hurry up, boys! Hurry up! There's 
 only three of us left !" 
 
 But the three, without relaxation, continue 
 shooting and throwing grenades. Finally 
 the wall of their hole begins to crumble — the 
 
206 BOURRU 
 
 trench has been dug. Comrades are arriv- 
 ing with sacks full of grenades. The hole 
 will be fortified, and to-morrow you will 
 read in the paper: "At Vauquois, the usual 
 battle of grenades." 
 
XX 
 
 THE SECRET GARDEN 
 
 YES, it is true; Bourru never speaks of 
 his dreams of love, and more than 
 once you have been surprised into 
 saying, "This Bourru must have the heart 
 of an old bachelor." But there are subtle 
 reasons for his reticence. In order to under- 
 stand them fully, you would have to look 
 into our soldier's soul at the moment 
 when, with a singular expression, he is 
 watching his comrades writing to their wives 
 or sweethearts. Across the face of Bourru, 
 at these moments, there passes an expres- 
 sion of something like bitter pride; you 
 I^Wd say that our soldier is resisting a great 
 Temptation, that his heart is breaking under 
 
 207 
 
208 BOURRU 
 
 it, but that at the same time he is lifted high 
 in his own respect. 
 
 Let me tell you my interpretation of this. 
 Before he came to war, Bourru, like the oth- 
 ers, knew a young girl in his village the 
 glance of whose eye used to set his heart 
 beating. It began very long ago, he no 
 longer remembers when. At first it was a 
 tender feeling of comradeship, such as ex- 
 isted between other boys and girls in the 
 same village; but very soon Bourru had 
 come to know that he was happier on the 
 days when he had met Suzanne and she had 
 smiled at him. 
 
 Oh, he had never made a declaration to 
 her I In the countryside one is prudent, one 
 weighs matters very carefully the moment 
 they promise to become serious. Well, Su- 
 zanne was the daughter of a well-to-do 
 farmer ; she was industrious and painstaking, 
 she would be a good wife for him ; but there 
 was no hurry. Bourru was only twenty- 
 eight, and before he married he wanted to 
 
THE SECRET GARDEN 209 
 
 acquire a little piece of land that borders the 
 Maison-Rouge. 
 
 After this purchase had been made, he 
 might see. Meanwhile he contented himself, 
 each time he saw the young girl, with say- 
 ing: 
 
 "Ah, there you go, Suzanne!" 
 
 "Just so, Louis, I'm going to drive the 
 cows home." 
 
 And the two young people went their 
 ways glad at heart. Each of the two was 
 secretly sure that they "were suited to each 
 other" and that some day they would be 
 married. 
 
 The war is on, and Bourru is at Vau- 
 quois. At the beginning our soldier said to 
 himself, "There's no need writing, I'll be 
 back in three months." After having looked 
 death in the face, Bourru wanted to write to 
 Suzanne; a mad desire took possession of 
 him to declare his love to the young girl be- 
 fore he should die. But a feeling of pride 
 restrained hmi. What! Go begging for 
 
210 BOURRU 
 
 love when at any minute you may vanish 
 from the face of the earth — that would be 
 silly! *'If I tell her I love her/' he reasons, 
 "she will love me, I know it; and then if I 
 am killed, she will suffer, and that will 
 make one more widow, without even a mar- 
 riage." 
 
 And still, how he is tempted to write love 
 letters! He sees others doing so all round 
 him; it is the great occupation, in the hours 
 of rest, of all the soldiers. One has only to 
 see the brilliant ej^es and the glowing cheeks 
 of the writers in order to guess what tender 
 emotions they are putting into words, some 
 of them with painful slowness, others at fev- 
 erish speed. Ah! To have a wife back at 
 home whom you know to be troubled, giuev- 
 ing, revolted at the cruel fate that menaces 
 you — what a comfort it is! 
 
 "You would think," growls Bourru as he 
 watches his comrades, "that it amuses them 
 to know that a woman is suffering for 
 them." 
 
I THE SECRET GARDEN 211 
 
 It shall not be said that he had recourse 
 to this consolation of the weak. The strong 
 man, though overwhelmed by destiny, does 
 not call a woman to his aid. There is in 
 Bourru the instinct of the ancient knight 
 who made it a point of honor to keep all 
 danger at a distance from his lady. But it 
 is hard ; and sometimes when Bourru's mind 
 reverts to Suzanne his eyes grow moist at 
 the thought of the phrases she might write 
 to him. Oh ! She would be courageous, be- 
 yond a doubt; she would write: "Be brave, 
 dear Louis, I love you and that will protect 
 you in the battle." 
 
 "Yes, it is true," he would think; "if I 
 wrote to her, she would answer in those 
 words, and it might be that her love would 
 bring me good luck — who knows ?" But the 
 strong will of the peasant always regained 
 control: "There's no good in making a widow 
 before her wedding." It was his favorite 
 ^conclusion. It seemed to him to be the just 
 0ne. He felt that he had no right to move a 
 
212 BOURRU 
 
 woman's heart to love so long as he was 
 under daily threat of death, as he was now. 
 To write a love-letter to Suzanne would be 
 to promise her a man when perhaps he could 
 only give her a corpse. Thus he would rea- 
 son, with his hard-headed peasant logic. 
 And for my part I find a certain nobility in 
 his feelings ; so many fellows around Bourru 
 were whimpering for the pity of a woman 
 that one must have a certain admiration for 
 this self-controlled rustic. You can feel full 
 well, can you not, what treasures of love my 
 Bourru is thus laying up in his heart? Ah! 
 he does not expose his feelings, this hero of 
 mine; his peasant ways make a homely but 
 durable cloak for them. The war will come 
 to its end. And some day, perhaps, Bourru 
 will say to his Suzanne, "I love you." He 
 will not tell her all the secret reasons that 
 kept him from an avowal during the war. 
 It would be too difficult. He will tell her, 
 and keep on telling her, only his favorite 
 phrase : "I didn't want to make a widow be- 
 
THE SECRET GARDEN 213 
 
 fore the wedding"; but he will feel within 
 him a great sentiment of pride, as of a man 
 who has succeeded in fulfilling a great 
 duty. 
 
XXI 
 
 THE DAYS OF TUNNELS 
 
 FOR Bourru, who spent four years at 
 Vauquois, there is, in the course of 
 the war at this position, one outstand- 
 ing date; namely, that which marks the be- 
 ginning of the war underground. 
 
 I have shown you the hfe of the soldier 
 during the months that followed the capture 
 of the hill. The men installed themselves in 
 the position with great haste, which meant, 
 of course, with only modest defences. To 
 protect themselves from trench-mortars 
 there is no other resource but to run from 
 left to right, unless one prefers the illusion 
 of a tent-cover. So the men came to live 
 under the obsession that the heavens were 
 
 214 
 
THE DAYS OF TUNNELS 215 
 
 a perpetual menace. If they could but in- 
 terpose masonry, earth, wood-work, between 
 themselves and the sky whence the bombs 
 rained, what a relief it would be! Around 
 tlie month of July, 1915, there was a begin- 
 ning at digging tunnels. They were merely 
 narrow holes sunk into the hill, but with 
 what a zeal the men worked at them! 
 
 They soon grew large enough to hold en- 
 tire companies. And then one breathed 
 more easily. The men would take their 
 places in the tunnels whenever they were 
 not in active service, and so they were pro- 
 tected from all danger. With from six to 
 ten yards of earth above them they could 
 sleep in peace, heat up their soup, or play 
 cards by candle-light. 
 
 For those who love the contrasts of life 
 this existence offers notable examples, run- 
 ning all the way from extreme peril to abso- 
 lute security. Thus, you are on sentinel 
 duty in the first line, and a bombardment 
 begins. Crouching amid the sand-bags you 
 
216 BOURRU 
 
 await the hour which will mark the end of 
 your turn. The shells are falling right and 
 left of you ; every minute you hear one com- 
 ing from afar, from the direction of Mont- 
 faucon. First there is a detonation in the 
 distance — the firing of the gun — then a sin- 
 ister whistling, and finally the explosion 
 upon arrival, which shakes the whole hill. 
 This particular shell was not for you. But 
 the next? And the others that will follow? 
 Yet there is nothing to do but wait. Why 
 move? The place where you go to may be 
 the point where the next shell will fall. Re- 
 signed, you remain motionless, but with what 
 an emotion in your heart! No matter how 
 long he has been at Vauquois, for every man 
 these minutes are minutes of terror. No, 
 pardon me, that is not the right word. The 
 first time, under the shells, you feel an ex- 
 treme horror that paralyses all thought; 
 then, thanks to experience, the fear becomes 
 more spiritualized, and you are something 
 better than so much flesh shaken by fright; 
 
THE DAYS OF TUNNELS 217 
 
 you are a man, who with a clear mind says 
 to himself: 
 
 ^'There's no chance for me to escape this 
 time — their fire seems too well directed." 
 
 And your ear follows the whistling shells, 
 and your mind estimates the destination, al- 
 ways nearer and nearer to you. 
 
 But two hours have slipped away; from 
 the connecting-trench a comrade emerges — 
 you are relieved I You leap down the slope, 
 and with a bound you are in the tunnel. Oh, 
 what relaxation for mind and body I Here 
 there is no more danger; you can go to sleep 
 in peace without even a thought for the 
 comrade who has taken your place. What 
 good would it do to pity him? That would 
 not keep the shells from coming on. 
 
XXII 
 
 A SESSION WITH THE TRENCH- 
 MORTARS 
 
 " ^^^ OME, tell us about your last gren- 
 1 J ade-battle !" says some good friend 
 to a man on furlough. "It must 
 have been great fun, eh? Wliat a game it 
 must be, throwing bombs and gi-enades 
 across trenches! On the whole, it must be 
 very much like a fight with snow-balls be- 
 tween gamins, I suppose — and they say 
 that the poilus are just big happy chil- 
 dren!" 
 
 Oh, that legend of the merry poilu, how it 
 enrages us! Heavens, yes! We make 
 jokes, but must one keep laboriously insist- 
 ing that the witticisms of the soldier under 
 
 218 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 219 
 
 fire do not arise from a good digestion, but 
 simply from a resolution that defies death? 
 Listen, I will tell you about the last bomb- 
 ing that Bourru had a part in. You must 
 not expect any jokes, but perhaps that will 
 make you appreciate more fully the merit of 
 the men who have the courage to make jokes 
 at such moments. 
 
 It is ten o'clock at night. Bourru is stand- 
 ing sentinel in the first line, twenty yards 
 from the German trench. All is quiet. Tlie 
 winter night is dark and damp. The soldier 
 is waiting — in full knowledge that for the 
 last three months not a night has passed in 
 quietude. The bombanhnent is going to 
 rage, and he knows it. When ? No one can 
 I^Br. In a few minutes or in a few hours? 
 '^R one knows. Neither tactics nor strategy 
 ^^ynvolved in this matter. It is not a thing 
 l^pnned in the brain of some general. What 
 will decide the fatal minute will be the ca- 
 price of some man who suddenly feels the 
 desire to kill awakening in his breast. . . . 
 
220 BOURRU 
 
 At a quarter past ten there is a detonation 
 in the enemy lines. 
 
 "There she goes," murmurs Bourru. 
 
 And if you could see him you would no- 
 tice that he has turned paler. Immediately, 
 there are other detonations. Those are tor- 
 pedoes, bombs, petards, that rise into the 
 sky and streak it with luminous lines. Over 
 the six hundred yards of the hill-top these 
 gleams spring up incessantly — that is a 
 trench bombardment. It is as if a mon- 
 strous dragon, such as you see in mediseval 
 pictures, had just risen in fury to dart 
 flashes from his throat. 
 
 Bourru looks and listens with all atten- 
 tion. He must be on his guard lest the 
 enemy take advantage of the noise and com- 
 motion to launch a surprise attack. But 
 Bourru is also thinking of protecting his 
 own skin. Thinking, did I say? No, he is 
 not thinking, it is only his instinct that has 
 long been engaged in the struggle against 
 death; Bourru is just obeying the reflex mo- 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 221 
 
 tions suggested by his sensations of sight 
 and sound. 
 
 Does a luminous streak cut into the sky 
 from the direction of the enemy? It is a 
 torpedo going up. Like a comet it trails 
 behind it particles of fire, but, once arrived 
 at the top of its curve, the luminous trail 
 grows thin, then vanishes. After tliat one 
 hears the thing tearing the air as it falls out 
 of the black sky. Where is it going to fall? 
 Your eyes search vainly in the dark for some 
 place to run for protection ... to the 
 right ... to the left? 
 
 Boom! . . . Whew! 
 
 The torpedo has fallen at least sixty yards 
 away. The missiles from the trench-mortars 
 are like midges flying through the air. Only 
 the burning fuses mark their passage as they 
 go. They are flying high over Bourru's 
 head. 
 
 But the grenades and petards, what 
 treacherous pests! You cannot see them. 
 You simply hear them light — Spat! — like a 
 
222 BOURRU 
 
 stone falling by your side, and before you 
 have time to think — Bang! Zim! Bow! — 
 they burst and whistle and squirt smoke with 
 a smell like ether which rasps in your throat. 
 
 Bourru resigns himself to it. Pressed 
 close between two sand-bags, he waits. . . . 
 
 Ah, where are they, those good old times 
 when trench bombing went on only by day- 
 light? In those days the monstrous enter- 
 prise slept during the nights. Not that bom- 
 bardment by day was at all agreeable, but 
 there was one advantage in it. You could 
 see; you could watch the infernal machines 
 that streaked down toward you and guess 
 where they were going to fall. Then, ac- 
 cording to need, you could run from right to 
 left, with your head lifted to the sky. 
 
 But what is this? Four soldiers have just 
 gone by, running into the connecting-trench. 
 They are new fellows. Instead of standing 
 stoically in their places, under the storm, 
 what have the fools done but try to run to 
 a safe place, as one would do in broad day- 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 223 
 
 light? They thought a torpedo was coming 
 at them. And now in their halhicination 
 their eyes see another coming on the left — 
 and a new chase follows in the reverse direc- 
 tion. They go by again like a herd stam- 
 peded. 
 
 Thunder! One of tlic cowards has tripped 
 over his gun. lie is rolling in the mud and 
 his companions are running over him in the 
 dark. 
 
 "Hey, you blanked idiots!" cries Bournj; 
 "stand still and keep (piiet!'* 
 
 What imprudence! One must never yell 
 in the first line. Bourru*s angry exclama- 
 tion has attracted the attention of the 
 Bodies, and they start raining grenades on 
 the point where the men were wrangling. 
 
 Bourru gives them a warm reply. One 
 of the scared fellows, encouraged by his 
 example, comes to his aid, and then an- 
 other. Grenades, rat-tails, turtles, — every- 
 thing is hurling, howling, bursting. What 
 a racket! 
 
224 BOURRU 
 
 Finally the enemy bombers become quiet, 
 but the trench-mortars continue. Huddled 
 up in the sand-bags, our men have met no 
 harm, excepting one who has "caught" a 
 piece of shell in the cheek. 
 
 The thing has been going on for an hour 
 now, and the bombing has been intense. If 
 you breathe you swallow as much dust as 
 smoke, and it makes you sneeze. A thou- 
 sand bells ring in your ears. 
 
 While Bourru and the other sentinels pro- 
 tect themselves as best they can in the first 
 line, their comrades of the company are but 
 fifty yards to the rear, in a tunnel. 
 
 Imagine a cavern sunk into the hill like a 
 long gallery. At the entrance to the tunnel 
 the roof of protecting earth is quite thin, 
 but at the other end the resting men have 
 twenty or thirty yards of earth above their 
 heads. Here they are quiet, indifferent to 
 the bombing, but by no means comfortable. 
 Heavens, no! Crowded together, the men 
 have not even room to lie down ; the water is 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 225 
 
 trickling down the beams that support the 
 earth, and they walk in thick mud. To rest 
 themselves the soldiers have sat down on 
 their packs, huddled up, dozing with their 
 heads on one another's shoulders. A watch- 
 man is stationed at the entrance to the tun- 
 nel, ready to transmit the call for help from 
 the sentinels in the first line. 
 
 Outside, the trench-mortars are raging. 
 
 "Look out!" says Bourru — "there's one 
 coming for us I" 
 
 It is a torpedo showing its luminous trail 
 exactly in front of one of them. Flat on the 
 bottom of the trench, face to the ground, 
 eyes and ears stopped by their hands, the 
 men wait. . . . Tliere comes a horrible de- 
 tonation — a hundred pounds of high explo- 
 sive I Every muscle is contracted to make 
 still smaller the body that crouches ready to 
 howl with pain. 
 
 "Ah! Ah!" pants Bourru, lifting his 
 iiead. "That must have fallen on the tunnel 
 of our company." 
 
226 BOUIIRU 
 
 But this is no time for going to see; and 
 anyway, the tunnel is safe. 
 
 The hour for our relief has passed — and 
 the others have not come. Bourru is 
 troubled. Can an accident have befallen the 
 tunnel? 
 
 Taking advantage of a quiet moment, our 
 soldier goes down the fifty yards of trench 
 that separate him from the shelter. But 
 where is the entrance? The ground is torn 
 up — the trench is ruined. Groping, Bourru 
 advances. Ah, that is it! The torpedo fell 
 on the tunnel. But still, — the tunnel cannot 
 have caved in from one end to the other. . . . 
 Bourru picks out his way, crawling. The 
 torn earth smells of ether, and it seems as if 
 an odor of blood hovered round it, too. . . . 
 
 Finally Bourru finds a fissure in the 
 ground, revealing a dim light from within. 
 He makes his way into the tunnel. Now 
 that he is underground he can take out his 
 electric flashlight. 
 
 Horror! One of his comrades — the one 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 227 
 
 who was watching at the tunnel's entrance 
 — stands erect, stuck fast between two posts. 
 The concussion of the torpedo, bursting at 
 the very entrance, had hurled him with such 
 violence that his bruised and mangled body 
 is jammed fast into the wall, between the 
 posts. His clothes are torn to rags, and 
 the body has become like some shapeless 
 bundle that is stuffed into a hole to keep 
 out the air. Notliing has struck him; 
 the concussion alone has ripjK'd his vitals 
 apart. 
 
 In the interior of the cavern the effects of 
 the explosion have been less violent, thoup[h 
 still sufficient to tear down joists, and throw 
 everything into confusion, and set off, by 
 concussion, a supply of grenades. 
 
 A number of men are wounded. A thick 
 cloud of dust hangs in the vault, and is 
 scarcely pierced by the gleam of a candle. 
 Some men are sitting motionless, with hag- 
 gard eyes; others are groping about, caring 
 for the wounded ; one is shaking his head as 
 
228 BOURRU 
 
 a token that he can no longer hear, that his 
 ear-drums are burst. 
 
 Fortunately Bourru remembers the pick- 
 axe, which works by compressed air, and is 
 used for digging tunnels. He opens the 
 valve, and the air escapes with a burst, car- 
 rying the dust away on its current. 
 
 But I have told enough of this tale. I am 
 afraid you will take me for a reporter "play- 
 ing up" the story of a catastrophe in order 
 to make more copy. 
 
 Yes, indeed, our war is like a series of 
 factory catastrophes, and we are quite aware 
 that we are lacking in "heroic grandeur." 
 What is more banal than a session with the 
 trench-mortars? 
 
 That is certainly Bourru's feeling about it. 
 Listen to the man himself, the morning after, 
 as he sits quietly at the mouth of a tunnel, 
 warming himself in the pale rays of a Jan- 
 uary sun, and talking of the accident of the 
 night before. 
 
 "There's no use talking, all things consid- 
 
A SESSION WITH THE MORTARS 229 
 
 ered the place is a sight better than it used 
 to be six months ago. In those days you 
 had to spend your time running up and 
 down the trench to get away from the bombs. 
 Now you've got shelters, you've got tunnels. 
 Of course, there's an accident once in a while, 
 but in general it's all serene." 
 
XXIII 
 
 A DAY UNDERGROUND IN THE 
 TIME OF THE MINES 
 
 ONLY the night before two sappers 
 had been brought out from a min- 
 ing tunnel asphyxiated by gases 
 that had come over them stealthily from no 
 one knew where. It is very strange, but 
 from being continually mined, hollowed out, 
 and dug up, as from the daily explosions of 
 cheddite inside the hill, the earth of it is 
 saturated with toxic vapors. There are fis- 
 sures that belch smoke at you, coming from 
 heaven knows where, and there are pockets 
 of gas formed which some fine day will break 
 loose — and the result is that in the under- 
 ground shelters you often find yourself dis- 
 
 230 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 231 
 
 comfited, or even asphyxiated, before you 
 have time to say a word. Bourru is upset 
 by it. Ever since there have been tunnels 
 at Vauquois he has found hfe unendurable 
 there. As for taking tlie trench bombs as 
 they came, in the first line, that's the same 
 thing at Vauquois or anywhere else ; but now 
 there's no way of staying quiet, for the 
 blasted sappers have gone and invented the 
 devil's own war! 
 
 For instance, a moment ago Bourru was 
 sleeping quite peacefully in the tunnel — he 
 had found a fine way to rest easy. You 
 know what the scene is like, I suppose? The 
 tunnel is narrow, about a yard and a half 
 wide, so that the roof may resist the bom- 
 bardments as firmly as possible. You go 
 down into it by a flight of steps. If you 
 have to sleep inside it, your first idea, of 
 course, would be to stretch yourself along 
 the wall. But that won't do. Take this 
 lamp (it's an old tin in which somebody has 
 put a wick and camphorated oil, intended to 
 
232 BOURRU 
 
 kill lice) and look at the ground. You see 
 it is covered with water, and you can't go to 
 bed in that! Do as Bourru does. He has 
 managed to place a plank near the steps at 
 the entrance, with one end resting on a step 
 and the other held up by two wires from the 
 ceihng. In this way you can defy the water 
 on the floor, though heaven knows you can 
 do nothing against that which trickles from 
 the ceiling. You must be resigned to letting 
 the drops fall on your nose. Oh, well, what 
 of it? In this comfortable posture Bourru 
 would take his sleep — without turning, of 
 course, for fear of a tumble. 
 
 But for the last half -hour his slumbers 
 have been troubled. As he went to sleep he 
 was thinking: 
 
 "If only the gas doesn't get loose in the 
 passage! With these mysterious enemies, 
 you never know what will happen." 
 
 So now he is dreaming. He seems to have 
 a bag of sand on his chest, and finds it hard 
 to breathe. . . . Suddenly the sand-bag 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 
 
 233 
 
 turns to vapor, the place is full of smoke, he 
 is stifling, and a numbness is making his 
 limbs heavy and lifeless. ... In his semi- 
 consciousness, the sleeper suspects what has 
 happened. The gas ! The gas has come and 
 he cannot get away! He is going to die 
 there. . . . What tough luck! . . , But 
 there's no way to move these leaden arms and 
 legs. . . . 
 
 Bourru is jostled by one of his fellows 
 moving on the steps, and he comes to him- 
 self in reality. Sure enough, there is smoke 
 around, but it comes only from the lamp. 
 It's another trick of that scoundrel Fouge- 
 res, who has put foot-grease in the lamp in- 
 stead of oil, and it smokes! Wide awake, 
 and in a bad humor, our soldier growls at 
 the man who is rubbing against him: 
 
 "Say, can't you be a little careful when 
 you go by? You woke me up." 
 
 *'See here, you bloke," replies the other, in 
 surly tones, "I'm carrying a bag of dirt, and 
 if you like I'll just drop it on you." 
 
234< BOURRU 
 
 These men carrying sacks of earth keep 
 going by, pressing against the sleepers, step- 
 ping over them. But what remedy? We 
 are still digging at the other end of the tun- 
 nel, and the compressed-air shovel is scratch- 
 ing away to enlarge the cavern. The earth 
 it shears off must be carried away. 
 
 "A man can't breathe in here!" cries 
 Bourru to his companions. 
 
 True, but in the tunnels you must resign 
 yourself to that. You can either stay near 
 the mouth and endure a fierce draught, or 
 you can content yourself with the heavy, 
 stagnant, vicious air farther in. The latter 
 solution is usually adopted; and that is the 
 reason why, when you look at Vauquois from 
 a distance, you see a kind of mist rising from 
 points here and there. The points are the 
 mouths of the tunnels, and the mist is the 
 vapor from the respiration of the men who 
 live inside the hill. 
 
 The Boches are fully aware of this and 
 they are constantly shooting at the points 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 235 
 
 whence these mists arise, hoping to hit sol- 
 diers entering or leaving the tunnel. The 
 men are used to it. Nevertheless, every time 
 he has to go out, Bourru clenches his fists, 
 lowers his head, and rushes fast — very fast 
 — for the opening that leads to the connect- 
 ing-trench. 
 
 Bourru suffers from still another kind of 
 dread in the tunnel, but should I ever be able 
 to make you feel the subtle anxiety in which 
 it constantly hovers round his heart? You 
 are well aware that a month or so ago a 
 Boche mine exploded on the west side of the 
 hill, a mine of at least four tons of explosive. 
 It made a crater a hundred yards across and 
 thirty deep. Half a company of our men 
 disappeared. And that was not the first 
 thing of the kind. It is said that the Bodies 
 have two more mines of the same size to set 
 off, one in the center and another toward the 
 west. Of course the engineers on our side 
 are paying them in their own coin. Every 
 day you can hear explosions, but that is no 
 
236 BOURRU 
 
 surety that the Boche mines are not still 
 there; and they are on your mind all the 
 time. 
 
 Back in the rest cantonment, even, this 
 idea was already haunting our men. Among 
 their groups you could hear snatches of con- 
 versation like this : 
 
 "Well, we'll be on the east in the next 
 shift," Fougeres is saying to Bourru; "and 
 we'll do some high flying, you bet! It'll 
 look funny. ..." 
 
 "Don't you worry," puts in Lachard. 
 "It's all hot air about that mine — I was talk- 
 ing with some chaps in the Engineers, and 
 they told me there was no mine there." 
 
 "Don't you believe it," says Chomel. 
 "I'm on the good side of the secretaries at 
 headquarters, and they told me that some 
 Boche prisoners had said the mine was all 
 ready." 
 
 Once in a while, at night, a rumor would 
 run about the captonment like a trail of 
 burning gunpowder: the mine had gone off. 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 237 
 
 and it was the — th regiment that caught it. 
 Of course the men would pity their com- 
 rades, but — well, so long as fate had decided 
 that this should fall to their lot . . . Ah, 
 but the rumor was false, nothing had ex- 
 ploded. 
 
 "Oh, well!" thinks Bourru, "here we are, 
 now, in the tunnel; if she blows up, so much 
 the worse !" 
 
 It is a queer thing that, whereas before 
 going up into the line the mine was the sub- 
 ject of every conversation and more than 
 one face used to pale when it was referred 
 to, now the thing is very seldom mentioned. 
 Every one of these men resorts to the sys- 
 tem of defence classical in psychology — un- 
 able in reality to suppress the latent danger, 
 they suppress it in thought, or rather make- 
 believe to suppress it, by not giving it ex- 
 pression. But it nevertheless continues to 
 act upon the mind of Bourru; it is one of 
 those ideas that live on within you, at once 
 hidden and present, and give their imprint to 
 
238 BOURRU 
 
 all your emotions, all your thoughts, even to 
 those that are most unrelated. A man 
 threatened by a mine against which he is 
 powerless is like a poor cardiac sufferer who 
 goes through life saying to himself: "My 
 aneurism may break at any moment." And 
 this puts as somber tints into the verdure of 
 the spring as into the gold of autumn. 
 
 But whatever his state of mind, you must 
 not imagine that Bourru is going to 
 display his feelings to everybody else. 
 Heavens, no! When there is some chance 
 reference to the mine, he makes merry about 
 the sensations he hopes to have as he flies 
 through the air straddling a chunk of earth. 
 And everybody displays the riches of his 
 imagination in embroidering the theme. 
 
 It is true, as I said, that there is very little 
 talk of the mine. Nevertheless, at every 
 moment there is some soldier who, by acci- 
 dent, — oh, entirely by accident! — ^has just 
 heard a noise — right there, under his feet. 
 Of course it can't be anything, he tells you; 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 239 
 
 still, one might as well listen with all his 
 ears. Nobody's afraid, of course, but if you 
 heard anything, you ought to tell the fellows 
 in the engineers, they would be glad to 
 know. . . . 
 
 Every one stops talking and listens. 
 
 "I hear somebody tapping," says one man. 
 
 "Oh, get out!" says another. "That's the 
 bombs above." 
 
 But they go off, all the same, to tell the 
 lieutenant, who will tell Captain Laignier 
 of the engineers, the great master sapper of 
 Vauquois. And invariably Captain Laig- 
 nier says: 
 
 "I assure you there is no danger." 
 
 Yes, but if there were, would he say so? 
 
 "Oh, come on and let's play cards!" says 
 Lachard. "That's better tlian tliinking for- 
 ever about that danmed mine. It'll drive us 
 crazy." 
 
 And it is quite true that a sergeant did go 
 crazy the other day. He was running to the 
 lieutenant every five minutes to say that the 
 
240 BOURRU 
 
 mine was going to explode. They sent him 
 away. 
 
 "You said it," mutters Bourru; "I'm 
 through thinking about that mine." 
 
 He keeps repeating the sentence to him- 
 self and his arm makes violent motions, as 
 a man makes threatening gestures to drive 
 away a tramp who is bent on climbing over 
 the garden fence. 
 
 Then all at once the pillars of the cave 
 begin to shake and creak as if a shock from 
 the right was throwing them down — and 
 then another shock drives them back from 
 the left. The candles have gone out. . . . 
 It's the mine exploding! Every man has 
 huddled himself into a ball, with throat 
 straining and shoulders arched to resist the 
 debris. Two other shocks, one from the 
 right, the other from the left, follow the first ; 
 then the oscillations diminish in force, and 
 nothing has yet caved in. Candles are 
 lighted again and the men look at each 
 other. 
 
A DAY UNDERGROUND 
 
 24il 
 
 "Well, if that's the mine," says one of 
 them, "it must have missed us." 
 
 A soldier enters from without. "Did you 
 see the mine?" they ask him. 
 
 "Mine? Have you gone nutty? That 
 was nothing but a little blast, fifty yards 
 from here. There wasn't anything to see 
 above the ground." 
 
XXIV 
 
 THE CANNONADE 
 
 FOR you who listen to it from afar — 
 from two hundred miles, say the 
 scientists — the cannonade is noise. 
 Oh, I know it is agony for you, especially 
 when you have dear ones at the front; you 
 shudder at the thought that these brutal 
 shells may be crushing and rending those 
 whom you love. But, however vivid your 
 imagination may be, I do not think that you 
 can find in the uproar of the cannon such 
 meaning as it has for Bourru. 
 
 For our soldier this cannonade has a sense, 
 a purpose. The direction of the shot, its 
 speed, its acceleration, its retardation, its 
 sudden bursts of violence — all these things 
 
 242 
 
THE CANNONADE 
 
 24'3 
 
 are an indication of the enemy's thought, 
 just as a doctor finds the patient's pulse full 
 of meaning as to the state of his heart. 
 
 On certain afternoons the cannonade 
 seems hesitant, hypocritical. It comes from 
 the direction of ^lontfaucon. 
 
 *'Good!" says Bourru. "I'll take the shel- 
 ters near the kitchens." 
 
 But — Boom! The shells now begin to 
 come from Hill 263, on the west. What 
 does this mean? The bombardment con- 
 tinues slowly, very slowly, — (^ly a shell 
 every five minutes, though they come from 
 every point of the compass. There is an 
 hour's cessation, and then they begin again. 
 When they come stealthily like this, from all 
 sides, without apparent fixed plan, you want 
 to look out, — especially if there is a Boche 
 aviator in the air. These are trial shots, and 
 the Boche guns are likely to turn loose a 
 sudden and terrible bombardment to-night. 
 
 At times the cannonade is far away, and 
 sounds like the droning of an old woman 
 
244 BOURRU 
 
 putting a baby to sleep. The voice of the 
 guns hums the time, "one, two, three, one, 
 two, three"; and there is nothing to fear at 
 these moments. 
 
 "It's just to let us know that the war is 
 not over yet," declares Bourru. 
 
 At other times the voice has a more dis- 
 quieting rhythm. It is not merely the ca- 
 dence of the batteries of 77's, for the "big 
 black beasts" are interrupting the time with 
 their false notes, like the hiccoughs of a 
 drunkard at a concert. 
 
 "Hah!" says Bourru. "Sounds as if 
 they're drunk, the Boches!" 
 
 There are also moments when the cannon- 
 ade is very slow — too slow, for it is as if 
 the enemy gunners were doing it on purpose 
 to reassure us and put us off our guard. 
 They seem to say, "You see, we're not all 
 bad fellows, so go ahead and rest easy." 
 
 "Look out," is Bourru's advice. "They'll 
 be spitting fire pretty soon." 
 
 Sometimes the cannonade starts up like a 
 
THE CANNONADE 245 
 
 flash of anger in a hot-tempered man. The 
 shells fall thick and fast and you can guess 
 that the gunners are "hitting it up." Surely 
 a convoy or a column of troops must have let 
 themselves be seen in some clearing of the 
 woods, or maybe the Bodies have seen bayo- 
 nets gleaming from a trench, and so have got 
 scared and started sending their big shells 
 in a fury, like a coward firing his revolver 
 into the trunk of a tree that grins from a 
 dark shadow. 
 
 Oh, these big Jack Johnsons, what beasts 
 they are! While you are walking along in 
 a forest on a dreamy spring day they will 
 suddenly burst a little way behind you, like 
 some boor sitting down heavily and breaking 
 through a fragile I^ouis XVI easy chair. 
 Bourru prefers to hear the 75 's — they fire 
 away at the Boche with a sound like a slap 
 from a vigorous hand. 
 
 Our own big guns also sing a pleasant 
 song. When one of their shells passes over 
 the hill Bourru never fails to say: 
 
246 BOURRU 
 
 "There's the Vauquois autobus going for 
 a visit to the Boches." 
 
 But when one is in the second line, in the 
 woods, and near the guns, it is much too 
 deafening to listen to the big fellows firing. 
 The huts tremble, the window-panes of oiled- 
 paper split, and even in your hole in the 
 ground you feel the concussion to the pit of 
 your stomach. 
 
 And then you must never forget that the 
 Boches are replying. You can hear the shot 
 from the direction of Montfaucon, then the 
 whistling, still far away — and if you hap- 
 pen to be chatting in a group of soldiers at 
 the foot of a tree when you hear the shell 
 coming, the sporty thing is not to interrupt 
 the conversation. Vree-e-e-e! whistles the 
 shell. And you go on talking indifferently 
 of this or that, although every man in the 
 group has his mind on the trajectory of 
 the shell that is on its way. The proof of 
 this is that if the shell buries itself in the 
 ground without exploding, some hundreds 
 
THE CANNONADE 247 
 
 of yards away, everyone will cry out in 
 chorus : 
 
 "Loupe!" 
 
 Which word, for Bourru, means "It's all 
 right, the shell was no good." 
 
XXV 
 
 A RELIEF AT NIGHT 
 
 DURING my last furlough I heard 
 it is said that somewhere on the 
 front there are poilus who can't be 
 persuaded to leave their trenches. If forced 
 to go away on a furlough, they entreat their 
 companions : 
 
 "Above all, you hear — ^no attack while I 
 am gone !" 
 
 For these astonishing poilus a relief from 
 duty is enough to break their hearts. 
 Heavens I to stay a fortnight in the rear, far 
 from the shells, bullets, mud, and lice? How 
 shall we console the fellows? 
 
 Oh, why have I not met one of those good 
 heroes? How delighted I should have been 
 
 248 
 
Bto 
 
 A RELIEF AT NIGHT 249 
 
 to follow his footsteps and listen to his 
 epochal utterances I I should have set them 
 down hot on the paper and you would have 
 thrilled with admiration at them. 
 
 But as for my poor Bourru, upon whom 
 I stumhle every time I look for a soldier to 
 exhibit to you, he is too easily pleased with 
 the satisfactions of the flesh. So it is that, 
 for forty-eight hours, he has been conscious 
 of a certain pleasure at the thought that his 
 relief is near. For two weeks he has been 
 living in a tunnel, a sort of cave ten yards 
 under ground, out of which he came only 
 for the purpose of taking his turn at senti- 
 nel duty. You cannot imagine how long the 
 time seems when you are living in this damp 
 cavern shaken by mine-explosions. That is 
 why the men are anxiously waiting for the 
 moment of relief. For some days already 
 the rumors have been circulating. 
 
 "It's coming to-morrow," the assistant 
 post-master has said. 
 
 "No, no," declares another; "it's for to- 
 
250 BOURRU 
 
 night — I heard so from the officers' cook." 
 Toward midday, in fact, the indications 
 become clearer. The orderhes of the officers 
 may be seen coming out of the tunnel, car- 
 rying the light baggage of their "bosses" to 
 the kitchens, two miles in the rear. 
 
 But still no definite order has come. 
 Hitherto notice has been given a day in ad- 
 vance, but the talkative fellows could not 
 keep from expressing their joy out loud, 
 even in the front line, ten yards from the 
 Boches, and the result was that the relief 
 was "celebrated" by the 210's. Now the men 
 are not notified until the last minute. But 
 however the officers may guard the secret, 
 the moment of the relief is guessed, felt, — 
 smelt out, as it were. Something in the air 
 is whispering it to everyone. 
 
 At seven in the evening the officer of the 
 relieving regiment comes to dine with the of- 
 ficers of the regiment to be relieved. There 
 is no more doubt now — the relief will come 
 at ten o'clock, as it did last time. 
 
A RELIEF AT NIGHT 251 
 
 Every soldier gets his pack ready; and I 
 am willing to engage that no poet leaving 
 on the most wonderful of voyages has ever 
 had such joy in strapping his trunks as 
 Bourru finds in making up his pack. In 
 the front trench the sergeants are giving or- 
 ders in low tones: 
 
 *'Come on, clean up the trench. Pick up 
 all the empty cartridges, and put the gren- 
 ades in place." 
 
 Tlie men take stock of the matiriel — the 
 pulverizer, the braziers, the wadding for gas- 
 masks, the fagots, the solution of hyposul- 
 phate. 
 
 "You know what those fellows in the — th 
 regiment are," growls Sergeant Lachard; 
 "they'll always say we left 'em a rotten 
 trench." 
 
 At eight o'clock comes the little session of 
 trench-mortars traditional at the moment 
 when night arrives. 
 
 Half past ten I Through one of the en- 
 trances to the tunnel stream the fellows of 
 
262 BOURRU 
 
 the relieving regiment. Bourru and his 
 comrades must leave by the other entrance. 
 Oh, you must not expect any salutes or for- 
 malities between those arriving and those 
 departing. It is hard for them to see each 
 other, even, in the damp passage-way, il- 
 luminated only by a few dim candles. 
 
 "Be sure you carry on, as we did," say 
 those departing. 
 
 "Is the scrap pretty hot just now?" ask 
 the new arrivals. 
 
 The newcomers who are to relieve the sen- 
 tinels have gone straight to the firing trench ; 
 and here are the men relieved coming down 
 outside the tunnel, through the trenches that 
 wind down the hill. Whew I It's good, this 
 breath of fresh air. But from this moment 
 on, one obsession grips every man in the regi- 
 ment — above all things, keep your mouth 
 shut, tread softly, and be careful not to 
 strike your platter against the stones in the 
 trench wall. And your bayonet? Wliat, 
 you idiot, haven't you got it in the sheath? 
 
A RELIEF AT NIGHT 253 
 
 Great heavens, haven't you stuffed the 
 sheath with cotton? Lord, have mercy! 
 Now listen, I m telling you something — 
 don't you make any noise, not a sound! 
 And don't you think because I'm whisper- 
 ing that these orders are any laughing mat- 
 ter! 
 
 Through the long connecting-trenches, 
 the men go down toward the foot of the hill, 
 with backs bent low, in silence. It makes 
 you think of cats coming down from a roof 
 on a dark night. 
 
 Splash ! There goes Roger slipping in the 
 trench. He failed to see a hole left by a 
 shell an hour ago. You do not have to wait 
 long for the result. A\nisih — shish! It is 
 as if a great stone were flying through the 
 air in rapid jerks. That is a 74 shell com- 
 ing from a German pneumatic cannon. 
 Bah! we have seen plenty of those. The 
 procession toward the foot of the hill con- 
 tinues. But there, there! I knew it would 
 happen — a reserve company of the relief 
 
254 BOURRU 
 
 coming up has got into the trench before 
 their time and the heads of the two columns 
 have just run into each other. It's always 
 the same thing! The devil take those fel- 
 lows! 
 
 The two companies have stopped still. 
 The men in the lead of each column stand 
 their ground firmly, talking low. Ah, the 
 imprecations that each man chokes down 
 during this forced halt! What a relief it 
 would be to hurl a few hot insults in the face 
 of the men who make you stand here where 
 at any instant the bombs may begin falling! 
 But after all, there is a rule ; those who were 
 coming up are obliged to go back. Whew! 
 Here we are at the bottom of the hill, out- 
 side the zone of hand projectiles, though in 
 easy reach of the others. It still is no place 
 for making your retreat at your ease, I as- 
 sure you. So everybody chafes with impa- 
 tience when Sergeant Lachard calls the roll 
 of the platoon. Those who are present al- 
 ways find that the platoon is all there, and 
 
A RELIEF AT NIGHT 255 
 
 may as well go on without delay. "Yes, 
 yes, everybody's here, sergeant; let's go onl'* 
 In Indian file the men cross a terrain torn 
 up by shells, and then skirt the forest in or- 
 der to take advantage of the shade of the 
 trees. 
 
 Farther on, the platoons come together, 
 the companies take formation, and the col- 
 umn begins its march again. It mounts a 
 hill. 
 
 Once they are over the crest of this hill, 
 the danger of being picked up by the enemy 
 artillery is much smaller. The column 
 marches along over a monotonous road, 
 through the empty night. The intense ex- 
 citement is over; and weariness falls upon 
 our men's shoulders like a leaden garment; 
 but they go on, half asleep, dragging their 
 heavy legs toward the cantonment in the 
 rear, in that land of dreams where people live 
 in real houses and where one can sleep on 
 real straw. 
 
XXVI 
 
 AFTER TWO WEEKS IN THE 
 TRENCHES 
 
 ON the way back from the front lines 
 where he had just spent two weeks 
 Bourru was very tired indeed, and 
 his weary, jolting gait bore witness to the 
 truth of what he kept grumbling to him- 
 self: 
 
 "It beats all how two weeks in those 
 trenches makes jelly of a fellow's legs." 
 Nevertheless, when the troop passed in 
 
 front of the railway station at A , our 
 
 soldier was startled into lifting his head. 
 Could it be possible? Could these be real 
 stone houses, rails, coaches? My, but they 
 were fine things! He had completely for- 
 
 256 
 
AFTER TWO WEEKS 257 
 
 gotten that the world held railway stations, 
 those symbols of civilization. 
 
 For I must tell you — all you world-weary 
 seekers for famous sights, you grumbling 
 tourists who always find the stations ugly 
 and commonplace, — I must needs tell you 
 that unless you have lived for months in the 
 wilds, you can never know the infinite poetry 
 that dwells in an oblong building with rails 
 and coaches around it. On the wall are in- 
 scribed three very simple words, but no mas- 
 ter of style will ever find a phrase more elo- 
 quent in its conciseness — ''Direction de 
 Paris" The mind takes flight along the 
 rails and in the golden haze of its dream one 
 has visions of Paris, Dijon, Lyons, Bligny 
 — Bourru's village — visions, indeed, of all 
 France. 
 
 "Come on there — shake a leg!'' shout the 
 sergeants, hustling their men forward. 
 
 "If they were let alone," cries the adju- 
 tant, "they'd stay there till to-morrow morn- 
 ing!" 
 
258 BOURRU 
 
 More than anybody else it is Lafut, nick- 
 named Father "Red-Ink," who delays the 
 column; hypnotized by the tank-cars that 
 daily bring the wine for the division, he 
 stands silent and immovable, lost in admira- 
 tion. His lips exhibit an instinctive suck- 
 ing movement, and one can see that he would 
 like to give the immense receptacles passion- 
 ate embraces. . . . 
 
 By this time the dawn is coming on. Hav- 
 ing passed through A , we see the vil- 
 lage that is our destination dreamily hidden 
 away in the verdure and the mists of the 
 morning. One feels that he is marching 
 toward a nest rich in promises of warm com- 
 fort. Come on, then, heads up — one more 
 hitch to keep your pack on your shoulders 
 — and here we are! Piping hot coffee is 
 ready for the new arrivals. 
 
 "Anyhow," murmurs Bourru, "these stay- 
 at-homes are good for something." 
 
 But nobody has time for expressing his 
 thanks, for there is just one thing that is 
 
AFTER TWO WEEKS 259 
 
 all-important — to get to sleep. Ah, the joy 
 of lying clown, stretching out your limbs, 
 and yielding to overwhelming sleep — what 
 voluptuous pleasure for men who for two 
 weeks have done nothing but doze in a nar- 
 row tunnel, sitting up ! There is a universal 
 rush for the barns. 
 
 Everybody goes to sleep. But you are 
 well aware, you who are skilled in psychol- 
 ogjy that even when asleep a man may be 
 happy or miserable; even in the deepest 
 sleep there are ideas that make themselves 
 felt in the depths of consciousness. At this 
 hour there is this one idea in the minds of 
 my sleeping Rourrus: "^Vhew! No trench- 
 bombs here, no mines, no torpedoes. . . ." 
 It is a very simple idea, but if you have ever 
 enjoyed it in a flash of slumbrous thought 
 when you were rolling over on the straw of 
 a barn in an effort to find a more comfort- 
 able position, you know one of the great 
 pleasures of life. 
 
 At ten in the morning Bourru wakes up 
 
260 BOURRU 
 
 for good and all, in expansive comfort. It 
 is a fine day; the sunshine sparkles every- 
 where, and the future seems infinitely long. 
 Ten days of rest in front of you — before 
 that is gone, the war will be over I There is 
 one sole trouble — ^you have to go and drill. 
 A sensation comes to bring Bourru back to 
 the facts of life — oh, it is nothing profoundly 
 psychological, be assured, it is merely a 
 cootie, a "toto'' which is biting him under 
 the arm. "I must go and wash up," thinks 
 the soldier. 
 
 At the river there is a multitude; along 
 the banks there is nothing to be seen but 
 naked legs and busts. The caresses of the 
 water all over your body — ah, how luxur- 
 ious! So you soap yourself, wet yourself, 
 and go into contortions to wash yourself all 
 over. Along the river-banks you seem to see 
 an exhibition of athletes. 
 
 "Lachard, old boy," says Bourru, "you're 
 not getting fat on this war; you're showing 
 your ribs, you know. . . ." 
 
AFTER TWO WEEKS 261 
 
 "Don't you worry, Bourru, old boy; the 
 main tiling is to sell your fat for all you can 
 get from the Boches for it." 
 
 "Any notion how you're going to get 
 lunch?" cries out Fabri. 
 
 "I've managed that, all right," declares 
 Delporte. "There wasn't a thing left at the 
 grocery, but I ran into L'Energie, the colo- 
 nel's orderly. lie was going along with four 
 cans of lobster, and I hooked one." 
 
 "And I guess you think I pass my time 
 snoring," says Aubouin. "Look here and 
 I'll show you a fine dandelion salad that I 
 went and gathered you this morning." 
 
 And a little later my four poilus are en- 
 sconced in their magnificent dining quarters. 
 Just imagine a shaft of wall, left standing 
 from a burned house. You need only know 
 how to make the most of it. Is the wind 
 blowing from the north? You install your- 
 self on the south side, in the sun. Is it too 
 warm? You dine on the northern side, in 
 the shade, upon great hewn stones that have 
 
262 BOURRU 
 
 tumbled into a pile for the express purpose, 
 it would seem, of forming a table for you. 
 An ancient agricultural machine serves for 
 a coat-tree. The incomparable advantage 
 of this dining-hall is that it has a magnifi- 
 cent view — ^no walls to intervene, nothing 
 but the landscape spread before your eyes, 
 and the poplars that line the river lead away 
 in sinuous lines into blue distances, infinitely 
 charming to the eye. Truly it is comfort- 
 able to feel that you are defender of such a 
 land — especially when you are sipping "red 
 ink" at twenty- two sous a bottle. 
 
 In the afternoon you give yourself up to 
 your immense satisfaction. Seated at the 
 door of your barn, you luxuriate in rest. In 
 the village street the auto-trucks are cease- 
 lessly passing; the locomotive of track 60, 
 a rickety old thing, is spitting out its silly 
 smoke and starting off with a clangor of 
 metal; the motors are rumbling, the drivers 
 are yelling, the soldiers are shouting to one 
 another, the blacksmiths are making their 
 
AFTER TWO WEEKS 263 
 
 anvils ring: Your mouth is full of dust, 
 your nostrils of smoke, and your ears of up- 
 roar. But all that is nothing; Bourru con- 
 tinues to "take the air" in the shade of his 
 barn, tranquil, beatific. 
 
 And as I look at him I think of that 
 philosophy that teaches that the universe 
 has no external existence, but that we create 
 it with our minds. A soldier just out of the 
 trenches finds that the tumult of this street 
 is a delightful silence. 
 
 After this beatitude another luxury 
 awaits you — to go for a stroll without hav- 
 ing to keep your eyes on the search for 
 treacherous grenades. It is a wonderful 
 new existence for you; you have learned 
 again the feeling of the elementary sensa- 
 tions of life. And to think that there are 
 people that "get sick" of it! Why aren't 
 they in the company of my Bourrus, on 
 the bridge over the Aire, watching the 
 horses being led to water, and empty- 
 mindedly spitting into the stream? That's 
 
264 BOURRU 
 
 what happiness is. And you say to your- 
 self: 
 
 "There goes that chump Crochard, the 
 captain's orderly, on his nag; watch him 
 make a mess of himself in the water." 
 
 And while following the movements of 
 the restive horse you amuse yourself at the 
 notion that the trooper might take a header, 
 and you laugh at it in advance. Then, when 
 you have had enough of looking at the river, 
 you go "down town" to buy tobacco. You 
 run into fellows from the other companies 
 and chat with them as long as you like. Men 
 with furloughs are taking their departure; 
 at the top of your voice you call after them, 
 "Have a good time I" And then you are 
 astounded at the notion of yelling all you 
 want without giving yourself away to the 
 enemy. 
 
 But I must pause, or everybody will be 
 running to strap his trunk and come to join 
 us — and we are already so crowded! 
 
XXVII 
 HONOR TO THOSE WHO FALL 
 
 IS it necessary to tell you that I am fol- 
 lowing neither rule nor method in 
 writing this book? That is apparent 
 enough, I suppose. What help for it? Life 
 is so strenuous here that a brain a little ex- 
 cited receives from it impressions, pictures, 
 emotions, and ideas in the same abundance 
 as a soldier in the first line receives shells 
 on the day of an attack. 
 
 I am sending it all to you in a jumble, 
 along with the old cartridges, the aluminum 
 rings, and the blank bullets that the poilus 
 ship you. I understand that you arrange 
 all this bric-a-brac on your mantelpieces 
 with great care and devotion. So I am send- 
 
 265 
 
266 BOURRU 
 
 ing a few more fragmentary sketches of 
 
 Bourru. 
 
 ¥it * m * * 
 
 When possible, the bodies of officers, and 
 sometimes of privates, who have fallen, are 
 carried back to the rest cantonments in the 
 rear and interred in the village cemeteries 
 or nearby under some row of plum-trees. 
 
 To-day, All Saints' Day, the clouds are 
 so lowering and the landscape so somber that 
 an undefined sadness has come over the sol- 
 diers all through the rest-camp. You can 
 see them walking pensively about, avoiding 
 futile chatter. 
 
 At one end of the village, in a meadow, 
 nine wooden crosses stand in a row; it is the 
 cemetery of officers recently fallen. This 
 morning men were there putting flowers 
 on the graves, but now the place is de- 
 serted. A lone magpie nearby is emitting 
 its cry, irritating because so inexpressive. 
 I am seated under a bush lost in medi- 
 tation. 
 
HONOR TO THOSE WHO FALL 267 
 
 Suddenly a soldier appears on the scene. 
 At a glance he assures himself that he is 
 quite alone; he has not noticed me. 
 
 Then with a firm step he approaches the 
 grave at the right, comes to attention with 
 head held high, and stands motionless for a 
 few instants, at military salute. 
 
 Turning then two paces to the left he 
 takes position hefore the second tomb, re- 
 peating his gesture; and thus he continues 
 to the end of the line, where he makes an 
 "about-turn," in perfect form, and departs. 
 Every movement had been executed cor- 
 rectly, smartly, as when a soldier is intent 
 on pleasing his officer. 
 
 As the soldier goes on his way, I stretch 
 
 my neck to see who he is. It is Bourru. 
 
 ^ 4( « « « 
 
 A 210 shell has just fallen on a trench 
 where everything had been quiet. Some of 
 the soldiers who have been knocked down by 
 the ''breath" of it are getting up dumb- 
 founded, feeling themselves, and finding to 
 
268 BOURRU 
 
 their astonishment that their members are 
 still in place. 
 
 Others are groaning from wounds. 
 Among them all the shock has staggered and 
 confused their minds; there remain in their 
 consciousness only the most deeply rooted 
 ideas, such as everyone carries within him 
 like those habits of reaction in which the 
 ancient instincts of the race are expressed. 
 
 From the mouth of a wounded man who is 
 being carried off comes this unexpected re- 
 quest, touching because it reveals a deep-felt 
 need: 
 
 "I*m done for — but bury me decently, if 
 you can." 
 
 He dies before reaching the first-aid sta- 
 tion. 
 
 During the night Bourru and Cormier 
 wrap the body in a tent-cloth. Each of the 
 two soldiers takes one end of the body and, 
 climbing down the connecting trench and 
 scaling the slopes of INIamelon Blanc, they 
 carry it two miles to the rear, to the Barri- 
 
HONOR TO THOSE WHO FALL 269 
 
 cade. Here there is a proper cemetery — 
 the stretcher-bearers dig a grave for each 
 body. That is a great privilege. 
 
 It is the burial of an officer. The priest 
 has just finished the prayers, and the sol- 
 diers, of whom Bourru is one, are standing 
 guard at the grave. 
 
 General Valdant comes forward. For a 
 long time he stands silent, leaning over the 
 coffin; it is as if his thought could not de- 
 tach itself from tlie image of death, but is 
 awaiting inspiration. 
 
 When he speaks it is a strange discourse, 
 restrained and powerful at once. Nothing 
 is heard but names and dates, separated by 
 long silences during which meditation broods 
 deep. 
 
 ''Spettel . . . February 17, 1015, Fan- 
 quois. . . . The battle. . . . Februari/ 2S, 
 1915, Auzeville. ... The reward . . . . 
 May 29, 1916, Vanquois, ... The sacri- 
 fice, . . . To-day J Auzeville. . , , Eternal 
 rest/' 
 
270 BOURRU 
 
 You who read the words may possibly 
 find them enigmatical. But try to see the 
 scene with a poet's eye — giving play to your 
 imagination. . . . 
 
 In the middle of the group stands the gen- 
 eral, small in stature, but firmly erect, 
 upon the soil of the Argonne which he has 
 been defending for many months. At this 
 moment a pensive melancholy modifies the 
 energy of his expression. Around him are 
 soldiers, nothing but soldiers of Vauquois. 
 What need to explain to them the visions in 
 his soul? There is no necessity to aid them 
 to fill their minds with touching images 
 when they hear the words. 
 
 "February 17, Vauquois, . . . The hat- 
 tie" In a flash they can see the noble sol- 
 diers of the year before, those who climbed 
 to storm the hill. Spettel is in the lead, with 
 his friends. Intoxicated with martial ex- 
 citement, they rush into the village on which 
 the shells are falling, and before them the 
 Germans fly in terror. 
 
HONOR TO THOSE WHO FALL 271 
 
 "February 23, Auzeville, . . . The re- 
 ward" Five days after the attack, on the 
 ridge between the Grange-Lecomte and 
 Auzeville, facing the tragic hill which stands 
 out in the distance, the regiments are lined 
 up for review. The heroes are in front of 
 the ranks, and Spettel is among them. They 
 receive their decorations, and the bugles in 
 long blasts tell their glory to all the echoes 
 of the Argonne. 
 
 "Maij 20, 1916, Vauquois. . . . The sac- 
 rifice" Spettel is repeating up to the last 
 minute: "It's all right. . . . It's all for 
 France." 
 
 To-day, Auzeville. . . . Eternal rest" 
 
 )mpanions in arms stand around a coflin 
 which the soil of France is receiving with 
 the love of a mother for her cherished son, 
 while prayers are rising to heaven, and rough 
 men brush away a tear at the thought of the 
 ;at future that will roll its centuries over 
 
 iis sacred land. 
 
 It is the tragic epitome of a hero's life. 
 
272 BOURRU 
 
 In truth, the general at one leap reaches the 
 heights of eloquence when, disdaining all 
 rhetoric, seeming, indeed, to speak to him- 
 self, he slowly pronounces those dates and 
 names, so weighted with meaning: ''Feb- 
 ruary 17, Vauquois, the battle, . . . Feb- 
 ruary 23, Auzeville, the reward, , . ." 
 
 Another day, at the burial of an officer, a 
 tall, thin captain is speaking; there is a sort 
 of mystic ardor in the tones of his voice. 
 
 Bourru remembers his words. 
 
 *'And I would say to you in truth, my 
 friends, that we must not think that the sad 
 honors which we render this day to an offi- 
 cer indicate a willingness to raise a barrier, 
 even after death, between officers and men. 
 All the men who give their lives for their 
 country belong to the same aristocracy, 
 whatever may be their rank. 
 
 "In this ceremony of interment we must 
 see a symbol. For it is more than an honor 
 rendered to a leader; it epitomizes all the 
 
HONOR TO THOSE WHO FALL 273 
 
 pious sentiments that dwell in our hearts for 
 the heroes whose bodies must remain near 
 the trenches. Time does not permit us to 
 render to these humble brothers in arms their 
 meed of individual glory. While waiting 
 for the victorious trumpet blasts over their 
 graves, they send representatives to the vil- 
 lage in the rear in order that the ancient rites 
 of military funeral may be observed in their 
 name. These representatives are the very 
 men who, on the field of battle, have showed 
 them the patli to sacrifice. 
 
 "And that is why, in presenting arms to- 
 day before this coffin, I invite you at the 
 same moment to turn toward the Hill, and, 
 with a full heart, to indulge an affectionate 
 memory of our brothers in arms who remain 
 upon it in repose, under the ruins of the vil- 
 lage of Vauquois." 
 
XXVIII 
 UNDER BOMBARDMENT 
 
 YOU are sure you really want me to 
 show you the scenes of war just as 
 they are? You have the right, you 
 claim, to look on from afar, without colored 
 glasses, at the brute facts of the war which 
 our poilus must meet face to face. In this 
 way your admiration will rise to the height 
 of the real merits of our soldiers. 
 
 Bourru is happy enough to hear you say 
 this. For there are still weighing on his 
 heart a few innocent words which a civilian, 
 and a very good friend of his, too, has just 
 written to him. "Well, well! So there are 
 only little bombardments going on in your 
 sector? No bayonet charges? So much the 
 
 274 
 
UNDER BO:\IBARDMENT 275 
 
 better! I'm glad to know things are so quiet 
 with you." And Bourru in his revery calls 
 to mind one of those ''little hombardments." 
 
 It is a dark night. The company is on the 
 march toward a point on the sector where, 
 it seems, the Boches are expected to attack. 
 Of a sudden the company comes out of the 
 wood, and before it lies a dark plain in tlie 
 middle of which a wall of fire seems to rise. 
 It is the barrage laid down by the enemy 
 guns. 
 
 "Our mission is simple," say the officers; 
 "we must occupy the trenches on the other 
 side of the barrage, and hold them at all 
 costs." 
 
 It is useless to wait for a quiet moment to 
 traverse the fatal zone; there is no quiet mo- 
 ment. 
 
 "As skirmishers! Double quick — for- 
 ward!" 
 
 Each man plunges forward with a feeling 
 that he is going to smash his head into a wall. 
 Then — bursting shells, shaking ground, 
 
276 BOURRU 
 
 whistlings in an air dense with smoke, semi- 
 asphyxiation, tumbles into shell-holes, mad 
 racing, — without a thought, with nothing 
 but an instinct that tells you to keep racing! 
 "Whew! Here we are!" Sneezing and 
 stupefaction — "Honestly, am I still whole?'* 
 And one remembers that in the red glare 
 of the explosions he saw the phantoms of 
 his comrades falling on the black soil. 
 
 "Column of twos!" shout the officers. 
 
 But where on earth are the trenches ? The 
 ground is simply in a state of chaos, with 
 intermittent holes and hillocks. Something 
 stirs in one of the holes as Bourru stumbles 
 into it — and proves to be the man he has 
 come to relieve. The fellow seems to be 
 completely stupefied. 
 
 "Hello, here! Can't you see I've come to 
 let you off? Go ahead, beat it!" 
 
 The soldier, whose white eyes are all that 
 can be seen in the dark, seems to hesitate be- 
 fore leaving the hole that has been protecting 
 him for hours. Finally he goes off like a 
 
UNDER BOMBARDMENT 277 
 
 crazed man, though no shells are falling just 
 here at this moment. 
 
 The day begins to break. It is easy to 
 see that we have a quiet sector here, for 
 there are still strips of the meadow that have 
 not been torn up. There is even a tangle 
 of barbed-wire still standing. In front and 
 to the left rises a hill from which artillery 
 observers are doubtless watching; if they see 
 anything stirring, the gims will speak. 
 
 Whiz-z! Boom! . . . The first shell. 
 
 ''The meeting will come to order!" cries 
 Lachard, that the traditional gaiety may be 
 observed. 
 
 More projectiles are coming now, aimed 
 at the line of holes that takes the place of a 
 trench. The bombardment is systematic — 
 it begins five hundred yards to the right of 
 Bourru and moves slowly along toward the 
 left, dropping six shells at each objective, 
 and covering in order all the points of the 
 terrain. You feel as if a Titanic sledge- 
 hammer were falling furiously along the 
 
278 BOURRU 
 
 line. Sparks are flying, and the anvil makes 
 all the echoes of the Argonne resound. 
 
 Flattened in their shell-holes, with bated 
 breath, eyes closed, and shoulders hunched 
 as if a wall were threatening to tumble over 
 them, the men listen to the approaching 
 storm. It is coming. . . . Ten seconds pass 
 in anguish, during which the flesh that hud- 
 dles under the soldier's packs is nothing but 
 that of an animal. The storm is passing 
 overhead. Uproar, thunder, the vision of a 
 train hurling itself into a tunnel, the shell 
 concussions that crush in the walls of the 
 abdomen, send shocks through the vitals, 
 take away breath. . . . The storm has gone 
 by, but no one budges yet. The cells of the 
 body are so shaken together into a mere jelly 
 of flesh that one must give them time to re- 
 gain human form. At last one has become 
 a man again. Saved! The shells have 
 fallen in front of the line and behind it, two 
 or three yards at least. 
 
 "The devil!" cries Ringuet in consterna- 
 
UNDER BOMBARDMENT 279 
 
 tion, "a splinter has blown the mess-kit off 
 the top of my pack, and my tobacco was in 
 iti" 
 
 And the men laugh. There's no fear now, 
 gracious no! The storm is howling at least 
 two hundred yards away now. But here it 
 comes back ! The men are flat to the ground 
 again. This time a fragment carries away 
 the top of one man's skull and there are his 
 brains, just like those of the fellows in wax 
 in the anatomical museums. Without a 
 word the men await the next storm. 
 
 "Oh! Ah!" groans a man. "I'm wounded." 
 
 And, indeed, his face is masked in blood. 
 
 Five, six times, the storm rains over the 
 line. Cormier feels a terrible blow in the 
 back — later he will find a shell fragment 
 embedded in his pack. Bourru is struck on 
 the head by chunks of earth that stagger 
 him. Lachard is bleeding at the ear and 
 searching for his spectacles in the mud. 
 Still another is singing in a tone of raillery, 
 *'It is raining kisses." 
 
280 BOURRU 
 
 But it is getting cloudy, and what luck! 
 Maybe it is going to rain, and that will make 
 it hard for the observers to regulate the fire. 
 In fact, an abatement has already come. A 
 wounded man is pleading: 
 
 "Take me away, will you, boys? I'll give 
 you ten francs, twenty francs — everything 
 I've got. Take me away — ^my parents own 
 a farm and they'll give you all they've got, 
 too." 
 
 "There now, old chap, don't be a fool. 
 You know well enough we'd take you away 
 if we could. Buck up, now, and wait till 
 night — you haven't got anything but a splin- 
 ter in your cheek." 
 
 The hours pass. Ringuet, having had 
 some tobacco given him, is smoking with his 
 head hidden under a hood. Cormier, 
 stretched out on the ground, suddenly spies 
 a mouse creeping out of its hole. He 
 amuses himself feeding it. 
 
 A flash shoots into the sky. It means a 
 renewal of the bombardment. 
 
UNDER BOMBARDMENT 281 
 
 "Oughl Oh! IVe got a piece of shell in 
 my belly r 
 
 It is a queer thing, but Tellier, who was 
 saying last night, "I know that I won*t es- 
 cape to-morrow," has not been touched yet, 
 though he alone has sat upright under the 
 storm of shells. Silent, with a cigarette be- 
 tween his lips, he sits there with his liaunting 
 eyes staring doubtless into the mysterious 
 distances where the fates are to be read. A 
 splinter in his heart delivers him from his 
 fatalistic watch. 
 
 But the French artillery is answering the 
 Boche in full force. The sky seems like a 
 vault full of whistling shells. At a given 
 moment the guns from both sides seem to 
 concentrate their rage on one point, half a 
 mile away, where the two lines come very 
 close together. It is the "trommelfeuerl" 
 The shells from the big guns cut up the 
 ridges, overwhelm the valleys, tear down 
 the trees, and set flying great chunks of 
 earth. The countryside looks as if it were 
 
282 BOURRU 
 
 suffering from an epileptic seizure. Every- 
 where it trembles from explosions. Leap- 
 ing, bounding, the earth moves and quivers 
 and dances like the waves of the sea in a 
 tempest. One looks on, overcome with 
 stupefaction. Out of this cataclysm are 
 coming monstrous, hideous things — an ap- 
 palling hell-mouth moves forward to devour 
 all before it. Not a man among our soldiers 
 will live to tell the story if that whirlwind 
 passes their way. 
 
 But no, reassure yourselves; the tornado 
 of fire did not pass over the soldiers that you 
 have come to know; they have had the luck 
 to receive only the ordinary little shells of 
 the 105's and 150's. That is why, since you 
 were ready to imagine horrors, I can show 
 you a little soldier who has just had his hand 
 taken off by a shell- fragment. The poor 
 fellow imagines he will be more comfortable 
 at the other end of the trench and he is going 
 "on all threes"; his poor handless wrist, 
 dripping blood, hangs like the paw of a cat 
 
UNDER BOMBARDMENT 283 
 
 just crushed under a carriage-wheel. After 
 half an hour of such crawling he comes to 
 the side of a hole where many of the 
 wounded have taken refuge. With a final 
 effort he rolls forward upon the heap of 
 them. 
 
 Perhaps now you can understand more 
 fully how a soldier may acquire some little 
 merit without hudging from his place and 
 without ever taking part in one of those fine 
 attacks they put on picture postcards? 
 
XXIX 
 
 BOURRU VISITS HEADQUAR- 
 TERS 
 
 THE captain had said to Bourru, 
 "Here, take this letter to the staff 
 offices, to the Headquarters of the 
 general, at Betrame." 
 
 All the way there our soldier was excited. 
 Staff offices ! The words evoked in his mind 
 the idea of science, of maps, automobiles, 
 officers with bands on their sleeves, always 
 anxious and always hurried, and also, he did 
 not know quite why, great suites of rooms 
 full of desks such as he had seen at the sub- 
 prefecture at home. Inside these places 
 dwell terrible, mysterious forces that may 
 fall upon a poor trooper without his knowing 
 
 284 
 
BOURRU VISITS HEADQUARTERS 285 
 
 whence they come or how they operate. It 
 is enough, he has heard, for the people at 
 Headquarters to write three lines on a bit of 
 paper in order to start twenty thousand 
 men marching. It was Cormier who told 
 him that, and Cormier, being a Paris law- 
 yer, surely ought to know. It's the papers 
 at IIcad(iuarters, too, that bring the refrig- 
 erated meat, the sugar and coffee, the "red 
 ink"; by Jove, it's funny that with a com- 
 mon piece of paper a man can do so 
 much I 
 
 So no foolishness now, eli! If you're go- 
 to trespass in offices where all those 
 s are accumulated you want to be care- 
 ful. If you make a mess of things, it may 
 be worse for you than a Vauquois trench full 
 of Boches. Bourru approaches very softly. 
 With great respect he goes up to a chubby 
 sergeant who seems to be stationed as or- 
 derly. 
 
 "Where's the Headquarters?" he in- 
 quires. 
 
 ml 
 
286 BOURRU 
 
 "Down there — under the shelters at the 
 end of the plank road." 
 
 This plank road is bordered by various 
 shelters within which men can be seen. 
 "Well!" says Bourru to himself, "if they 
 haven't got huts, just like us!" Holes from 
 recent shells, in the midst of the trees, give 
 evidence that the "paper-scratchers" must 
 receive their share of shells from time to 
 time. Bourru is glad to know it — ^he doesn't 
 know exactly why, but he is glad to know 
 that this officer-soldier that he is just meet- 
 ing might have a shell fall on his head this 
 very day, just as he, Bourru, might; for he 
 knows this soldier well — ^he has often been 
 pointed out to Bourru — and it seems that, 
 back in Paris, he is a great musician. The 
 proof of it is that he has the Legion of 
 Honor. Bourru looks at him with curi- 
 osity. 
 
 He knocks at a door. 
 
 "Come in," says some one. 
 
 Our soldier stops still on the threshold, 
 
BOUllRU VISITS HEADQUARTERS 287 
 
 letter in hand. The shelter is full of officers. 
 One of them takes the letter and while he is 
 reading it Bourru watches and listens. 
 What a chance! He is in a staff-office — a 
 solemn moment! He nmst be on his best 
 behavior among such important people and 
 still he must see all he can, so that later on 
 he can astound the boys in the company with 
 a wonderful story. It's queer, but on the 
 whole these officers don't seem so terrible as 
 he thought. There is a thin, pale little cap- 
 tain who is reading a newspaper in some 
 strange print; honestly, it looks like Cliinese. 
 That chap must be awfully brainy; he has 
 got papers all around him, and with his pale 
 face and his eye-glasses he looks like the 
 cure whom l^ourru used to know at Bligny, 
 and who made himself sick reading so much 
 Hebrew. 
 
 Another captain has his eyes fastened on 
 the maps tacked to the walls of the shelter. 
 Ah I This one has a little fat on his ribs and 
 a face blooming with good health. More- 
 
288 BOURRU 
 
 over, Bourru recognizes him — it is the cap- 
 tain that he has so often seen going the 
 rounds at night in the trenches. 
 
 "I say, Coradin," another captain asks 
 the first one, "is the road good enough for 
 me to send up shells to Trench 14, at la 
 Buanthe?" 
 
 "It beats all!" thinks Bourru. Think of 
 there being a captain here at Headquarters 
 who is talking about a place he knows so 
 well (though he would call it Boelle) and 
 who wants to send shells to Trench 14 ! One 
 by one the three captains go to talk to a tall 
 major who is walking about with a rather 
 ungainly step, with his nose in the air. He 
 must be a bully chap, this one I In the last 
 five minutes he has said twice: 
 
 "And whatever you do, don't worry them, 
 those poilus; as long as they're in the rest- 
 camp, give 'em a little peace." 
 
 And he jokes with everybody. 
 
 All of a sudden the general comes out of 
 an adjoining room. 
 
BOURRU VISITS HEADQUARTERS 289 
 
 *'I say, Fontaine," he asks the major, 
 "have you given notice tliat the rehef of the 
 Thirty-first will not begin before nine 
 o'clock?" 
 
 "Yes, general," answers the major; "but 
 here's a paper a soldier has just brought me 
 — the Twelfth company is asking for infor- 
 mation about its special mission. Lieuten- 
 ant Gain will take care of the matter." 
 
 The Twelfth company is Bourru's com- 
 pany, and the paper is the one he just 
 brought. And the general is going to give 
 his attention to little things like that! 
 Bourru stands in his place, on the threshold 
 of the door, as if awaiting the sentence of a 
 judge on his affairs. How simple they are, 
 these great men, when you are near tliem! 
 You see, the major doesn't stand at atten- 
 tion when he talks to the general, and for 
 that matter all those officers stand there talk- 
 ing at ease under their log shelter, just like 
 X^lain poilus. There is a lieutenant with the 
 red cap of the Chasseurs d'Afrique whom 
 
290 BOURRU 
 
 somebody has just called Lusarch, and who 
 keeps repeating "Hello! Hello!" into the 
 telephone. Bourru is transfixed by the 
 scene. 
 
 The major, with his perpetual good 
 humor, has caught up a box of bonbons ; he 
 takes one, and passes them around. 
 
 "Have a bonbon, Favre?" 
 
 "No, thank you, major." 
 
 "Have one, Coradin?" 
 
 "With pleasure, major." 
 
 The major goes on till he comes to the 
 general. 
 
 "Will you take one, general?" 
 
 "Come, come," says the general, "first of- 
 fer one to our good trooper here who is 
 waiting for his answer." 
 
 "Ah, beg your pardon, old fellow," says 
 the major as he holds the box out to Bourru. 
 "I wasn't forgetting you, you know, only I 
 offered them to the general first because he 
 outranks you." 
 
 "Not at all!" cries the general. "The 
 
BOURRU VISITS HEADQUARTERS 291 
 
 plain poilu i:s Number One among good 
 sports." 
 
 Bourru was eating his bonbon as he went 
 on his way, but the emotion stirred up in him 
 by all these important events was so great 
 that he never knew whetlier it was a caramel 
 or a chocolate that he had in his mouth. 
 
XXX 
 
 AN EXPEDITION TO THE REAR 
 
 BOURRU began to feel his social im- 
 portance when he saw the long line 
 of auto-trucks which had been 
 brought to take the regiment to the rest- 
 camp. 
 
 "Well, of all things!" he thought. "The 
 government is saving leg-work. Pretty 
 fine!" 
 
 To tell the truth the vehicles are none too 
 comfortable. But once you are installed in 
 them and the procession starts, in dust and 
 uproar, at ten miles an hour, — well, even 
 if you are only in the fortieth truck from the 
 front, you feel that you are a force in the 
 world. To the right and left of you the 
 
 292 
 
XPEDITION TO THE REAR 
 
 fields and forests are flying past, just as if 
 you were splitting them with a sword-stroke. 
 The little vehicles of the peasants get tim- 
 idly to one side in the gutter, and the people 
 watch you pass with gaping eyes. 
 
 **Hey there, it*s us," you cry to them; "it's 
 us, the bo3^s from the front!" 
 
 You seem to be entering into an extraor- 
 dinary land. There is no longer a swarm of 
 men as at the front. The villages look 
 empty; there are no more ruins, no more 
 burned houses, — all is calm. Aged peasants 
 come and go with slow steps. The apple and 
 ear trees seem to have a look of beneficence ; 
 
 the birds sing as they do in poetry. Na- 
 ture seems hke a happy woman asleep. 
 
 ourru cannot cease wondering, for never 
 
 he seen the country as it looks to-day. 
 Is it possible! Certainly tlie country must 
 have changed or he has become a different 
 man, during the months he has spent "up 
 there." The last supposition is the true one, 
 
 ou have doubtless concluded. You know 
 
 ■i' 
 
 ture 
 
294 BOURRU 
 
 my Bourru by now — a good fellow without 
 the slightest affectation, who does his job as 
 best he can; but never, never has he had a 
 notion of being a hero. Of course he has 
 read in the papers that back in the rear peo- 
 ple talk of the poilus as heroes; but 
 pshaw! . . . He knows what words like that 
 mean, — fine newspaper talk, that's all. 
 
 But see him now! Just because he has 
 gone through certain villages where people 
 were beaming upon him from their door- 
 steps, Bourru is experiencing an extraor- 
 dinary sensation ; he puffs out his chest, takes 
 a deep breath — at the risk of swallowing still 
 more dust — and discovers that, honestly, he 
 is pretty much pleased when a gamin, after 
 coming close enough to read a number on 
 his collar, cries out in admiration, "It's the 
 back from the trenches!" 
 
 At one place where the convoy stops, an 
 old woman exclaims, in a sympathetic voice: 
 
 "Ah, my poor boys ! You're coming from 
 — th Regiment — a fighting regiment just 
 
AN EXPEDITION TO THE REAR 295 
 
 the battle and you must soon go back 
 to it!" 
 
 The trucks are surrounded by little girls, 
 women, and old men, and at the sight of all 
 these inquiring and sympathetic civilians, the 
 soldiers begin to realize that they have really 
 come from a place where not everyone has 
 been. Honestly, they had forgotten the fact. 
 When you are daily elbowing such numbers 
 of comrades "up there,** you can easily fancy 
 that your sector is the whole world and that 
 it is a very ordinary place to live in. Not at 
 all; tlie front now appears to the men as a 
 sort of sinister and grandiose work-shop 
 re only a chosen class — their own — is 
 permitted to pursue the terrible task in 
 d. 
 
 Honest, little chicken,** Iluguenin is say- 
 to a frail young girl, "if you went up 
 there, you*d drop dead just from breathing 
 the air." 
 
 And then the poilus discover another cause 
 pride, that of being covered with dust, 
 
296 BOURRU 
 
 and having bronzed faces and rough hands. 
 They cast glances of pity at the well- 
 groomed little civilians whom they meet in 
 the towns. My, aren't they ridiculous in 
 their straw hats? Look at them! 
 
 But it is in the village where they are to 
 pass their fortnight that Bourru and his fel- 
 lows really come to know the state of mind 
 of the knight, returned from the Crusade, 
 who used to stretch himself out at his ease 
 and wait for his womenfolk and servants to 
 take care of him. The constable is the cause 
 of it. This honorable functionary, a rotund 
 little old man, in a suit of yellow alpaca, pos- 
 sesses a soldierly and forceful mind. The 
 first of these qualities is evinced by the me- 
 daille militaire which decorates his breast, 
 and the second is revealed in the white tuft 
 on his chin which, when he holds his head 
 high, seems to point like a sword. He 
 adores the poilus, does this retired colonial 
 soldier, and he intends that his village shall 
 entertain them worthily. With fine gestures 
 
AN EXPEDITION TO THE REAR 297 
 
 and much eloquence he declares to the com- 
 manding officer that the troopers shall have 
 fine barns, good straw, and even some beds 
 — yes, actual beds! 
 
 But there is one little difficulty. In this 
 village, far back from the front, there is a 
 repair station for automobiles, and these gen- 
 tlemen — that is, the automobile mechanics — 
 have brought hither — of course, you mustn't 
 tell any one this — have secretly brought 
 hither their wives. Don't let it worry you — 
 they are just old men, nothing but old me- 
 chanics; they hold to their old habits, you 
 know, and then, too, it brings money into 
 the village. But the constable cannot per- 
 mit them to keep possession of all the avail- 
 able beds, and he is already entering the 
 houses one after another and bringing out, 
 somewhat noisily, a considerable group of 
 scared little ladies. The poilus, in their good 
 nature, may protest as they please against 
 disturbing any one, the constable will have 
 his own way, and he continues crying out: 
 
298 BOURRU 
 
 "These boys have come back from the 
 front, and I tell you I'm going to put them 
 up hke princes 1'' 
 
 You can easily understand that a recep- 
 tion of this sort goes to a man's head like 
 a glass of brandy. My Bourru and his fel- 
 lows literally take possession of the village, 
 establishing themselves as masters in its 
 houses. 
 
 "Hey there, old girl, don't you want to 
 make us an omelette? And since your 
 kitchen suits us perfectly, we'll just stay in 
 it." 
 
 The streets are full of them. Standing in 
 the middle they chat and laugh as long as 
 they like; some gesticulate and make loud 
 mirth. Do you wonder why? Just look at 
 that group of girls coming up the street — 
 what would they think if a man didn't set his 
 cap on one side like a bold warrior and throw 
 them a few jaunty words as they pass? 
 Surely they would be vexed ! 
 
 And then, one is entitled to some fun 
 
AN EXPEDITION TO THE REAR 299 
 
 when one has just got back from the front, 
 what? After all, if the houses are still stand- 
 ing here, if the crops are ripening in peace, 
 it is we who are the reason for it. Women 
 are working in the fields and — well, that's 
 natural enough! In the days of old — we 
 have read it in the History of France — the 
 women did all the manual labor, while the 
 warriors conserved their powers for noble 
 exploits. Since the war is still going on, let's 
 get back to the old traditions! Come, you 
 civilians, you've never heard a shell explode 
 — so down on your knees before us I 
 
 "Another omelette and three bottles of 
 red ink!" cry Huguenin, Bourru, and their 
 comrades, who have installed themselves in 
 the house of a good old lady and are satis- 
 fying their needs like kings. 
 
 Can you see them, our poilus of 1916? 
 They demonstrate tlieir kinsliip witli tlie La 
 Tulipes, the Tranche-Montagnes, the Brin 
 d' Amours, and with all those old Knights- 
 at-arms of the fifteenth century who used 
 
300 BOURRU 
 
 to crush the "bourgeois" with their scorn 
 when they were passing through the city 
 streets. It is, indeed, a social problem that 
 is raised in this village, and a philosopher 
 would hasten to put on his goggles to study 
 the phenomena of this revival of a military 
 psychology supposed obsolete. 
 
 A tender heart, inspired by the famous 
 saying Cedant arma togae, might take pity 
 on these poor civilians molested by a brutal 
 soldiery. It would be quite wrong; and to 
 prove the fact, just listen to the good old 
 peasant-woman, as with countless polite 
 phrases she accompanies Huguenin, Bourru, 
 and their friends to their abodes : 
 
 "Yes, I'll only charge you thirty sous for 
 the omelette and twenty for the red ink, be- 
 cause it's you and you've just got back from 
 the front J and don't forget to come again." 
 
XXXI 
 
 THOUGHT OF THOSE WHO 
 REMAINED OX THE HH.L 
 
 BOURRU is now serving on another 
 sector, and a new existence has be- 
 gun for him. But often his thoughts 
 hover over the region of Vauquois, where 
 lie lived through long months of the war. 
 Thanks to the distance, he can see more 
 clearly now what his merits were, and a cer- 
 tain look of pride comes into his eyes when 
 he recalls some episode of the combats in 
 which he had a part; but it is still a very 
 childlike pride. If our trooper meets a 
 boastful soldier from another sector he al- 
 's lets the other do the talking; Bourru 
 not seek to extol his own exploits, for 
 
 301 
 
302 BOURRU 
 
 he believes that everybody else has done as 
 well as he. Also, it is not a feeling of ar- 
 rogance that comes over him when his imagi- 
 nation carries him back to Vauquois ; no, he 
 only thinks of the good comrades whom he 
 has left on the hill, struck down by death. 
 He is afraid that the men of the division that 
 replaced his own do not feel tenderly enough 
 toward the graves there. How could they? 
 For these new soldiers of Vauquois the 
 names inscribed on the crosses will call up 
 no exact picture — no impulse will spring up 
 in their hearts when they read the names of 
 Goupy, Bouys, Revel, Chartier. That is 
 why Bourru loves to make a pilgrimage, in 
 thought, to the graves in his old sector. 
 
 First, those in the forest. There were 
 some of them at almost every point — at 
 Mamelon Blanc, at Allieux, at the Barri- 
 cade. During the last months of his stay it 
 was in this cemetery that all the dead at Vau- 
 quois were buried. The ceremonies were 
 very simple. In the early morning the 
 
THOSE WHO REMAINED 303 
 
 stretcher-bearers would go out there under 
 the trees, where the bodies brought down 
 during the night were awaiting their last 
 rites. Each body was placed in a trench dug 
 in advance. Then a wooden cross was fixed 
 in the ground, bearing a name ; though some- 
 times there was no name, because the tor- 
 pedo, on exploding, had left of a group of 
 ^oldiers nothing but unrecognizable fr ag- 
 ents. Under the great trees these com- 
 rades of Bourru are sleeping. Sometimes 
 the graves were placed here and there in the 
 bivouac. Bourru remembers the four 
 mounds near the kitchens, on the skirt of the 
 wrest — they were right in the line of a path. 
 For months men in thousands took the 
 trouble to make a little detour in order not 
 
 to walk over them. 
 
 « « « « « 
 
 In the rear cantonments, the wounded 
 men who had died in the ambulance were 
 buried in the village cemeteries. At Froidos 
 the dead were carefully laid to rest in one 
 
304 BOURRU 
 
 great trench. Crosses marked the names of 
 the soldiers and the dates of their deaths; 
 and maps of the cemetery were kept in the 
 mayor's office and in the records of the am- 
 bulance corps. How cold they seemed, these 
 graves laid out by the administration! All 
 that saved them from the appearance of a 
 work-yard were the flowers that comrades 
 brought during days of rest. 
 
 Bourru had more affection for the graves 
 of September, 1914. How much more mov- 
 ing! Buried on the spot where they had 
 fallen, the soldiers of the Marne sleep in the 
 lap of Nature. Often it is on the summit of 
 a ridge, dominating the landscape, that their 
 crosses arrest the passer-by and constrain 
 him to meditation. Bourru took pleasure in 
 the fancy that, at night, these victors could 
 still look forward to the line of the Argonne, 
 the stout wall defending the land of dreams 
 against the barbarians. 
 
 At Rarecourt the praiseworthy effort to 
 aid relatives in finding the glorious dust of 
 
THOSE WHO RE:\rAIXED 305 
 
 their dear ones had been carried to a point 
 touching in its devotion. Each soldier who 
 died at Salvange had his own grave; on the 
 cross were crowns, plates, and even photo- 
 graphs sent by his relatives. There the 
 ancient rnilitarj' rites were observed with 
 perfect regularity. The bier of the humblest 
 soldier was always accompanied by a priest, 
 a guard of honor, ^nd the commanding offi- 
 cer from Teil representing the general of 
 the army corps. I'hey were not willing that 
 a grave should be closed before honor had 
 been done to the dead comrade by his broth- 
 
 in arms. The inhabitants of the village 
 made it their duty to honor these sol- 
 diers who had fallen in defence of their 
 soil. Women and young girls were present 
 at all the burials, and a pensive melancholy 
 rested on the grave faces of the ^leuse 
 people. 
 
 All these graves in the rear villages, at 
 Auzeville, at Jubecourt, at Ville-sur-Cou- 
 
 ce, at Julvccourt, were constantly tended 
 
306 BOURRU 
 
 by the soldiers on their days of rest. Moss, 
 boughs of trees, and flowers were placed on 
 them, and crosses were built up with bricks 
 piled together. Now that he is far away, 
 Bourru understands more fully what mean- 
 ing underlay all this care for the graves. It 
 answered a need of the heart. A struggle 
 was in progress against oblivion, an affect- 
 ing struggle in which man makes use of 
 every symbol to provide against the indiffer- 
 ence of the future. Therefore these crowns, 
 these flowers, these classic palms that speak 
 in honor of the dead; therefore these frag- 
 ments of shell, objects that commemorate 
 glory in arms ; therefore these crosses, which 
 tell of the resurrection. There are no heavy 
 stones here to seal the tombs and protect 
 them against possible profanation. One ex- 
 erts himself to supply their place with en- 
 closures made of boughs of trees, sometimes 
 forming constructions of a strange style. 
 It is the name, above all, that the comrades 
 desire to save from oblivion. This name. 
 
THOSE WHO REMAINED 307 
 
 therefore, is inscribed on the cross, on the 
 plates, and even written on a piece of paper 
 and placed in a bottle left at the foot of the 
 cross. Men of the future, will j^ou know how 
 to honor these glorious names which a wild 
 desire to conquer oblivion now bequeaths to 
 you? 
 
 Shortly before leaving the sector, Bourru 
 was at Brocourt. lie remembered tliat on 
 the outskirts of the village two otTicers of 
 the regiment had been buried underneath the 
 pines that spread their broken, tragic 
 boughs. What a fine romantic scene it 
 would make, at a later day, when the mold 
 of time should have gathered over the 
 tombs I 
 
 But the battle of Verdun had been felt as 
 far back as this, and in place of lonely graves 
 he found a great cemetery. Two roads 
 passed by it, filled with long lines of trucks 
 and with troops on the march. A few 
 strands of wire separated the enclosure of 
 the dead from the highway where the living 
 
308 BOURRU 
 
 were pressing on. Or was it a separation? 
 Morally, at least, there was none. One went 
 into the cemetery as into a familiar place; 
 in passing, each man offered a brief salute to 
 the crosses, or perhaps merely lowered his 
 voice ; others paused a moment in silence be- 
 fore a mound. Bourru heard one man say 
 to the others with him, "He is over there, 
 the old man;" and they took their way to- 
 ward the grave as if an old friend was await- 
 ing them with outstretched hands. It even 
 happened that certain wags would choose 
 their own places, declaring that in a ceme- 
 tery so full of life a man would hardly know 
 he was dead. 
 
 There was nothing shocking in such fa- 
 miliarity. Every word and every gesture 
 were in harmonious accord, as it seemed, to 
 say to the comrades who were sleeping: 
 "You see we are here, close to you ; you are 
 not the dreadful things that are heard of 
 in tales of ghosts; we know you well, and 
 that is why we love you. Rest easy — the soil 
 
THOSE WHO REMAINED 309 
 
 that shelters you shall always remain 
 French." 
 
 Once a visitor desired to express more 
 clearly the feelings that were moving him, 
 and in his awkward way wrote with a pencil 
 on one of the crosses: "Rest in peace, old 
 man; we'll take revenge for you." And it 
 seemed as if those that lay huried made signs 
 of friendship and encouragement. 
 
 Seeing all these things, Bourru would re- 
 member the old priest in his village, who, in 
 his sermons, spoke so often of the commun- 
 ion between the dead and the living. Was 
 this not a new witness of the truth? The 
 soldier going into battle was receiving inspi- 
 ration at the graves of his comrades, from 
 whom emanated an irresistible power to 
 urge the hero to sacrifice. 
 
 * * m * 
 
 Bourru loves to think thus of his dead 
 comrades left behind forever. 
 
 He knows now how great was their in- 
 fluence over him. In the cities of old the 
 
310 BOURRU 
 
 dead were buried in the center of the town, 
 and the cemeteries served as places for pub- 
 lic assemblies as for family gatherings. The 
 Christian church, in order to make the in- 
 fluence of the dead still more forceful, bu- 
 ried them in the very temples. Eternal repe- 
 tition of history! To-day in our towns in 
 the war-zone we have revived the ancient 
 custom. We do not exile our dead to som- 
 ber places set apart; on the contrary we 
 keep them very close to us. They are our 
 loved ones, and their place of rest is in the 
 garden where we walk and receive mute 
 counsel from them. 
 
 The front, for the poets of the future, will 
 be a long line of glory winding its path of 
 light across the land of France. For 
 Bourru it will be the great work-shop where 
 one toiled hard for the achievement of a holy 
 duty. Because comrades of his met death 
 at the task, that work- shop will become, in 
 the future, like one of those cathedrals where 
 one does not enter except with bare head 
 
THOSE WHO REMAINED 311 
 
 bowing in respectful devotion. As on the 
 days when over the slabs covering the tombs 
 in the old church at Bligny the living march 
 forward singing Magnificats and Hosan- 
 nahs, so the time will come when Bourru will 
 honor his dead comrades and will draw from 
 the memory of them new powers for life. 
 
PART TWO 
 WAR UXDERGROUND 
 
AN ENCOUNTER UNDERGROUND 
 
 AT that particular moment tlie one idea 
 of Flanient, the saj^per, was to d\<^ 
 fast. You, too, in his place, would 
 not have thought of mucli else. As soon as 
 are at the bottom of that tunnel, less 
 n a yard deep and about as wide, you 
 nt to get out of it. Just imagine! forty 
 yards of earth on top of you! You cannot 
 fancy the feeling it gives you! Oh, I know, 
 B course, that as soon as you think of the 
 sapper in his underground hole you shud- 
 der and say, "Yes, I see it all — it's hor- 
 rible." 
 
 And you close your eyes the better to con- 
 jure up the sensations of one scratching 
 
 315 
 
316 BOURRU 
 
 away forty yards under the earth. Ah, no! 
 you do not see it all. In vain you envelop 
 your soul in a great shroud of shadows and 
 of silence; in vain your flesh creeps at 
 thought of the dank chill, your arms move 
 instinctively to ward off the falling clods, 
 your bosom heaves as though struggling 
 against suffocation — useless efforts! All 
 these exertions of the imagination do not 
 make you feel what it is to have forty yards 
 of earth over your head; it is heavy, crush- 
 ing, terrible! One is confined here like an 
 old man who has reached the low grounds 
 toward which he has been traveling for a 
 hundred years of life, but who is still looking 
 back toward those heights of the past, the 
 sunlit days of his youth. 
 
 In proportion as the descent is made into 
 the shaft, so narrow that a fat man could not 
 get through it, the impression grows that the 
 strata of earth are weighing down one upon 
 another. Ten yards down we are still in the 
 shaft, which is made of a clay as hard as 
 
AN ENCOUNTER UNDERGROUND 317 
 
 rock; thence a passage through which we 
 have to crawl brings us to another shaft. 
 Climbing down the rope ladder we traverse 
 another zone lined with a moist, black clay. 
 The clamorous life of the upper day is al- 
 ready far behind I Deeper yet, we cross the 
 belt of green sand; and then, at last, forty 
 yards down, we find ourselves — little mov- 
 ing objects lost in the immensity of inei-t 
 matter — in the upper section of the Jurassic 
 stratum. A vague, superstitious fear seizes 
 the most skeptical minds. "What if it be liv- 
 ing, this matter upon whose eternal silence 
 we are intruding! And who knows? Our 
 presence might, perhaps, enrage mysterious 
 forces here. These successive beds of clay 
 that your pick is attacking — if you should 
 disturb their equilibrium a landslide might 
 follow and drag us down to the depths of 
 some subterranean gulf. True, the tunnel is 
 **boxed in," that is to say, boarded with 
 strong planks, but what a pitiful bulwark 
 against these mighty masses, dense and 
 
318 BOURRU 
 
 rugged, which are pulled incessantly toward 
 the center of the globe ! 
 
 Ah, that sullen force of nature lying con- 
 stantly in wait for you; like a menace, the 
 miner senses it on his bosom, on his back, and 
 in his limbs. 
 
 Is it that, or the lack of oxygen, which is 
 the cause of that uneasiness from which Fla- 
 ment suffers so much that, against his will, 
 he stops from time to time to breathe deeply? 
 
 Behind him Surelle is putting the loose 
 earth into the sacks. 
 
 *'One more hour of grubbing, old man, and 
 our job will be done." 
 
 Suddenly Flament's pick sinks into a bit 
 of earth which gives way esLsily ; a black hole 
 appears in the glimmering light of the 
 candle. 
 
 "Hello, a fissure," thinks the sapper, for 
 he has learned that at the beginning of the 
 Jurassic stratum there sometimes exist huge 
 hollow spaces dating from the epoch of the 
 great geological disturbances. 
 
AN ENCOUNTER UNDERGROUND 319 
 
 But you have to be careful — it may be a 
 tunnel of the enemy. Who knows? The}' 
 liave heard something and are lying in wait, 
 perhaps. Flament puts out his candle and 
 listens — but hears not a sound. It must be 
 a natural fissure. He enlarges the hole and 
 can now pass his licad througli it; but it is 
 not yet wise to light tlie candle. He 
 stretclies out his arm in the dark but touches 
 nothing. However, he must see. 
 |H|Strike a matcli, and put it out right 
 away," is Surelle's advice. 
 
 lament has seen. Xo doubt about it — it 
 
 enemy tunnel; on the opposite wall 
 
 e were traces of the pick. What danger 
 
 may this hole be hiding? Is it occupied? 
 
 Isn't it near a mine ready to go off? 
 
 *'It doesn't look good to me," Surelle 
 
 agrees. "Let's get Lieutenant Montazeau." 
 
 he lieutenant arrives. He has taken off 
 
 boots, for the soles might scrape along 
 
 e planks and make a noise; he advances on 
 
 fours in the narrow tunnel. Do not try 
 
 m 
 
 may 
 
 Isn'i 
 
 "] 
 
 agre 
 
 V 
 
320 BOURRU 
 
 to see him; it is darker here than you have 
 ever imagined. Beside you, behind, before, 
 the darkness is Hke a huge mass; you seem 
 to be moving through a yielding sub- 
 stance; sight is a superfluous sense; your 
 whole being is concentrated in the faculty 
 of hearing; you close your eyes to hear the 
 better. 
 
 "Can you hear the digging close by, lieu- 
 tenant?" says Flament, who is following the 
 officer. 
 
 Ah! that terrible nightmare of the "toe, 
 toe" of the enemy's pick! It continually 
 hammers upon the ear of the miner, like 
 throbbing pulse-beats. It has to be banished 
 by sheer will-power or it would nail him to 
 the spot, motionless, silent, breathless, 
 doomed to listen indefinitely without ever 
 knowing whether it be reality or an illusion 
 which thus unmans him. Possibly the enemy 
 sapper, absent a moment ago, has returned 
 and resumed his work. But no — not a 
 sound. 
 
■i 
 
 AN ENCOUNTER UNDERGROUND 321 
 
 At last Lieutenant Montazeau arrives at 
 the end of the tunnel. He feels around; yes, 
 here is, indeed, a hole measuring half a yard. 
 Very gently he passes his head through it, 
 looks about, and listens. Nothing but shad- 
 ows and silence. The electric flashlight re- 
 als the tunnel. 
 
 *Go quick, and tell some one to bring a 
 charge; we must plant a blast. I'll stay 
 here." 
 
 The order was but the reflex act of a good 
 sapper. Is an enemy's tunnel discovered i 
 Quick! build a mine-chamber, a wall of 
 sand-bags in front, the charge of explosives 
 leaned against the wall, then a good wad- 
 ding of sand-bags behind, a layer of melinite 
 which reaches to the top of the chamber, a 
 fuse — and there you have an enemy's tun- 
 nel mined ; that is to say, torn to pieces. 
 
 But this is no rapid operation. While the 
 soldiers are going back for the explosives and 
 the sand-bags, the lieutenant remains. Peer- 
 ing into the enemy's tunnel he reconnoiters 
 
322 BOURRU 
 
 with care — greatly excited. What luck ! but 
 also what a risk! It is impossible that the 
 Bodies will not soon discover the inroad on 
 their tunnel, for they are sure to make fre- 
 quent rounds. 
 
 An hour passes. The lieutenant listens 
 and watches, too, for a light may possibly 
 appear. Hark! What is that? Shining 
 circles are dancing in the darkness — is it 
 mere hallucination? You can tell by rub- 
 bing your eyes. But the lights are still there. 
 
 This time it is, indeed, real; there, per- 
 haps thirty feet away, a light passed at the 
 end of the tunnel and human shapes crept 
 along. The German petty-officer is making 
 his rounds. He is going to visit the branch 
 where the lieutenant is listening. In fact, 
 the light, which seemed to be disappearing 
 down a transverse tunnel, is returning. A 
 discussion follows. Are they going to come? 
 Yes? No? 
 
 Yes. Now the lieutenant sees the light 
 making its way towards him ; soon he makes 
 
AN ENCOUNTER UNDERGROUND 323 
 
 out the German's face, red in the lamp-light 
 and glistening with sweat — for it is hot in 
 here. The lieutenant, too, is warm; he has 
 thrust an arm through the hole and is hold- 
 ing his revolver pointed at the enemy, with 
 the butt against tlie earth. The Boche is 
 still coming on, with two men following be- 
 hind him. There is nothing to do but shoot. 
 It is horril)le to kill a man this way; here it 
 is eighteen months that the lieutenant has 
 been waging war underground, but one 
 would never guess it — he is almost trem- 
 bling. His head is indiscernible against the 
 of the tunnel — half a yard more and 
 
 Boche will see him. He, too, has a re- 
 
 er. 
 
 ver their heads, forty yards up, there is 
 calm day; neither grenades nor trench-mor- 
 tars are at work. From the bottom of the 
 trench the poilus are watching the swallows 
 wheeling gracefully in the sunlight. Not 
 one of the birds is troubled in his happy 
 life. Down below, the Boche is gasping his 
 
324 BOURRU 
 
 last; the two men who were following him 
 are fleeing like frightened rats and the lieu- 
 tenant is yelling out orders. 
 
 "Hurry up! Bring the sacks of ched- 
 dite! . . . There are only six — never mind; 
 it's enough. Come on! Stuff it in!" 
 
 And the sacks of explosive are dumped 
 headlong into the enemy's tunnel — beside the 
 Boche, who is still groaning. Quickly the 
 fuse is placed, at the opening of the pit; 
 forty yards above, a non-commissioned offi- 
 cer touches it off, while the lieutenant wipes 
 his brow as though waking from a bad 
 dream. 
 
 The shock was not even discernible, so 
 tiny had been the charge! It required an 
 effort of the imagination to believe that, 
 down below, the body of a man was firmly 
 wedged in the earth, to sleep there through 
 the centuries — unless another explosion 
 should come to shatter it and mingle it still 
 more closely with the soil. 
 
II 
 
 A RESCUE 
 
 CAPTAIN LAIGNIER, of the En- 
 gineers, was in the shelter which 
 served as his headquarters when the 
 shock came. A mine had just exploded. 
 That does not mean tliat there was a great 
 detonation; no, not a sound was perceptible 
 in the grottoes thirty feet under the ground. 
 One only saw the walls of the cavern swing 
 like those of a ship tossed by a tempest; the 
 supporting timbers groaned and cracked and 
 seemed ready to fall; but hardly was there 
 time to think "I am lost" before the hill had 
 already regained its immobility, 
 j^taignier rushes outside. All the tunnels 
 01 the position are his domain ; since he has 
 
 325 
 
326 BOURRU 
 
 not ordered any charge set off on our side it 
 must have been a Boche mine that just ex- 
 ploded. On his arrival at the front line 
 he is at once addressed by a sapper on 
 guard. 
 
 "Nothing to be seen outside, captain." 
 
 Which means that nothing has broken the 
 surface of the earth. It is a mere blast some- 
 where within the underground maze, but 
 what has caused it? 
 
 Laignier knows all the entrances to the 
 shafts, which are numbered P', P', E', E', 
 etc.; he runs from one to the other. At P^ 
 the sapper informs him, "It must be some- 
 where around P'', at 5/51." 
 
 And sure enough, at the moment when the 
 captain arrives at P^° they are bringing a 
 half-fainting corporal out of the shaft. It 
 requires little effort to imagine what has 
 taken place. The enemy has blasted one of 
 our tunnels; the gases, creeping through a 
 wall, have spread through the whole system 
 of tunnels — a terrible fate for those who have 
 
A RESCUE 327 
 
 been surprised, for nitrous gases overwhelm 
 a man in three breaths. 
 
 The sappers have come to know its effect 
 thorouglily during the eighteen months that 
 they have been engaged here in subterranean 
 warfare; the effect is an asphyxiation which, 
 tliough slow enough in bringing death, com- 
 plctel}' overpowers a man's limbs and leaves 
 the unfortunate miner inert, like a i)undle of 
 rags, at the end of the tunnel where he has 
 been at work. Those who have been revived 
 tell afterwards that at the time the mind re- 
 mains to a certain extent active — the will ex- 
 erts itself to command the muscles to flight, 
 but all in vain; you seem to be stuck fast in 
 the tunnel where you are stiffled if you open 
 your moutli to cry for help. It is obvious 
 that there is no time to lose if we are to save 
 those comrades who are gasping thirty or 
 forty yards underground. 3Ioreover, a sap- 
 per never hesitates. From the moment w^hen 
 there appears at the entrance to a pit a sig- 
 nal that a soldier has been caught in a tunnel, 
 
328 BOURRU 
 
 there takes place acts of devotion which will 
 some day bring tears of admiration to the 
 eyes of our grandchildren. 
 
 Imagine the setting. Under a shelter, 
 open slender shafts about thirty inches in 
 diameter, sinking vertically into the ground. 
 You go down into them by a rope ladder. 
 When, in a moment of calm, you who are 
 uninitiated bend over the shaft where a can- 
 dle burning at the bottom is but a tiny flick- 
 ering spark amid the shadows of that gulf, 
 you cannot refrain from recoiling instinc- 
 tively, so profound is the horror that rises 
 from below. But if there has been an ex- 
 plosion, it is more than mental horror that 
 rises; the nitrous gases escape in rapid ex- 
 halations and sometimes men who were only 
 leaning over the opening have inhaled their 
 death. 
 
 Be that as it may, the first sapper to ar- 
 rive does not hesitate ; about his body he fas- 
 tens a cord, gives the end to the soldier on 
 guard, and descends. Often, after a few 
 
A RESCUE 329 
 
 yards, when he feels himself overcome, he 
 pulls the cord, in token that he can go no 
 further. He is pulled up and another un- 
 dertakes the task. 
 
 This was what had happened at the mo- 
 ment of Laignier's arrival at P'°. Already 
 three sappers had gone down, only to be 
 withdrawn, half-asphj'xiated. Stretched out 
 beside the entrance of the pit, they were 
 vomiting and struggling under the effects of 
 the terrible poison. 
 
 "Captain," a soldier immediately ex- 
 plained, *'it is Lieutenant R and Ser- 
 geant C who are down there; we can 
 
 hear them gasp." 
 
 Ah, the power of instinctive devotion mov- 
 ing the soul of a brave man! This captain 
 in command of the engineers so well knows 
 the danger of such a rescue tliat he has for- 
 bidden anyone to go down into the shafts, 
 in such a case, without a rope attached to 
 him and without an oxygen-tank, and he 
 punishes severely those who disobey that or- 
 
330 BOURRU 
 
 der. But before those present have time to 
 interfere, Laignier has taken off the tunic 
 which might impede his movements, and 
 without oxygen, without a rope about his 
 body, without uttering a word, he descends 
 into the pit. 
 
 "It's madness, captain; stop!" they cry to 
 him. 
 
 The officer does not hear. 
 
 What happens in the depths of the tun- 
 nel? By employing certain arts of narra- 
 tion which he will hardly reproach me for — 
 for I know that this busy soldier never has 
 time to read a book — I believe I can recon- 
 struct the scene. 
 
 At the bottom of the shaft there is the 
 entrance to a horizontal tunnel, where one 
 is obliged to crawl. Naturally, not a ray of 
 light penetrates here. Laignier advances 
 in the darkness, struggling against suffoca- 
 tion; a mass bars his way, a man's body, 
 large and heavy ; doubtless it is the sergeant, 
 for the lieutenant is a frail, slender man. 
 
A RESCUE 831 
 
 The victim has sensed the fact that some one 
 has come to save him: "I'm smothering, I'm 
 smothering," he nmrmurs. Laignier, sitting 
 down and pushing with his legs, moves back- 
 wards, dragging the body of the sergeant. 
 Suddenly, the latter, half awaking, is seized 
 by the instinct so often noticed among 
 drowning men, and clutches desperately to 
 the arm of the captain, preventing further 
 movement. The situation is critical, both 
 the men may die ; not a moment is to be lost. 
 Laignier follows the advice always given a 
 rescuer for such an occasion; with a blow 
 of his fist he stuns the sergeant, who loosens 
 his hold. 
 
 Arriving at the foot of the shaft the cap- 
 tain rapidly fastens the inert body to a rope 
 that the others have let down from the top, 
 and commands, "Haul him up!" 
 
 But hardly has the sergeant been drawn 
 yards up when the rope breaks — there 
 IS a fall; the rope is tied anew around the 
 body; this time all goes well. 
 
332 BOURRU 
 
 In saving the lieutenant another difficulty 
 arises. At the mouth of the second pit, 
 which opens at the end of the first horizontal 
 tunnel, twenty yards below ground, he is 
 holding with rigid arms to a supporting 
 beam, while his legs dangle in the space be- 
 low. Fortunately he is a little chap, far from 
 heavy ; for an athlete like Laignier it would 
 be easy to detach him, but the captain's tem- 
 ples are throbbing violently, his vision is 
 troubled, his muscles are weakening; several 
 times he stops in the tunnel ; it seems to him 
 that a thick wadding fills all the space about 
 him. 
 
 "Did you think of death?" I asked. 
 
 "Oh, as for me," he answered, "you know 
 when I am busy I don't lose time thinking 
 about that; my sole idea was to finish my 
 job as fast as I could." 
 
 Both men were saved. 
 
 "But the best part of the story," says the 
 major of engineers, with whom I discussed 
 
A RESCUE 333 
 
 the exploit, "is that three weeks after, even 
 I, the immediate commander of Captain 
 Laignier, had not yet heard of it. The cap- 
 tain had forbidden that the incident be men- 
 tioned. 'Tiresome,' he called it. An acci- 
 dent revealed it to me, and when I told Laig- 
 nier that he was proposed for his sixth cita- 
 tion, he answered, 'If you wish it, major, 
 but on condition that you give me eight days 
 in the guardhouse, at the same time, for not 
 having taken an oxygen-tank with me. Jus- 
 tice has to be maintained; when a man dis- 
 obeys my orders in that matter I always lock 
 him up in prison for eight days.' " 
 
Ill 
 
 AN EXPLOSION 
 
 DELATTRE, the sapper, who is a 
 shrewd Parisian, perfectly under- 
 stands the tactical situation, and it 
 is simple enough. For the last day or two, 
 in one of our tunnels thirty yards under- 
 ground, distant noises have been heard from 
 the direction of the Boche. Captain Laig- 
 nier has been here, listened with the geo- 
 phone, scribbled some lines and numbers in 
 a memorandum-book, and finally said, "Yes, 
 the Boches are digging ahead perpendicu- 
 larly to this tunnel." 
 
 How shall we retaliate? Have you seen 
 two terriers attacking a cat? One heads it 
 off in front while the other noiselessly exe- 
 
 334 
 
AN EXPLOSION 
 
 335 
 
 cutes a turn and pounces on Tommy from 
 behind. The whole art of war is there, 
 whether it be on land, on sea, in the air, or in 
 a system of mines. It is decided to apply 
 that principle again. Fortunately an old 
 tunnel of ours, not located by the enemy, 
 proceeds in a direction nearly parallel to the 
 tunnel that the enemy must be digging. It 
 is only necessary to lengthen it, inclining to 
 the right; near the Boche tunnel, it will be 
 blown up, and thus all their work of many 
 weeks will go for naught. 
 
 But, as you well know, in the same way 
 that the cat can leap into the eyes of the first 
 dog before the second has pounced on it, 
 just so can the German sapper, at a given 
 moment, decide that circumstances are fav- 
 orable and be the one himself to set off the 
 mine. 
 
 Delattre would explain it better than I, 
 but at the moment he has not time to talk, 
 for the sergeant has said to him, "Go and 
 listen." 
 
336 BOURRU 
 
 And he is listening. I assure you, it is a 
 pleasant job for a lazy man. He lies down 
 there at the end of the tunnel where the 
 sound of the enemy's pick has made itself 
 heard; he puts his ear to a beam, and he 
 waits. 
 
 If you should listen you would hear noth- 
 ing, and the earth would only seem to you a 
 great mass of inert matter, but to a good 
 miner the earth is alive ; from its heart there 
 mount a thousand noises which bear wit- 
 ness to the fact. 
 
 Let me tell you! A fortnight ago there 
 was heard the distant "toe, toe," muffled like 
 the steps of that robber who was walking 
 about the other night — you would have 
 sworn it — in the garret of the old chateau 
 where you spend your vacations — you re- 
 member? "Bah!" you said to yourself, 
 "there are so many noises in an old house!" 
 Delattre had the same notion as you at that 
 instant. "Is it really the Boche making that 
 noise?" In that calcareous hill there are 
 
AN EXPLOSION 
 
 337 
 
 immense fissures several hundred yards long, 
 which magnify distant noises. And it has 
 sometimes happened that a man has been 
 alarmed by blows which he thought came 
 from the enemy, but which in reality were 
 struck by comrades working two hundred 
 yards away. 
 
 But a week after, Delattre had no longer 
 any doubt; the *'toc-toc" was distinct, the 
 Boche were advancing. Oh ! he wasn't terri- 
 fied; he simply confided to his comrade ^lin- 
 ard, '*No mistake about it, they are there." 
 
 The days passed; the Boches were work- 
 ing steadily. One morning Delattre, after 
 having listened for five minutes, stood up 
 very pale, and said, "They're right on us — 
 two 3^ards away!" 
 
 It was, perhaps, inexact; there are days 
 when, because you have slept ill or have in- 
 digestion, you judge "short"; at other times 
 you judge "long." It all depends on the 
 v/aves of pessimism or optimism which al- 
 ternate in our poor human souls. 
 
338 BOURRU 
 
 The sapper behaved as you did, in your 
 old chateau, when after having heard an un- 
 accustomed noise you called your reason to 
 the rescue, saying to yourself, "See here, 
 let's look coolly at the situation ; it is a door 
 that is banging." As for Delattre, he called 
 an officer who, after scientific verification, 
 tapped the sapper on the shoulder and said, 
 *'01d fellow, I'll guarantee that they still are 
 six yards away." 
 
 Meanwhile, their comrades were digging 
 the curving tunnel. 
 
 To-day Delattre is listening with all at- 
 tention, for there is a sign more terrible than 
 the noise itself: it is silence. It means, per- 
 haps, that the Boches consider that they have 
 advanced far enough and are placing the 
 charge, piling up there, four yards away, 
 cases of westphalite. You can't be sure, 
 however ; when such an operation takes place 
 you hear the scraping of the cases over the 
 flooring of the tunnel. Well, to-day you 
 hear nothing, but it may be that the Boches 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 AN EXPLOSION 889 
 
 have carefully wrapped their cases in rags. 
 
 For twelve hours the silence has contin- 
 ued. What does it mean? It is torturing, 
 just as when you imagine that the assassin, 
 with muffled footsteps, is advancing through 
 the darkness of your chamber, knife in hand 
 and ready to spring. 
 
 Eighteen hours, twenty-four hours pass; 
 still the silence, silence undisturbed. What 
 are the Boches doing? Is it an accidental 
 interruption of their work, or are they pre- 
 paring the charge ? It will, perhaps, explode 
 this very moment, or the next. The sappers 
 have understood that the instant is critical. 
 The tunnel cut in behind the enemy is fin- 
 ished; the officer decides to place the charge 
 Kvhich will cut off the German retreat. It is 
 necessary to bring something like a ton of 
 cheddite from the powder-magazine over 
 [two miles away. 
 
 Delattre, with ear glued to the beam, 
 stays on guard. Every instant his comrade 
 asks, "Are they working?" 
 
840 BOURRU 
 
 What a comfort that would be ! It would 
 prove that their blast is not ready. Sud- 
 denly Delattre emits a cry of joy. He has 
 just heard the "toc-toc." He listens still 
 more attentively; it is queer, that "toc-toc" 
 there; it comes regularly, like the sound of 
 a clock ; it is not the sound of the pick, which 
 sometimes strikes soft earth and sometimes a 
 stone. The sapper understands ; the Boches, 
 realizing that they have been overheard, have 
 fastened a pick at the end of their tunnel and 
 are moving it from above, by a rope and a 
 system of pulleys, to give the illusion that 
 they are still at work. A banal and time- 
 honored trick, but also a terrible indication; 
 the German blast is ready. 
 
 "See here, boys!" says the sapper to his 
 comrades ; "we've got to get busy and bring 
 those bags of chedditel" 
 
 Indeed, this is not the moment for the 
 sappers to stand stunned, stupid, like the 
 poor man who, frozen with terror in his bed, 
 dares not get his revolver from the drawer 
 
AN EXPLOSION 
 
 841 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 of the stand for fear of precipitating the as- 
 sassin's onslaught. Watch them well, these 
 sappers, crawling in their narrow tunnel less 
 than a yard in diameter, dragging their sacks 
 of cheddite thirty yards underground, know- 
 ing that, from one moment to the next, the 
 German mine may burst the wall beside 
 them. What would happen then? Oh! 
 that's very simple. The gases from the ex- 
 plosion would rush violently through the 
 tunnel, which would then serve the same pur- 
 pose as the barrel of a cannon; the men 
 would be the projectiles which would be flat- 
 tened like balls of papier-mache against 
 .some wall. . . . Unless the pressure of the 
 [gases fails to break through, in which case 
 the tunnel "settles" ; that is to say, the ceil- 
 ing collapses, like a hat-box when you sit 
 upon it. You can imagine the fate of the 
 ■miners in that second case. There is yet a 
 third; it is the slow infiltration of gases which 
 in a few seconds stealthily smother you at 
 the bottom of the hole. . . . 
 
342 BOURRU 
 
 That day it was the Boches who were 
 blasted, and we do not know to this hour 
 which of these three hypotheses became for 
 them reality. 
 
IV 
 TRAPPED UNDERGROUXD 
 
 ALTIiOUGJI they were in the depths 
 of a mine-tunnel far under^-ound, 
 I the sappers Vashn and Jolhvct were 
 
 preoccupied with what was happening on the 
 urface of the earth. 
 "I tell you," asserted Jollivet, "there is 
 oniething pretty fine in the shape of a 
 ench-bombardment going on up there right 
 ow." 
 "Never you mind that," replied Vaslin, 
 ur job is to dig half a yard fartlier in this 
 nnel; as for trench-bombardments — that*s 
 eir funeral up above." 
 And Vaslin, chief digger, went back to 
 work. There have thus been evolved, in this 
 
 343 
 
844 BOURRU 
 
 sector, two distinct classes among the com- 
 batants, those of the free air and those of 
 the mines — a requirement of the famous 
 economic principle of the division of labor, 
 which one is obliged to apply to this war, so 
 much resembling the activities of a factory. 
 
 But to-day it is really hard not to pay at- 
 tention to what is happening above. What 
 a devil of a life they do lead, the infantry, 
 the bombers, the gunners, and the grenade- 
 throwers! The earth trembles, the planks 
 of the supports which enclose the tunnels 
 groan under the distant blows. Certainly at 
 this moment French and Boches must be 
 "swopping" five-hundred-pound torpedoes 
 as though they were nothing but hand-gren- 
 ades ; the things must be bursting and shriek- 
 ing everywhere. The hill is trembling with 
 it like the soul of a poor wretch shaken by 
 grief. 
 
 "Just the same," says Vaslin to Jollivet, 
 "go and see if anything has happened at the 
 mouth of the shaft." 
 
TRAPPED UNDERGROUND 845 
 
 t is by the shaft that the miner keeps up 
 communication with the rest of human-kind ; 
 in the same way that the proud mariner, at 
 large upon the sweep of waters, must think 
 of the little port that will shelter him some 
 day, so the miner, buried in tlie hea\y mat- 
 ter which he has to conquer, has constantly 
 in mind the shaft by which he issues to the 
 liglit of day. 
 
 Do not imagine this shaft to be a single 
 
 straight well into the earth; no, it proceeds 
 
 i**in cascades"; first a drop four yards deep, 
 
 then a twenty-yard tunnel, at the end of 
 
 which there is another drop eighteen yards 
 
 eep, and so on. If the hill were split in two, 
 
 ou would see the subterranean runways of 
 
 lie sappers take the shape of a gigantic 
 
 tairway, which sinks into the earth in the 
 
 direction of the enemy. 
 
 As Jollivet, climbing the rope ladders of 
 
 She shafts and crawling along the tunnels, 
 omes nearer and nearer to tlie surface of 
 he earth, the noise of the explosions becomes 
 
846 BOURRU 
 
 more and more distinct. A light dust jfloats 
 in the air, an indication so fearsome that sev- 
 eral times a terrible thought stops the sap- 
 per in his journey; the entrance to the shaft 
 may have caved in. This idea strikes him 
 like a boulder falling from the roof of the 
 tunnel and leaves him stupefied for several 
 seconds, robbed of strength by the terror of 
 it. 
 
 On arriving at the bottom of the first 
 shaft, four yards deep, Jollivet grasps the 
 situation; the shelter of logs which protects 
 the opening against outside bombardments 
 has collapsed, destroyed by a shell, doubt- 
 less. But the danger is not great, for the 
 light still sifts in through the displaced tim- 
 bers. 
 
 4( ^ 4i( # # 
 
 Vaslin has come to join Jollivet. The 
 two soldiers, crouching in the tunnel near the 
 shaft, wait for the bombardment to cease; 
 then they will try to get out. Perhaps some 
 one will come to their aid and cut a passage 
 
TRAPPED UNDERGROUND 347 
 
 through the fallen beams. But the bom- 
 bardment continues. What new havoc will 
 it work? At each explosion of a torpedo or 
 a 210 the soldiers strain their eyes upward 
 to make sure that the slender ray of light is 
 still there. 
 
 Of a sudden the earth trembles as though 
 the entire globe were seized with terror; a 
 giant shell, plunged deep into the ground 
 near the soldiers, has just burst and the vi- 
 brations from the explosion follow each 
 other through the earth in waves. 
 
 The man who feels solid matter thus dis- 
 turbed to its lowest depths experiences a 
 strange mental disorder. Think of it! 
 Centuries of experiences have written deep 
 upon our minds the firm faitli that, 
 within the shifting universe of water, air 
 and living beings, one thing at least is 
 firmly fixed — the ground that we tread 
 upon. To all our senses it is a stable 
 element. But now that that immov- 
 able foundation seems whirhng in the 
 
348 BOURRU 
 
 general tornado, our whole mental equilib- 
 rium is disturbed. 
 
 The gases have invaded the tunnel. For 
 a few moments Vaslin and Jollivet remain 
 stunned. When they succeed in pulling 
 themselves together, the darkness around 
 them is so complete that they have to grope 
 about to find each other. The dust must be 
 thick, they have the sensation of swallowing 
 it at each breath. They feel along the walls 
 of the tunnel. Where on earth is the shaft ? 
 Everywhere they encounter only masses of 
 earth. The truth is soon evident. Under 
 the force of the explosion the walls of the 
 shaft have collapsed and the miners are 
 trapped four yards underground. 
 
 I could resort to powerful language to 
 depict for you the suffering of these two 
 men, thus menaced by a terrible death, and 
 I am sure that your kindness would not be 
 niggardly in sympathy for these soldiers of 
 France, whom duty has led to this inglorious 
 suffocation; but I have to tell you truth- 
 
TRAPPED UNDERGROUND 34^9 
 
 fully that I tried in vain to find, in the 
 course of a long conversation, any traces of 
 terror which those tragic moments might 
 have left in the soul of Vaslin. 
 
 When I said, "You must have had a mo- 
 ment of fearful despair," he answered with 
 perfect simplicity, "Oh, no, you see, as for 
 me, I have no wife or children." 
 
 It was like the enunciation of an incon- 
 trovertihle axiom, a primal verity; the idea 
 seemed perfectly natural to him that a man 
 ought not to dread death except when it 
 may have unpleasant consequences for oth- 
 ers. This conviction with him is as power- 
 ful as an instinct. 
 
 "So," he added, "I comforted Jollivet the 
 best I could, for he has children and kept 
 saying over and over, *]My poor little ones, 
 my poor little ones.' 'Don't cry,' I said to 
 him; 'we're going to try to get out of 
 here!'" 
 
 I For both of them, however, there was a 
 'moment of tragic anxiety; the explosion had 
 
350 BOURRU 
 
 destroyed their sense of direction. Have 
 you sometimes had, in a tunnel, a sudden 
 impression that you did not know in which 
 direction the train was going? Do you re- 
 member the dizziness, the agony, the sweat 
 which suddenly stood out on your forehead, 
 the nausea? It was such a seizure that the 
 sappers experienced. In which direction 
 should they dig to escape? At random, Vas- 
 lin, who had brought his pick along, attacked 
 the wall of the tunnel ; JoUivet, behind him, 
 carried away the loose earth. They took 
 turns at their tasks. Fortunately the masses 
 of earth hereabouts have been so shaken to 
 the depth of three or four yards that the clay 
 is broken up and may easily be loosened by 
 the pick. Nearer the surface the soil be- 
 comes more and more broken. Since the 
 exit the men were digging inclined steeply, 
 the debris fell of itself into the tunnel. 
 
 Suddenly Vashn's pick goes in deep ; a ray 
 of light reaches him. Where is he coming 
 out? The soldier listens. Not a sound 
 
TRAPPED UNDERGROUND 351 
 
 comes from above ; the bombardment is over, 
 but he must be careful; the jDoint where he 
 is going to crawl out is perhaps in full view 
 ^f an enemy sentinel. 
 
 With great care Vaslin enlarges the hole 
 and peers out. They are in a crater made 
 by the explosion of a mine; imagine a hole 
 three or four yards deep, with the soldier 
 emerging at the bottom. 
 
 All at once he hastily draws back his 
 head. On the right, up above, he has recog- 
 nized the blue sand-bags that the Bodies use 
 to make their parapets. Bad luck! They 
 have come out within the enemy's lines. 
 Crouched in their narrow tunnel the two sap- 
 pers pass a moment of profound discour- 
 agement, for they know that hill of Vau- 
 quois — they know that every human figure 
 that is outlined above a parapet is greeted 
 instantly by a hundred rifle-shots. And 
 then there is, perhaps, a Boche sentinel a few 
 yards away, behind the sand-bags. 
 
 It is Jollivet wlio first decides to emerge; 
 
352 BOURRU 
 
 Vaslin follows him. They hoth climb along 
 the wall of the crater ; the loose pebbles give 
 under their hands and feet; several times 
 they have to begin the ascent anew. All that 
 makes a noise. 
 
 They reach the blue bags ; a miracle ! not a 
 Boche is in sight! The soldiers leap over 
 the parapet, tumble into a hole, get up ; rifle- 
 shots ring out, balls whistle. Like wild boars 
 they rush straight ahead. No barbed-wire 
 here, where the hostile lines are twenty or 
 thirty yards apart! . . . Here we are at 
 the home trench ! The bombardment has de- 
 molished the parapet. 
 
 Running, leaping, rolling down the slopes 
 of mine-craters, the two sappers reach the 
 French trench. Fortunately it is that 
 sleepy-head of a Maflou who is on guard at 
 the peep-hole ; anybody else would have shot 
 at them, taking them for Boches. Maflou, 
 quite dumbfounded when he recognizes them, 
 never stops saying in his surprise, "Lord in 
 heaven! Where did you come from? This 
 
TRAPPED UNDERGROUND 
 
 353 
 
 is no trick to play on a fellow I If you guys 
 in the engineers are going to come in this 
 way now you ought to let us know, anyway I 
 Of all things I Lord in heaven 1" 
 
THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 
 TWENTY-THIRD, 1916 
 
 ALL the sappers knew what the objec- 
 tive was: to destroy the Boche 
 redoubt. Ah, that redoubt! for 
 months it had been the nightmare of the de- 
 fenders of the hill. From this vantage-point 
 over their enemy's line, the Boches could, at 
 their ease, take observations covering our 
 whole valley. Sometimes their periscopes 
 might be seen sticking up there. Moreover, 
 the place gave them the superiority of a com- 
 manding position in grenade-battles; and 
 what is more, they had installed, on each side 
 of the redoubt, machine guns which de- 
 fended all their lines. At each encounter 
 
 354 
 
THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 23, 1916 355 
 
 those machine guns enfiladed our trenches 
 with their deadly fire. That redouht must be 
 destroyed. Captain Laignier, of the engi- 
 neers, had sworn it, and his sappers, ratify- 
 ing the vow of their chief, had promised it 
 to their comrades of the infantry. 
 
 ut it was not an easy matter. A shaft 
 
 "eh yards deep, a tunnel in the direction of 
 the enemy, and another shaft ten yards deep 
 had been sunk into the earth like a gigantic 
 stairway twenty-five yards under ground. 
 At present a tunnel was being dug which 
 was to be forty yards long. What a task! 
 day and niglit for a month a digger, replaced 
 every twelve hours, had been crouched in that 
 tunnel less than a yard square, scratching at 
 
 he earth without intermission; behind him 
 a spader scraped up the loose earth and put 
 it into sacks, which were dragged away by 
 other workers and hoisted up to the top of 
 
 [he shaft. 
 Moreaux, when he was digger, sometimes 
 topped in his work, wiped his forehead, and 
 
356 BOURRU 
 
 confided to his friend Boitier, who was 
 spader behind him, *' There's no use talking, 
 it'll be a pretty piece of work. I overheard 
 the captain. It seems that now we have gone 
 under the redoubt; we are almost under the 
 deepest shelters of the Boche second line. 
 Talk about what will happen!" 
 
 "Come on, cut out the hot air and get onto 
 the job," answered Boiter; "you know that 
 we have to get ahead half a yard in our 
 twelve hours." 
 
 But in proportion as one advanced in the 
 direction of the enemy a certain anxiety in- 
 creased, — namely, the fear of being over- 
 heard by the Boches, who had, perhaps, 
 pushed forward to this point their listening 
 tunnels; in three seconds an enemy blast 
 could destroy the tunnel and asphyxiate you. 
 
 Luck was with us ; not a sound was to be 
 heard. Captain Laignier descended every 
 day to the end of the hole, listened, examined 
 the earth by the light of a candle, and ap- 
 peared satisfied. That put everybody in 
 
t 
 
 THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 28, 191( 
 
 good humor; they had perfect confidence in 
 him, for one would say that during these 
 eighteen months in which he had directed 
 the war of mines in the hill he had ac- 
 quired a sixth sense, by means of which 
 he guessed the subterranean activities of the 
 enemy. 
 
 But everyone feels that such good luck 
 cannot last. Every day explosions rip up 
 the ground at other points within the hill. 
 What a pity if an accident of the same kind 
 should happen here! Had you been digging 
 away for more than a month in this tunnel, 
 like Boitier, you would know the distress of 
 uch a discovery. For fear of it poor Boitier 
 o longer dares wield his pick freely, and 
 yet he has to strike with all his strength at 
 this packed clay, for it is hard as rock. 
 
 "Well, we've got to hurry," says the cap- 
 tain finally; "we'll put the pneumatic drill 
 to work." 
 
 The machine is installed and kept cutting 
 into the earth for several days, in almost 
 
358 BOURRU 
 
 complete silence. There is no sound from 
 the Boches. 
 
 The moment comes to hollow out the 
 chamber for the explosives. It is no matter 
 of laying an unimportant little mine here, 
 one of those insignificant blasts the effects 
 of which remain localized within the earth 
 and do no more than shatter a tunnel of the 
 enemy; no, this time a whole German com- 
 pany is living comfortably, twenty yards 
 above us, in its underground shelter. Some 
 of them are reading, others are sleeping, and 
 still others are cleaning their guns; certain 
 ones are dreaming of their Gretchens, back 
 in Brandenburg or Hesse, who are proud to 
 know that their sweethearts are so firmly 
 ensconced upon the soil of France. Officers 
 are lolling in their fine rest-chambers, deco- 
 rated with objects stolen from neighboring 
 French villages. Machine guns are there, 
 protected by strong walls of concrete, ready 
 to spit fire at the French; along with these 
 are little trench-cannon and a thousand other 
 
THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 23, 1916 359 
 
 implements; and the sentinels are standing 
 on the lookout, constantly watching our 
 lines. It must be blown up, all this busy lair 
 of heinous beasts who have dug their hole 
 in the ancient hill of the Argonne, on our 
 soil. 
 
 So we are not going to spare our cheddite. 
 Ten, fifteen, twenty tons — we shall use all 
 we can. But that needs a lot of space, and 
 e must make an excavation the size of your 
 ed-chamber. Shall we hollow it out with 
 picks? That would take too long. We must 
 find a more scientific way. This clay that 
 
 |>ve have been digging into, however hard it 
 Biay be, is still compressible; we must profit 
 ly that fact. We will place just two hun- 
 Ired pounds of cheddite here, nicely w^alled 
 in behind sand-bags so that the gases cannot 
 scape. Then we will take advantage of a 
 oment when another mine is going to ex- 
 lode, set off this blast at the same time, and 
 he Boche will never notice it. So — the 
 ick is done! Down in the ground the 
 
 __ W( 
 
 ^Bbe 
 
360 BOURRU 
 
 gases from two hundred pounds of cheddite 
 have hollowed out the earth, and the mine- 
 chamber is ready. The Boche heard only 
 one explosion, and has no suspicions. 
 
 But we must pull out and carry off the 
 sand-bags that are keeping the gases from 
 running through the tunnel. Then the elec- 
 tric fan must operate for two days contin- 
 ually before we dare enter the mine-cham- 
 ber. 
 
 And when we do enter, there is conster- 
 nation. Above the chamber, and not far 
 away, can be heard the *'toc-toc" of a Ger- 
 man pick. The Boches are digging a tunnel 
 toward us. 
 
 From this moment the work is feverish 
 in its haste. Night and day the sappers are 
 at work getting the boxes of cheddite, from 
 nearly two miles in the rear, and carrying 
 them down to the mine. In the shafts and 
 yard-wide tunnels men are climbing the 
 rope-ladders, crawling, descending and as- 
 cending without pause. 
 
THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 23, 1916 361 
 
 During this work not a sound is made, not 
 a word is spoken. You may be sure that if 
 the Boches noticed the shghtest thing they 
 : would set off a blast; so we go barefoot to 
 prevent any scraping of slioes against the 
 boards as we crawl along. Within three 
 days there are fourteen thousand pounds of 
 icheddite in the chamber; but the blows from 
 [the enemy's pick are coming nearer and 
 nearer. Cast your eye over the scene for a 
 moment. Captain Laignier has come down 
 from the mine-chamber. One can stand up 
 straight here; and smoking candles light up 
 Ihe black walls of the cavern. The sappers 
 are here, clad only in loin-cloths, for the heat 
 \s stifling. The conversation is in whispers. 
 The situation is perilous — the iJoches are 
 only a yard or so above us, and if they dis- 
 cover us they have only to place a few pounds 
 of explosive in their tunnel; the ceiling of 
 Dur chamber, which there has been no time 
 to prop up, will cave in, the explosion will 
 Bet off our tons of cheddite, and the shock 
 
362 BOURRU 
 
 will tear everything and every man in our 
 tunnel to pieces. 
 
 Shall we keep on bringing more cheddite 
 at the risk of disclosure, or shall we be sat- 
 isfied with a half-sized mine and set off 
 what we have already brought in? Imagine 
 the terrible problem that our officer must 
 face. 
 
 If he continues to amass explosives he will 
 expose his men to the risk of death from the 
 enemy's blast, and even if he himself should 
 escape, he will have the disgrace of a fail- 
 ure; on the other hand, he might gain the 
 glory of the greatest bit of fireworks ever 
 seen at Vauquois. To order an immediate 
 explosion is to make sure against the risk 
 of a surprise blast and against censure, but 
 it is also to accept a pitiful success. 
 
 But I am the only one to analyze this 
 problem, because at this moment I am seated 
 here before my writing-paper, and action is 
 not forced upon me. For the truth is that 
 Captain Laignier had made his decision, 
 
THE EXPLOSION OF MARCH 23, 1916 363 
 
 even before his mind had taken into account 
 the difficulties surrounding it. Between pru- 
 dent half-way measures and thorough work 
 at any risk, the engineer had long ago made 
 his choice. In a calm voice, as he walked 
 about the chamber, he said to his men: 
 
 "Yes, boys, go on laying the mine ; there's 
 no danger." 
 
 And to prove it to them he remained be- 
 low a long time. Above him the German 
 continued to strike. 
 
 Two days later the mine-chamber was 
 full. Sand-bags had to be packed along the 
 tunnel for at least twenty yards in order to 
 be sure that the mine would send its blast in 
 the right direction. 
 
 At a quarter past nine, on a cold March 
 morning, the captain is lighting the fuse at 
 the mouth of the shaft. In one minute the 
 mine will explode. It is just the hour when 
 the commanding officers of the Boches are 
 accustomed to visit the underground shelters 
 for the inspection of their men and to glorify 
 
364 BOURRU 
 
 before them the superiority of the Germans 
 in modern, scientific warfare. 
 
 Upon the opposite hill see blocks of earth 
 the size of carts flung into the sky. French 
 will-power and French science have spoken. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
I 
 
 I 
 
 RESUME OF THE MILITARY 
 OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 
 
 VAUQUOIS is one of the points on 
 the front where the war has assumed 
 a form pecuHarly savage. There 
 have been no periods of quiet here, as the 
 official communiques testify in mentioning 
 the name of the village so frequently. 
 
 The position is made up of a hill, running 
 from east to west, which rises some sixty 
 yards above the surrounding valleys. On 
 the west side flows the Aire, a river which 
 divides the hill-country of the Argonne into 
 two parts. The country all around is moun- 
 tainous and wooded. Beyond the Aire lies 
 the Argonne, properly so called; on the 
 south is the forest of Hesse; to the east is a 
 
 367 
 
368 BOURRU 
 
 rolling, wooded country, stretching away 
 like a surge as far as the eye can reach. Be- 
 hind the rampart formed by the height lies 
 the little town of Varennes, at present oc- 
 cupied by the Germans. 
 
 Before the war Vauquois was a pictur- 
 esque little village, very old in history, for 
 its first builders were doubtless feudal lords 
 attracted by its commanding position. 
 From its height one could easily defy the 
 enemy ; on the north the descent is almost a 
 precipice, and the southern slope is very 
 steep. The church-steeple of Vauquois 
 reigned proudly over twenty miles of coun- 
 tryside. 
 
 After the battle of the Marne the troops 
 of the Fifth Army Corps were among those 
 who were pursuing the army of the Crown 
 Prince, retreating toward Montfaucon. It 
 was in the neighborhood of Vauquois that 
 the great fluctuations of battle occurred, 
 with the two adversaries now advancing and 
 now retiring, but always seeking to consoli- 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 369 
 
 ate a position and establish a balance of 
 forces. 
 
 At the end of September, 1914, our front 
 passed beneath the southern slope of the hill 
 of Vauquois. The French staff was quick to 
 understand that the army could not remain 
 in that position, fully dominated by the Ger- 
 mans on top of the hill. From his position 
 up there, the enemy had a magnificent view 
 throughout the valley of the Aire, and could 
 employ his artillery over great distances, 
 checking its work by direct observation. 
 
 Several times we endeavored to take pos- 
 session of the hill ; among others, on October 
 30 and December 8, 1914. But in spite of 
 the bravery of our troops, the operations 
 were unsuccessful, for the Germans were in- 
 trenched in formidable strength upon the 
 height, and the attackers, from the nature 
 of the terrain, had to work under great dis- 
 advantages. The whole winter passed in 
 this way. 
 
 About January 20, 1915, the Tenth Di- 
 
370 BOURRU 
 
 vision, under the command of General Val- 
 dant, took possession of the sector, which it 
 had already held up to November 7, 1914. 
 It was here that this division was to make it- 
 self illustrious by carrying the position and 
 by clinging to the hill-top, under unbeliev- 
 able conditions, for nearly two years. 
 
 The first attempt upon the hill was made 
 on February 17. The onslaught of our 
 troops (the Thirty-first and Seventy-sixth 
 Infantry) was terrific. The battalion of 
 Cuny, of the Thirty-first, made a splendid 
 entrance into Vauquois and held the place 
 for several hours. But on that day we 
 gained cruel experience of the power of the 
 machine guns. A number of these guns 
 which had not been destroyed by the prepar- 
 atory bombardment mowed down our men 
 on the height. It was in vain that our in- 
 fantry attacked the protected nests of these 
 machine guns; the position had to be relin- 
 quished. 
 
 After this new check the capture of Vau- 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 371 
 
 quois seemed a still more formidable task. 
 And yet it was so necessary that on tlie very 
 night following the fruitless attempt the 
 general of the division, choking down the 
 tears that had come into his eyes at the mo- 
 ment when he saw his soldiers mowed down 
 by the machine gims, declared with all the 
 force of his nature — "We shall begin 
 again !" 
 
 And on February 28, the attack began 
 again, under the orders of General Valdant, 
 commanding the division, and in the presence 
 of General JMichcIer, commanding the corps, 
 and of General Sarrail, commanding the 
 army. 
 
 By midday the effect of the 270-millimcter 
 guns, whicli had been brought up especially 
 for this attack, seemed considerable; the vil- 
 lage was nothing but a heap of ruins. At 
 1:15 the troops designated for the duty ad- 
 vanced bravely; at 1;45 the general in com- 
 mand of the Thirteenth Brigade reported 
 
 it three of his battalions had entered Vau- 
 
372 BOURRU 
 
 quois. At two o'clock a German counter- 
 attack forced our left flank to fall back, and 
 a flanking fire from Cheppy obliged our 
 right to do likewise. On top of the hill we 
 therefore found ourselves in the position of 
 an arrow-head projecting from the rest of 
 the line — a considerable advantage for the 
 Germans. At 3:15 the Eighty-ninth Infan- 
 try took up the attack again with vigor, and 
 reoccupied Vauquois. The battalion of Cle- 
 menson, of the Forty-sixth Infantry, retook 
 the German trenches and held them with 
 great tenacity. At five o'clock a terrific 
 bombardment fell upon the position and 
 forced our troops to return to their initial 
 lines. 
 
 On March 1 the attack was resumed by 
 the Thirty-first, supported by the Forty- 
 sixth and the Eighty-ninth, in the zones 
 where each of these regiments had operated 
 in the preceding battle. Brigadier-General 
 Bassenne was in charge of the action of the 
 several regiments. At eleven o'clock the 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 373 
 
 artillery began, and at two the infantry 
 attacked, in spite of the heavy fire of the 
 enemy's guns, with the same bravery as be- 
 fore. At 2:45 the Thirty-first Regiment, 
 commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Cuny, 
 made its way into Vauquois, the Forty-sixth 
 was on the outskirts of the village, and the 
 Eighty-ninth, under the command of Lieu- 
 tenant-Colonel Le Vannier, was consolidat- 
 ing its position in Vauquois witli the Thirty- 
 first. At 3:15 two German counter-attacks, 
 on the east, were brilhantly repulsed at the 
 point of the bayonet, with the aid of our 
 field-pieces. 
 
 I At four o'clock, the enemy still resisting, 
 the last battalion of the Forty-sixth, which 
 had been held in reserve, was sent forward. 
 At 5:30 an attempt on the part of the 
 Germans to attack from the forest of 
 Cheppy was stopped by the fire of our 
 artillery. 
 
 At six o'clock our line of resistance was 
 established along the soutliern street of the 
 
374 BOURRU 
 
 town. Colonel Simon, of the Forty-sixth, 
 immediately undertook to reestablish order 
 in our dispersed units, and Captain Laignier 
 of the engineers began the organization of 
 the conquered terrain. During the night the 
 Forty-sixth made two attempts to get pos- 
 session of the church. A mountain gun was 
 carried up to Vauquois. 
 
 Vauquois was ours. 
 
 The weeks that followed saw extremely 
 hard fighting. Each of the adversaries oc- 
 cupied one slope of the hill. On the top the 
 hostile lines ran from five to thirty yards 
 apart. But the French trenches, which were 
 still shallow, were under enfilading fire from 
 the artillery at Cheppy, on the east, and that 
 of the Argonne on the west. 
 
 The trench bombarding machines at once 
 assumed an important role. The bombard- 
 ments, called "crapouillotages" by the men, 
 occurred several times a day; they consisted 
 of an incessant stream of projectiles of every 
 sort, and we had not yet had time to dig shel- 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 375 
 
 ters. The underground war also began 
 quickly. 
 
 During this period the losses were heavy". 
 Because it was important to enlarge the 
 gains made on IMarch 1, several further at- 
 tacks were ordered. On ]March 15, the Sev- 
 enty-sixth gained fifty yards in a marvellous 
 onslaught, and on the next day, supported 
 by the Forty-second Colonials and certain 
 battalions of the Thirty-first, it repulsed a 
 hostile counter-attack. The trench-mortars 
 and hand-grenades proved tlieir value on 
 this day. 
 
 The regiments relieved one another in the 
 positions, and each one made it a point of 
 honor to obtain an advantage over the 
 enemy. Attacks and surprises came in great 
 numbers, grenade combats were intense, and 
 demonstrations of bravery and endurance 
 abounded. On JMarch 19 three men made 
 their way back into our lines after having 
 spent three days in a cellar with Germans 
 all round them. 
 
376 BOURRU 
 
 On March 22 the Germans sprinkled our 
 trenches with liquid fire. Surprised by this 
 new kind of warfare, we gave way. But 
 the next day, at nine in the morning, the 
 Forty-sixth and the Eighty-ninth gallantly 
 retook the lost trench. 
 
 Every day machines of combat were being 
 perfected on both sides, and the trench-mor- 
 tars were coming to be of great caliber. In 
 April the Germans began to throw a new 
 type of grenade that can be attached to the 
 gun, which the men call "rat-tails," and 
 which produce powerful explosions. 
 
 On the fifth and sixth of April there was 
 an attack from the V de Vauquois — a part 
 of the hill from which the enemy still en- 
 joyed a good view. The assault was carried 
 out by the Forty-second Colonials and the 
 Eighty-ninth Regiment, and was accom- 
 plished amid terrific machine-gun fire from 
 both sides. During the days that followed, 
 the bombardment was so intense that every 
 wire entanglement between the lines was 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 377 
 
 destroyed and the ruins of the village were 
 
 I gradually reduced to chips upon the hill- 
 top. 
 The cantonments in the rear were not 
 spared. Aubreville and Courcelles were de- 
 stroyed by the enemy's gun-fire. The regi- 
 ments not in the front line were kept in shel- 
 ters constructed in the forests. From mo- 
 ment to moment tlie enemy turned loose a 
 * zone of fire upon some part of the forest. 
 I All the roads were dangerous, and death 
 j often surprised men on detail duty — cooks, 
 workers of all kinds going about the sector, 
 even four or five miles behind the line of fire. 
 I During May the battle continued without 
 I intermission on the position — bombard- 
 ments, "crapouillotages," mines, incendiary 
 shells, grenades, and what not. 
 In June we took reprisals by liquid fire. 
 A munitions-depot of the Germans caught 
 fire and exploded with a formidable uproar. 
 The heaps of litter encumbering the position 
 — beams, logs, hurdles, and debris of every 
 
378 BOURRU 
 
 nature — took fire also. The hill was like one 
 immense torch. But the wind was unfavor- 
 able to the operation, and it was not fully 
 successful. 
 
 On July 13 and 14 the enemy directed fu- 
 rious attacks against Hill 263, three miles 
 west of Vauquois. At the same time the 
 sector was violently bombarded, especially 
 the point called the Barricade, where the 
 kitchens had been established. On July 30 
 German aviators threw bombs on us. On 
 July 31 the headquarters of the brigade and 
 division generals were under fierce bombard- 
 ment. 
 
 For months now the war underground had 
 been waged continuously; there was not a 
 week without its mine explosion. 
 
 The artillery duels became more and more 
 frequent. As for combats of grenades, 
 aerial torpedoes, and trench-mortars, they 
 were raging daily. Deep tunnels were dug 
 into the ground, where the men remained 
 whenever they were off duty. 
 
I 
 
 I 
 I 
 
 OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 379 
 
 Very frequently we saw General Hal- 
 louin, commanding the army corps, going 
 about the battle zone conferring with the di- 
 vision general about the establishment of new 
 lines of defense or new emplacements for 
 batteries. Thanks to the complete technical 
 competence of these officers, all the men felt 
 that the positions consolidated in the sector 
 were impregTiable. 
 
 And so the months passed. Winter came 
 gain with no diminution of the rage of the 
 combatants; the tunnels were full of water, 
 and the trenches on the western side of the 
 jhill, in the sector of Bourreuilles, were mere 
 kewers in which a man sank into mud and 
 kvater up to his waist. Some men were ac- 
 tually drowned. But not an inch of territory 
 was given up. Brigadier-General Bassenne, 
 [utilizing his knowledge of engineering, in- 
 fvented certain types of shelters that im- 
 proved the material existence of the men. 
 I He had much success in this work, to our 
 great satisfaction. 
 
380 BOURRU 
 
 The spring of 1916 came. The troops of 
 the Tenth Division were still on the spot; 
 life at Vauquois was more and more perilous ; 
 mine-explosions, and on a much larger scale, 
 had become daily occurrences. On March 
 23, for instance, we set off an explosion of 
 forty thousand pounds of cheddite. The 
 space between the trenches was now nothing 
 but a series of craters, connecting with one 
 another, joining one another to form a con- 
 tinuous ravine. 
 
 Some of these holes were as much as thirty 
 yards deep, and their steep walls were so 
 difficult to chmb that sometimes deserters 
 from the Germans who had once got down 
 into a crater could not get out again, because 
 the loose earth gave way under their hands 
 and feet in climbing. 
 
 The surface of the hill had become a mere 
 mass of ruins in wood and stone ; there were 
 no longer any trenches — ^we had to be con- 
 tent to build up each night a parapet of 
 sand-bags behind which watchers were sta- 
 
OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 881 
 
 tioned. During the day the parapet would 
 be demolished by bombardment or mine-ex- 
 plosions; it would be rebuilt at nightfall. 
 By this time the rifle was almost out of use 
 as a tool of war — a soldier took an occasional 
 shot through his peep-hole, but only to tes- 
 tify that we were still there. 
 
 At the moment of the German attack on 
 Verdun, Vauquois, which stands some fifteen 
 miles west of that city, experienced terrific 
 
 [.attacks. The moment was critical; the bri- 
 gade commanders. General Bassenne and 
 
 ItColonel Pinoteau, were unremitting in their 
 ivatchfulness. The bombardment was as 
 regular and methodical as a deluging rain; 
 210-millimeter shells and 200-pound torpe- 
 loes were falling constantly. From this mo- 
 ment on, it became impossible to live outside 
 
 the tunnels; only the sentinels remained in 
 
 Ihe front line, and the other troops were held 
 underground, ready to emerge at the first 
 lignal. This underground life, in which one 
 
 Itemains for fourteen davs and nif^clits under 
 
382 BOURRU 
 
 the menace of perpetual death that may fall 
 from the sky or spring up from the bowels 
 of the earth, is one of indescribable torture. 
 
 And still our morale remained admirable, 
 and the division never ceased, in spite of all, 
 to love its glorious ground of battle. Dur- 
 ing its long stay there the sector had been 
 transformed into a little home. One knew 
 all its nooks and paths. The chief officers 
 had remained the same since the famous days 
 of the first attack, and the men loved them. 
 His friendliness, his cahn and smiling good- 
 humor, and the force of his character, tem- 
 pered by kindliness, gained great popularity 
 for the division general. When he had 
 passed through the trenches, chatting famil- 
 iarly with the men, one would invariably hear 
 this opinion of him: "Some fine old boy, all 
 right!" 
 
 Of course, there were times when the sol- 
 diers "kicked"; it would require great ig- 
 norance of human nature to expect the 
 contrary. But men must be judged by their 
 
I 
 
 OPERATIONS AT VAUQUOIS 383 
 acts rather than by their words, and the sol- 
 diers of Vauquois performed acts that will 
 entitle them to a magnificent halo of glory- 
 when an impartial historian shall have told 
 their great deeds. 
 
 After twenty-two months at Vauquois, the 
 Tenth Division left the sector, to seek other 
 destinies in other places. 
 
 THE END 
 
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