CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
PS 3523.E96C4""'™""' '""'"'>' 
 ''*"8fMmi;«i!iy.5l,X'!S "shamed American" T 
 
 3 1924 021 760 347 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tine Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924021760347 
 
THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
FRANQOIS, 
 "l'am£;ricain" 
 
GEORGES LEWYS' 
 
 THE 
 "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 {Francois, VAmiricain) 
 
 A Story of 
 THE IRON DIVISION OF FRANCE 
 
 tiL 
 
 NEW YORK : JOHN LANE COMPANY, 
 
 LONDON: JOHN LANE, TK^ BODLEY HEAD''* 
 MCMXIX 
 
COPYBIGHT, I9I9, 
 
 Bv JOHN LANE COMPANY 
 
 
 \'- / 
 
 / 
 
 
 Press' of 
 
 J. J. Little & Ives Company 
 
 New York, U. S. A. 
 
BURGUNDY 
 
 Siegel 
 
 Krupps roaring, helchmg death — 
 
 Flanders — Burgundy — sucking, feeding on bloodshed; 
 
 Manhood's breath 
 
 red, 
 
 like blood-fed 
 
 Burgundy, wed 
 
 to murdered LiSge . . . 
 
 Further siegel — 
 
 Turmoil . . . 
 
 Burgundy's soil 
 
 saturated with bubUing gore, 
 
 and craving more — 
 
 Luscious grapes, 
 
 Rick, ripe, swelling from the vine, 
 
 Harvested for wine 
 
 to crash down the throats of maddened throngs — 
 
 Then songs 
 
 And more richj red wine — a crimson sea, — 
 
 Laughter — cries — the twitch of 
 
 sod&n throats — mad jubilee!— 
 
 Women carmine4ipped — white 
 
 bosomed men — tongues set free 
 
 In amorous jest and ribaldry 
 
 On streaming blood-red Burgundy — 
 
IT IS THE TRUTH 
 
 Francois, L'Americain is before me in a half-foot of pad- 
 paper sent from the trenches. 
 
 I have given the power, the brutality and sometime beauty 
 of the lines their full scope. I beg indulgence for translation 
 (as in the case of the letter at closing), revision and division, 
 but never addition, subtraction or multiplication. 
 
 My desire is to publish the actuality of the holocaust in 
 France. Dates, names, occurrences, associations, locations and 
 expressions — these are my guarantors. 
 
 This is the story of the Iron Division of France told 
 for the first time. . . . 
 
 It is the most realistic story of the war; the truth! 
 
 Quos Deus mdt perdere, prius dementati 
 
 {This book is not dedicated) 
 
 G. L. 
 
PUBLISHER'S NOTE 
 
 The manuscript of this book came to us last spring, just 
 at the time when hundreds of thousands of American boys 
 were being sent to France for their baptism of fire. We 
 immediately recognized it as a remarkable picture of 
 modem warfare, but in view of the author's frankness in 
 regard to the horrible realities of war, we deemed it best to 
 withhold publication until the Victory, which was assured 
 the Allies from the start, should be realized. Otherwise 
 much anxiety would have been added to the hearts of those 
 who were bravely sending their men and boys overseas. 
 
 Now that the American troops are coming home victorious, 
 we are presenting "The Charmed American" to the public, 
 and feel sure it will be received not only as one of the great 
 books of the War but also as a valuable historical record for 
 all time. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I.— The Iron Division of France ii 
 
 n. — Preamble 15 
 
 III. — ^Ypres 28 
 
 rv. — ^AsRAS 60 
 
 The Battle of La Targette and Neuville St. Vaast ... 77 
 
 The Battle of the Bois de la Folie 121 
 
 V.--THE Chaupagne 137 
 
 The Battle of Beausejour 181 
 
 The Battle of the Maison de Champagne 192 
 
 The Battle of the Ouvrage de la Ddfaite 205 
 
 VI. — ^Verdun 229 
 
 The Battle of Douaumont-Hautremont 242 
 
 The Battle of Hill 304 261 
 
 VII.— The Somme 264 
 
 The Battle of Hardecourt 269 
 
 The Battles of Mauiepas and Combles 278 
 
 VIII.— The Aisne 3°° 
 
 Attack of the Chemin des Dames 308 
 
 IX. — Lorraine 31S 
 
 X.— Poiiu Slang and FSench Expressions . . ' . . . .323 
 
« 
 
 THE 
 CHARMED AMERICAN 
 
 jj 
 
 THE IRON DIVISION OF FRANCE 
 
 THERE is a tradition since 1870 — or it may be 
 more in the nature of things to call it a belief, 
 and to say that it was rather than is — that should 
 France know attack from Germany, that attack 
 would be launched along the almost impregnable yet con- 
 venient boundary known as the Eastern Frontier. The 
 latter may be said to extend from Luxembourg in the North 
 to Switzerland in the South, forming a border along those 
 rather mournful provinces, Alsace and Lorraine. 
 
 Along this frontier, then, has been assembled since the 
 memorable surrender, a galaxy of troops at various points, 
 garnered from the Meurthe et Moselle Regions, the Aube, 
 the Haute Mame, the Meuse, the Seine (which includes 
 Paris), — the entire district East, in fact. They have 
 been headquartered in two divisions of presumably fifteen 
 thousand souls each in the cities of Toul and Nancy re- 
 spectively, and have therefore adopted these names: the 
 "Division de Fer de Toul," the 39th, and the "Division de 
 Fer de Nancy," the nth, composing collectively, and with 
 the aid of an extra regiment of field artillery, therefore, 
 the 20th Corps d'Armee of the Republic of France. 
 
 Now, it is a well-known fact that when the actual attack 
 was made upon French soil it was launched from an en- 
 tirely fresh point, which is to say, through Belgium, and 
 the Eastern Frontier ignored as if that were not after all 
 the point in question as far as Franco revenge burned, and 
 
12 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 upon which it was hoped the ultimate victory would be 
 staged. 
 
 The Germans came in from the North. The proceeding 
 was made upon Paris, the bolt shot, the lines established, 
 and France's Iron Division — the Western "Watch on the 
 Rhine," as it were — withdrawn and thrown into the af- 
 fray wherever it wkxed hottest, whether in Ypres, Arras, 
 the Champagne, Verdun, the Somme, the Aisne, or Lor- 
 raine. 
 
 But in order to give an idea of the actual fighting of this 
 unit, it might be well to review its history and to see why 
 it was that Verdun cried with the death-sweat on her brow 
 and the rattle in her throat for succor from the Teuton 
 hordes, and received her response and her deliverance at 
 the hands of the 20th Corps. 
 
 In each country,— as in each brigade, or company, — ^will 
 be found men who have it in them to bear their lives 
 charmed on their sleeves, yet oblivious to danger; gallant, 
 self-sacrificing, indomitable; who dare before they do and 
 do before they think ; who never count the cost unless it be 
 in enemy losses; who forge to the front only to present 
 their front to the forge; who own "Patria" and disown 
 self -aggrandisement, stepping into the breech with iron 
 nerve and iron courage and iron fortitude and irpn de- 
 termination to work and win a position in the sun or go 
 down in the furnace of a shell; but always responsive and 
 dependable and determined and resolved. 
 
 Of such stuff is the Iron Division, — whether it be the 
 Prussian Guard in the east of Germany or the Franco 
 unit in the east of France. And of sUch stuff are we jaolden 
 to hear in the pages of this chronicle of a simple French 
 soldier, who left security, peace and the citizenship of a 
 great, free country, the mist-dimmed eyes and ennobling 
 arms of a wife, clinging hands of two small children, for 
 the call from afar — over a period of ten years reserve 
 soldiery, in his duty to France and the French nation, and 
 to the cherished ideals of his compatriots — the honqur and 
 
THE IRON DIVISION OF FRANCE 13 
 
 splendour of a divisional name that is best explained by 
 service and devotion. 
 
 We do not seek to embellish the tale by one jot of added 
 sentiment or pathos. The tragedy is too vividly impressive 
 to enlarge or draw unto by either exaggeration, over-state- 
 ment or lie. We review events through native eyes, with the 
 Frenchman's idea of beauty distorted into a phantasmagoria 
 more horrible to conceive than the workings of Dante ; yet 
 is ever the subtlety of humour and of wholesomeness 
 crowning the tale of morbidia. 
 
 The Iron Division has been the battering-ram for every 
 offensive projected thus far along the Western Front. 
 The troops of this corps have brunted, stabbed at, and been 
 hunted down by the Teutons, and they have borne them- 
 selves as reserve force can best be borne, resistful to the 
 uttermost, exalted in the extreme. , 
 
 Francois Xavier tells us he knew training from his 
 twentieth year through the most rigid soldiery a man can 
 undergo, imbibing from the outset the responsibility of 
 this extraordinary division; fatiguing himself deliberately 
 to endure the hardships of life; drilling, training, studying, 
 fortifying, ay! crucifying his very soul upon the cross of 
 Alsace, to redeem for country and name that smirch which 
 1870 "hath cast up." He marched and counter-marched, 
 stepped-to-toe with the rest of his valiant mates, too few of 
 which, alas, remain from the orgy of Hades. They were 
 wrought through early 1900 into a fighting band inferior 
 to none on earth. They were to be rods of iron to with- 
 hold the advance of foe, to promulgate the doctrines of a 
 reunited "Mulhouse" and "Metz" with French rule. 
 
 Under these conditions it is not difficult to see why free- 
 dom, home and family should weigh lightly in the scale 
 against "Patria." How a regime of peace could find ex- 
 change in the heart of a man, deliberately and without ul- 
 terior aim, for a lust of blood and ultra-savagery defying 
 Purgatory itself. 
 
 Frangois is a mild-mannered, typical French patriot, with 
 the high cheek-bones and low forehead of his race, and 
 
14 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 (the high aims and deep sensibilities of his fathers before 
 him. He knows only that he has his God to be thankful 
 for that he has passed through the inferno and returned 
 unto his own in safety, that there are succeeding trench- 
 watches and midnight sallies and deeds of horror to be 
 gone through with wherein his senses as much, or more, 
 than his limbs, must remain to him or usefulness to the 
 "P atria" be blasted forever; and his heart, he tells me, 
 throbs high with the greatness of Providence and humble 
 in the face of the bounty of Him who has preserved him 
 thus far unto his duty. 
 
II 
 
 PREAMBLE 
 
 IN preparing the events up to and beyond the time 
 when the patriot, Frangois Xavier, actually saw serv- 
 ice in the trenches of France, it is with an eye to 
 abridging the details for the benefit of such of the 
 readers as wish to travel at the earliest possible moment 
 into the labyrinth of Flanders. 
 
 To pass over this introductory, then, we will say that 
 Frangois found parturition close to the borders of Alsace, 
 He did his ordinary schooling, following the foot-steps of 
 an older brother up to this point, and meriting assignment 
 to the Division de Per de Tout in his twentieth year. For 
 three years he laboured under iron leadership, brought his 
 gun to present and clicked his heels exactly, as fifteen hun- 
 dred other young men in his regiment. They were gruelled 
 in the practice of arms, sinewed and hardened. 
 
 After three years he received his papers, which is to say 
 — his release, having been in the standing army of his 
 country during the necessary period, and carried himself 
 off — a reservist — onto foreign soil. He married in France. 
 He went to England. He engaged in business. He pre- 
 sented himself regularly to his consul, — ^had his "Livret 
 Militaire" viseed. He came to America — spent his time in- 
 dustriously and profitably between New York and San 
 Francisco, settled finally in the latter city and took out his 
 first American Citizenship Papers. 
 
 He was a free man in a free country, free to go when or 
 where he pleased regardless of Alsace or Lorraine or Prus- 
 sia or any of the petty quarrels or enormous schemings of 
 the bureaucrats or diplomatists of another country. He 
 saw before him — American liberty! 
 
 15 
 
l6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 And now a strange thing happened : 
 
 On the day Frangois was to put in his appearance for 
 his second papers and to make himself literally as well as 
 ostensibly an American citizen — the war broke out! He 
 was stunned! 
 
 He thought: "What shall I do?" 
 
 And the answer came : "Go !" 
 
 "But I have wife and family!" he protested, equally in 
 his mind. 
 
 "That is no matter. It is the Iron Division calls you — 
 the new France, your country ! . . ." 
 
 "My country?" 
 
 "Your country. Vive la Patrie!" 
 
 He took his head in his hands, very much troubled. His 
 wife sat across and gazed at him, but she did not speak. 
 She was allowing him to settle it for himself. 
 
 " — The children ?" he gasped finally. 
 
 She lay her hand on his. 
 
 "If it is your wish, Frangois, to fight for France, in God's 
 name — go !" 
 
 The tears rushed to his eyes. 
 
 He repaired Vvithout further delay to the consulate. 
 There was a remarkable, eager throng outside the building, 
 all speaking in his native language, and it did his spirit good 
 and seemed in keeping with the day. But the order had 
 come from Washington that no further men were to trans- 
 ship at that moment, if, indeed, at all I It was the general 
 opinion the war would not over-reach six months. 
 
 In the street he encountered several of his friends. Most 
 of these were naturalised American citizens. 
 
 One of them grumbled: "What do we want to go for, 
 and be killed for? We are not Frenchmen any longer." 
 
 This started a general discussion. Their voices became 
 raised and argumentative. "Tell us, Frangois," — they 
 shouted, — "Do you intend to go and be butchered too?" 
 
 The patriot blushed and stammered. He was still a 
 Frenchman. He hesitatingly said: "My father is old and 
 I may never see him again. Besides, — my mother is not 
 
PREAMBLE 17 
 
 well, and my brothers are at the front. Who knows what 
 will be left? No, I must go!" . . . 
 
 They were all very silent. Finally the first grumbler 
 said: "He is right. Those of us who have homes and 
 families in the zone ought to go. It may be as he says — 
 for the last time." Which shows he did not get the patriot's 
 idea at all, but was considering merely the selfish end of 
 everything. 
 
 Men are very few with the exalted ideas of Francois. 
 He placed his country — ^the land of his birth — alongside 
 the pedestal of his God, and there was content to worship 
 and to sacrifice to make holy the ideals of his youth. 
 
 Very soon the police came in a body and dispersed the 
 throng before the consulate. 
 
 Frangois went home. Weeks passed. He was sent on an 
 errand out of the city. On his return his wife was waiting 
 for him at the depot. She immediately apprised him : 
 
 "The reservists are leaving for the front to-morrow. 
 You have not much time." 
 
 His heart leaped. 
 
 "My dear," he said, "there is no doubt about it — the war 
 will be over by Christmas and I will be with you again. 
 Take good care 'mes enfants" in the meantime and rest as- 
 sured the good God will protect me. He does not overlook 
 His children." He signed up the following day and em- 
 barked with one hundred and nine others for New York. 
 
 It was then the 19th of September, 1914. The special 
 troop-train, gathering up French reservists all the way, ar- 
 rived in the metropolis, where the steamship Chicago was 
 tied to the wharf of the Compagnie Generale Transatlan- 
 tique. Aboard they went. Reinforced by soldiers from 
 British Columbia, Alaska, and all parts of Canada, about 
 350 men stood together when the steamer swung out from 
 her pier. 
 
 A cold wind, indicative of October advancing, fled up 
 the Narrows and over the Battery Wall. Manhattan's sky- 
 line diminished; the Statue flared in the background. The 
 voyage proceeded without incident until five o'clock. They 
 
i8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 were then halted by an English patrol. She sent out a 
 boarding-party and a rigid inspection of every man aboard 
 resulted. 
 
 After this the sea became rough. The reservists were 
 sick to a man. Frangois, himself uncomfortable, took com- 
 passion and helped one of their number across the deck. A 
 mountainous wave caught the ship on her counter, tipping 
 her nose into the brine, and he slid against a stanchion and 
 twisted his ankle in great shape. Here was an unlucky 
 stroke at the viery outset. On the 8th of October they swept 
 into Le Havre with the weather clear and warm and the 
 sky very blue. 
 
 All proceeded to the office of the Commandant de la 
 Place. Frangois was assigned to his loved Iron Division, to 
 his former regiment, and told off to the depot at Cosne, Dc 
 partment of the Nievre. 
 
 His description of his first entrance into Paris is graphic : 
 
 "It was the 9th of October, 1914. Von Kluck had made 
 his memorable dash and had been dashed back. The 
 fresh-stacked earth of breathless trenches, thrown up dur- 
 ing that hourly persistence of the Teuton Machine and its 
 swarming up to the very gates, was still in outline before 
 the fortifications. Bridges, tunnels and gates along the 
 route had their stiff guards — the Armee Territoriale, which 
 is men between the ages of forty and forty-eight. Within 
 three miles of Paris red-panted veterans of the reserve, all 
 the way from thirty to forty years, were in manoeuvres, 
 prancing their flaming legs across the flat, yellow soil, dark 
 blue coats buttoned back and kepis rakishly red. 
 
 "Our smoky train persisted on Paris, rocking and hob- 
 bling at times quite painfully. It dove between the fortifica- 
 tions, rattled into Gare St. Lazare; we made haste to dis- 
 mount and stretch out the legs. 
 
 "Here was the same Paris, with little change save that 
 shops and restaurants were closed in most instances with 
 small cardboard placards before the door bearing the slogan : 
 'Fermi pour cause de mobilisation!' Theatres were sus- 
 pended and the street traffic appeared not up to the usual 
 
PREAMBLE 19 
 
 flood. I boarded a tramway and paid my two sous to a 
 woman-conductor. She advised me that the rule was be- 
 coming universal — in the metro* as well as the surface lines, 
 and that motormen and rear guards were affected. 
 
 "The Gare du Nord and Gare de L'Esi were reserved en- 
 tirely for the soldiery at this time, the civilian population 
 being restricted to the others. Before the Journal offices 
 a great crowd congregated and read the bulletins and passed 
 desultory remarks. 
 
 "At the Bureau de la Place in the Invalides I had my 
 papers looked over and countersigned by a lieutenant from 
 the Staff, — a fat, puffing official in the still customary, and 
 antedated, red pants. I was assigned to the 156th Infantry, 
 and transferred to Cherbourg, where the fleet anchored and 
 the city swarmed with bluejackets. Most of the shops were 
 doing a rushing business. The colonial troops congregated 
 here: Algerian Tirailleurs with blue-green, oriental fezzes; 
 Zouaves in red and blue, and snow-white gaiters, bearded, 
 swarthy faces and flashing eyes, their turbans piled high, 
 ultra-picturesque. There was a horde of sea-infantrymen 
 with anchors on their kepis, in navy-blue uniforms. 
 
 "I passed among these for four days, the rain pelting 
 down in heavy dolorous manner. Then came an order from 
 the Ecole Militaire to shift to Guingamp in the Bretagne, 
 which is distinctly in the western part of France, and from 
 here back to Paris, on the 29th of October, to the Bureau de 
 la Place." 
 
 Haviag a short space in which to shift for himself, then, 
 the patriot continued over to Rosny sous Bois to discover, if 
 possible, his family. Rosny is only ten minutes out of Paris. 
 Already the grim angel had swept and left his seal. With 
 a heavy heart Frangois heard of the death of his older 
 brother on the firing line in Flanders. His father was also 
 dead ! His secotid brother was wounded somewhere on the 
 Aisne. 
 
 He bade his aged mother a tearful farewell and started 
 
 ♦Subway. 
 
20 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 once more for the city. There was nothing further save to 
 repair to his depot at Cosne. 
 
 ilt seems that the 156th Infantry was quartered at 
 Bannay, an insignificant village not more than a couple of 
 kilometres from Cosne. On his arrival the patriot set out 
 for Bannay on foot and presented himself to the major du 
 cantonnement. He was cross-questioned, — his destination, 
 name, age and occupation all coming in for a series of com- 
 ments, and, still in civilians after three weeks on French soil, 
 he stood back to receive his commands. 
 
 A clerk swept a rapid eye over his papers. He seemed sus- 
 picious of this stranger. Frangois shifted from foot to foot, 
 casting down his eyes. He thought perhaps there was some 
 fault to find, and in his anxiety, trembled. 
 
 To a side wall proceeded the petulant official and tore 
 down the map of France that was hanging, embellishing 
 the room. He spread it out on his desk and, scanning with 
 a pencil, passed over its surface. At times he consulted the 
 Livret in his hand with a puzzled expression. This contin- 
 ued, — for hours, it seemed to the tortured candidate. The 
 sweat stood out on his brow. What if they should reject 
 him? . . . 
 
 "Monsieur le Major," he said, addressing himself to the 
 highest official directly, "I have come all the way from 
 America. . . ." 
 
 The official looked up sharply. 
 
 "You are Americain?" 
 
 "Mais, oui, certainement !" 
 
 The eyebrows of the other went up. "Ah!" he said, 
 "San Francisco was not on the map." He indicated the 
 French terrain. Frangois saw it all in a flash. He started to 
 laugh, and said : 
 
 "Consult the map of the United States, m'ssieu's; you will 
 see San Francisco. It is a little from France I will admit." 
 
 The major du cantonnement understood now and joined 
 in the mirth. After this he questioned the patriot, looking 
 upon him with a great deal of respect as having been in 
 America : 
 
PREAMBLE 21 
 
 "Tell me, have you seen any automobiles there?" 
 
 "How are the red-skins? ... the cowboys?" 
 
 "Can you safely go through the streets ?" 
 
 "What kind of girls?" 
 
 "Are the people all rich?" 
 
 "Can you walk from New York to San Francisco ?" 
 
 And a hundred other questions of similar nonsensical 
 trend, which goes to prove exactly how ill-read these 
 higher-class army men are. 
 
 Francois was sent to the 32nd Company. The young men 
 of the Classe 14 were training in the enclosure of a farm, 
 trampling the lately-reaped fields and breaking the brown 
 stalks off short. 
 
 He was given the regulation red pants and blue coat and 
 kepij and herded among the others, so you could not tell 
 Frangois I'Americain from any one of France's less trav- 
 elled sons. 
 
 On the 26th of November, the cold weather having set 
 in and large detachments of the Classe 14 departing for the 
 front, the depot was moved from Bannay to Decize. 
 
 Fatigued from inaction and anxious to take a hand in 
 the fray at any point, the patriot volunteered for duty in 
 the Dardanelles, but was held back until February of 191 5- 
 
 On the night of the 7th Frangois was called over to the 
 office of his lieutenant, who grilled him in this wise : 
 
 "Are you in good health? Are you willing to go to the 
 front ? Is there any reason — family or otherwise — ^why you 
 should not depart at once?" 
 
 Now, he probably referred to a dependency, which was in 
 this case a wife and small children in America. The con- 
 sulate was providing for these dependents according to the 
 French custom, and they were receiving exactly twenty-four 
 dollars per month. Frangois, however, familiar with the 
 high cost of living, had prepared a small income, and this — 
 along with their apportionment — sufficiently provided the 
 family's needs. 
 
 It may be questioned why no provision was made out of 
 the salary of the soldier. French soldiers receive no 
 
22 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 salary. Up until the commencement of the war, one cent 
 each per day was the rule of the Republic for her defenders, 
 and it was not until sixteen months afterward that the law 
 was revoked and a new clause inserted which raised to the 
 glorious amount of five cents the individual pay of a first- 
 line soldier for blood-letting from dawn until the following 
 dawn. 
 
 The poilu is supposed to serve in the interests of brother- 
 hood and home, for the conservation of the natural re- 
 sources and municipality of his patrie; and no finer ex- 
 ample of native devotion is existent than that which ob- 
 tains under the new Republic. 
 
 Therefore Frangois disclaimed any hindrances and once 
 more offered himself a frank and free soldier for the firing 
 line. With others he was outfitted, and on the nth en- 
 trained and deployed for the front. 
 
 It might be well to explain what is meant by "outfit" in 
 the French use of the word : 
 
 Fresh clothing from head to heels. 
 
 Rifle and bayonet, a simultaneous weight of ten pounds. 
 One hundred and fifty cartridges, swollen to 250 in the 
 trenches. 
 Tent-cloth. 
 A heavy blanket. 
 An extra shirt. 
 Underwear. 
 Soap. 
 Towels. 
 Handkerchiefs. 
 Shoes. 
 
 Canned meats, two pounds. 
 Sugar and coffee. 
 Condensed soups. 
 Brushes. 
 
 Cooking utensils. 
 Jrench tool, either pick or shovel. 
 
PREAMBLE 23 
 
 Innumerable small articles furnishing any ordinary com- 
 fort-kit. 
 
 For a man without army routine for ten years, this was 
 an unconscionable load. Frangois describes it : 
 
 "All at once the whole shooting-match was put upon my 
 back — then 'help yourself, God helps you !' My legs began 
 to wobble and I could have cried out, but instead, shut the 
 lips and— forward ! We stepped aboard the train, and pouf ! 
 it was finish — we were off 1" 
 
 The day was a fine one in February. Leaving the centre 
 of France for a destination of which nobody was aware, 
 the following morning Paris was circled and abandoned in 
 a whirl of fresh snow ; in the evening Amiens ; at midnight 
 Calais ; and in the morning at five a two-hour stop was al- 
 lowed in Dunkerque. Nine o'clock the chemin de fer nego- 
 tiated Bergues. A heavy rain was falling. Detraining, the 
 weary company set out on a twenty-five mile tramp, packs 
 on the backs, and the wet eating in at every pore, until ar- 
 rival at Oostcapelle. This Flemish town is located directly 
 upon the boundary of Belgium. 
 
 Francois' company lodged in a bam through which the 
 wind howled in cutting, slashing, damp stretches, rising 
 into a shriek of abandon, chilling the marrow in the bones, 
 and driving wet spray through the straw. Still nobody 
 complained. Nobody was awake ! 
 
 As soon as light was restored the march continued for 
 ten miles. The regiment had returned from the trenches 
 two days before, and, considerately, each man among the 
 fresh arrivals was given his choice of company instead of 
 the expected wholesale assignment. Content to be among 
 members of the old Iron Division, not one of whom, how- 
 ever, was a familiar, Frangois made no choice and was des- 
 ignated for the 8th Company, 2nd Battalion, and set to do- 
 ing exercises. 
 
 Francois found himself stiff-legged and weary. His heavy 
 trench shoes made him ungainly and drew his feet down- 
 ward at every step. He persisted. His eyes watered from 
 
24 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 the cold; his cheeks blued. The weight of his gun cut into 
 his shoulder. He was glad at "Company — rest!" After 
 that they marched and countermarched. He watched the 
 boots of the man ahead plunk — ^plunk! into the soil; saw 
 them halt, turn, start in the other direction; lift — fall, lift 
 — fall. He thought he should go mad. Ten years is a long 
 time to remember manoeuvres. He prayed for relief, — ac- 
 tion in the trenches. Anything to keep those feet before 
 him from plunk — plunking into the soil. 
 
 When the order came to evacuate Wormhoudt it was al- 
 ready the 25th of February. During the last days the 
 weather had turned icy cold. A break occurred now and 
 the snow started to fall. It blew before the wind and piled 
 up in drifts. The weary troops ploughed their way to 
 Kronbeck — on to Poperinghe; and departed after one night 
 to arrive in St. Jean, close to Ypres, on a brilliant sun- 
 flooded morning, with the snow in myriad shimmers over 
 the landscape. 
 
 By this time he was on excellent terms with every mem- 
 ber of the company. But two young men, above the average 
 in intelligence and education, became his especial friends. 
 The first, soldat Parisot, proves in the accompanying narra- 
 tive one of the most interesting of characters until his un- 
 timely end; and the second, the hero Felize, receives his 
 promotion and his "Croix" after duly valiant service in the 
 Somme. 
 
 On the night of the 8th of March, without a cloud in the 
 sky, and the whole empyrean studded with brilliant celestial 
 bodies, the company was bidden into the trenches. The start 
 was made in silence from St. Jean. A rough country road 
 spread before the advancing troops. Shell-holes bore into 
 the ground and rendered the going extremely difficult. On 
 every side of the field were low-spoken voices and the thud 
 of artillery-horses. Occasionally a soft whinny was hushed 
 by command. 
 
 From the fields the marchers deployed along the highway, 
 and at ten arrived at Zonnebeke, no more than eighteen 
 
PREAMBLE 25 
 
 kilometres distant from Ypres, and on the firing line in Bel- 
 gium. 
 
 They passed through the village. Already at that time 
 it had been levelled by mortars, and gave up hollow sounds 
 from the gloom among its ruins. Frangois thought the 
 place and death-sounds rather ghostly, and was glad to 
 be trudging briskly among his fellows and away from the 
 confines of the town. All at once an immense whistling 
 filled the air. He goose-fleshed and shivered. He thought 
 the graves of the dismal cemetery were opening, shedding 
 forth their dead, and their humming voices riding on the 
 wind. He heard it again. It passed closer and shrieked 
 and spit wind at him. All at once he knew! . . . and 
 when the next shriek came he quickly lowered his head. 
 It was involuntary. He could not have helped it. With the 
 first knowledge that it was a shell coming over from the 
 front, he was moved to bow down. Some instantaneous 
 impulse fastened on his collar behind and pushed at his 
 head and he felt it impossible to resist. He heard every- 
 body laughing and thought maybe they were playing a joke 
 on him. Perhaps the man behind. . . . 
 
 He turned and saw — that this man was a good number 
 of paces away. It could not have been he. Finally Parisot 
 said, appreciating his confusion : "See, mon brave, the one 
 you hear whistling will never touch you, — comprenez?" 
 
 He drew from this that they knew he was fresh from the 
 base, and grew red and ashamed until his friend explained 
 that it was the shell he never heard that would result in do- 
 ing damage to his frame. 
 
 Not a communication trench was to be found at this time 
 in this sector of the line. Each company of the regiment 
 formed its own narrow file at Zonnebeke, crossing the fields 
 on the tread of angels, and silently stepping to the entrance 
 of the trench. 
 
 The night was inky black with a stiif breeze coming up 
 and threatening to blanket the stars with a fleece of clouds. 
 The close-up rattle of rifle-fire and occasional artillery-thun- 
 der dinned in more insistently with every advance step. 
 
26 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Francois felt a slight touch at his elbow and an arm 
 protruded through his. A whisper in his ear : "Extremely 
 careful, my friend ; let me go in advance." He saw it was 
 Felize, and allowed him to pass. The more experienced 
 of the two reached back a hand and guided the fresh re- 
 servist into a carefully chosen path, avoiding the shell- 
 holes as if by magic. Several of the men splashed and 
 stumbled into these, and there was an occasional low- 
 spoken oath. Francois forgot all about the pack on his 
 back. Even his gun was second nature in his hand. The 
 shells whistled and cracked. Sometimes there was an explo- 
 sion farther away. One of these projectiles shrilled uncom- 
 fortably close. The patriot ducked and stepped aside, and 
 instantly slid, churning up mud and snow, into a deep-pitted 
 shell-hole! The water came up around him; throwing 
 widely in all directions and settling to his waist, icy and 
 black. 
 
 Breathless, Francois strove to lift himself out. Scram- 
 bling, clutched at the edges. His pack held him back. The 
 rifles barked and mocked him. He dug with his bayonet, 
 seeking purchase. The column filed past. Nobody saw him ; 
 or, seeing, heeded. He was about to cry out, but knew 
 this was fatal. • 
 
 All at once a soldier clutched at the ground barely in 
 time to save himself from crashing down upon the patriot. 
 Frangois touched his hand. The soldier reached down and 
 jerked him with prodigious strength to his feet. It was 
 Parisot ! Frangois could have embraced him. 
 
 At the entrance of the trench everytliing was proceeding 
 as noiselessly as possible, each man helping his fellow, and 
 all swimming ankle-deep in mud. Small whispers from one 
 man to another carried forward the captain's instructions. 
 Frangois felt as if he were dreaming. The eerie hour, the 
 dull bodies, the stealthy murmurs — he was aware of the 
 labyrinthian presence of unexplored ways and gloomy pas- 
 sages. He knew the high parapet must be stretching up 
 protecting arms to the grim-streaking dawn that would pres- 
 ently break over friend and foe. He wondered what death 
 
PREAMBLE 27 
 
 was like. Worried if he could face it. He even thought of 
 his little ones, and how far removed they were from all this. 
 His heart softened and he crept along behind his fellows de- 
 termined to be noble unto the end — as noble as old Flanders ! 
 
 Pretty soon they were all settled in their places, a metre 
 removed one from the next. The troops that were relieved 
 went silently, clutching their arms and picking their way 
 through the trench. The water in the declivities settled ; not 
 a sound was heard. Then, directly after, whisper to whis- 
 per, whisper to whisper. It grew up, louder, closer — it 
 seemed voluminous in that eerie night, but it was only a 
 whisper! A word from the captain: "Everybody on 
 watch !" 
 
 He rose and balanced himself with his eyes peering over 
 the parapet. 
 
 We have now brought Frangois, the patriot, from 
 America to France, and France to Belgium, through a series 
 of adventures and delays, and into the very front-line 
 trenches. It is, therefore, in the belief that his direct narra- 
 tive will present the facts of warfare as it is practised to- 
 day to the reader in its most vivid colouring, that we relin- 
 quish the third person, past tense, to the first person, pres- 
 ent, and allow him to tell the story of Ypres and of Arras, 
 of the Vosges and the Champagne, Verdun and the Somme, 
 the Aisne, and finally Lorraine, as he experienced it with the 
 Iron Division of France for thirty-two months in the 
 trenches. 
 
Ill 
 
 yPRES 
 
 ALIGHT flares over the landscape, bringing into sud- 
 den prominence our lines and those of the enemy. 
 I watch it shed and flicker, blood-red ; and shortly 
 one comes up from the other side — white, as ours 
 is fading. More of these Bengal fires follow, first from 
 one side then the other — I have time to observe them now 
 — and this keeps an interval of light almost constantly 
 over the trenches and entre les lignes.* 
 
 I have been looking over the parapet. I withdraw my 
 head now, you may believe me, quickly! Plunk — ^plunk! 
 Rifle bullets are striking against the earth of the parapet 
 and — staying there. The enemy is not over twenty-five 
 metres removed; probably closer here than at any other 
 point along the front. 
 
 My_ heart is thumping wildly. I imagine every sort of 
 disaster. The explosions and flaring lights add a weird 
 tinge to the sombre night. I feel queer and unable to realise 
 I am at war; that I am expected to shoot a mortal — an 
 enemy — I have never seen — can not see. My pack feels 
 weighty. I swing it to the ground at my feet — am about 
 to stack my gun against the trench-wall. 
 
 Parisot leans over — he is next to me on my left side — 
 and touches my arm. He motions something, but I can not 
 see what, as the light only flares an instant, and it is just 
 fading. I whisper, and ask him what to do. He whispers 
 back: "Look over the parapet every time a fusee goes 
 up and see if there is anything changed." He evidently 
 thinks the enemy may attempt a sally. "Get your bead 
 
 ♦Between the lines — the French No-Man's Land. 
 
 28 
 
YPRES 29 
 
 down as quickly as possible, and fire a shot once in a while 
 in the opposite direction." 
 
 The night is fiendishly cold, biting, cutting; the trench 
 swims with water. My soaking, wet feet are numb and 
 the ankles commence to pain. My fingers grow dead also. 
 Parisot plucks me again by the sleeve. He wants me to 
 shoot. The others are shooting — several times in succes- 
 sion, so I follow. I fire a few shots— at nothing. The barrel 
 of the gun grows hot. Ah ! Good place to warm the hands ! 
 Night passes along. All remains clear between the lines. 
 Fritz is as hard-pressed as we to keep the blood circulat- 
 ing. 
 
 At five o'clock, still in the dark, the cooks come up with 
 our rations : wine, brandy, coffee, meat, vegetables and bread 
 — sufficient for a twenty-four hour sustenance per man. 
 This must be husbanded to last. No over-feeding. Every- 
 thing is, of course, ice-cold. 
 Daybreak ushers in a change of watch. 
 Daybreak is a beautiful thing — if you are not too sleepy. 
 You like to watch the dawn creep in and the filmy shadows 
 of worn night travel away. You notice a certain easing up 
 of the cannons — if they have been pounding — and the rifles 
 lay down, as it were, for a breath of peace. The damp earth 
 breathes and smells in a sweeter way. Long shadows ply 
 in between the land of destruction. You seem to want to 
 feel them, but drown out your senses instead by allowing 
 them to slip off into 'hazy-town, forgetting all the while 
 that beyond you — ^just over the crest of the parapet — is 
 another man who is seeking out your life. Who is he? 
 Human, armed and legged; muscled, brained and bred! 
 passed through the same forge of existence ; learned in the 
 same life school; whirled in the same catastrophe. What 
 consideration has he that you have not? What oppres- 
 sion? What deliverance? What passions? When will it 
 all end? What is it all for? 
 
 Strange thoughts, these, for a man who has just gotten 
 into the fray. And that, entirely through his own voli- 
 tion! 
 
30 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 I suppose they are half of a dream. 
 
 One man out of every five is forced to remain awake — 
 these constituting the day-watch ; and their places are taken 
 at two-hour intervals by changes. The rotation continues 
 throughout the daytime. In place of sleeping, after the first 
 drowsiness is passed, I have a good look at the trenches. 
 They are poorly built. Too wide and not deep enough. 
 Under one metre the water oozes up. Things are in bad 
 disorder — every inch flooding wet, and the tide rising all 
 the time. The baches could make short work of us ! Word 
 is sent to our rear and the pumps gotten in, one installed at 
 every hundred metres distance, and the men set at handling 
 them. 
 
 In certain spots this trench is scarce one metre, fifty 
 centimetres in depth — or height, as this includes the parapet. 
 Of Course, in passing here during the day it is impossible to 
 go upright. Down on the hands and knees is the rule. 
 
 Before each man is a creneau. This is the soldier's shoot- 
 ing-hole and is made by forcing a hollow stick in such a 
 way through the parapet as to give free vent to the passage 
 of a bullet. 
 
 Creneaux make excellent spy-places. I can see our own 
 barbed-wire stretching and twisting before the parapet, mak- 
 ing a perfect cluster. Now, plainly, the distance between 
 the two lines is very short. This is perfect aim! Cool 
 fingers seem to stir rapidly down my back, chilling the mar- 
 row and twitching every nerve. Is this fear? 
 
 The German wires proceed in exactly the same manner. 
 If a man fell upon these trenches when they were without 
 occupants, which should he select ? Not one from the other 
 — unless Fritz is a better home-builder. I have no way of 
 knowing up to this stage, but I take it for granted. He has 
 had it in mind. We are, as yet, green. 
 
 One thing: Fritz has also water in his trench. We can 
 hear him laughing and pumping it out. The sand seeps in 
 toward the middle, leaving a shallowish space, narrowing 
 at the base. It is necessary to check this, so we dig, further 
 
YPRES 31 
 
 water is admitted and further pumping occasioned, and fur- 
 ther swearing at intervals. It is all very monotonous. 
 
 This first morning Parisot and another boy — a gargon 
 from one of the boulevard cafes in Paris, hungry and com- 
 plaining—join myself, and the three of us arrange to con- 
 struct our guitoune. 
 
 Parisot says that a poilu must use the words "guitoune^' 
 — which is universal now, but of Arabian extraction — or 
 "cachibi" or "abri," to name his trench residence or dug- 
 out. We are looking forward to nightfall to throw up our 
 temporary abode. The day— my first in the trenches — 
 passes without incident. Rifle shots and flying shells per- 
 forate but do not penetrate ; explode at intervals but do little 
 damage. The earth sputters and flies. Our men duck or 
 seem stoic, and retort with glum fortitude and an occasional 
 grunt. 
 
 With night-fall the bombarding is once more ushered in. 
 To be sure, the heavy cannons do not engage, but the con- 
 stant rattle of rifles raises a din that deafens. We put half 
 of our men on watch and the other half work on the guitou- 
 nes. Change occurs every two hours. Somebody has ven- 
 tured out and gathered timbers from nearby farms. We 
 cut a square hole out of the earth every third man, cover the 
 top with boards to form a roof, and hang our tent-clothes 
 over the opening. We pin these in place to the earth with 
 cartridges or wooden pegs, and lay in straw — recruited also 
 from the farms — ^to form our beds. 
 
 At daybreak come the cooks as upon the previous night 
 with rations, including brandy and wine, and the whole thing 
 starts over again. 
 
 The firing is at this time very light. I have seen nothing 
 mortal and almost come to suspect the whole thing is play. 
 I sleep easily. I eat heartily. I joke under the breath; and 
 shovel and work and keep watch and shoot and pretend to 
 seek out the enemy with every bullet. 
 
 The boulevard gargon is sitting with me before our 
 guitoune. "Isn't it rotten business — war ?" says the gargcm. 
 
32 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Why don't you be cheerful like Parisot?" I whisper. 
 The gargon gives me a look of disgust. 
 
 "I wonder what is the matter with Fritz. He is very 
 slow to-day," he says, getting on his feet. He walks de- 
 liberately to the point in the parapet that is badly pro- 
 tected, to look over. "I see nothing." Simultaneously there 
 is a splash in the water at the bottom of the trench. He has 
 fallen like a log. A Mauser bullet, ploughing cleanly through 
 his skull, has perforated a hole the size of a quarter, leav- 
 ing a black rim, circular and soggily crimson. 
 
 This is the first fatality I have seen of the war, and it 
 impresses me deeply. Parisot murmurs and turns aside with 
 a shrug. But he is twitching. His heart is soft. 
 
 If war is going to mean horrible things like this — fair 
 men broken and life demoralised ; if it is going to have blown 
 skulls and stumped arms and cavernous ruins in what were 
 
 once men ■ Ah, I am a coward. I know it now. My 
 
 eyes are glassy. And still the gargon was not friendly. 
 
 He lies huddled, legs snarled; evidently quivering a mo- 
 ment after the impact, and his poor soul winging its way 
 to — ^where? Paris, and the boulevards? Had he no less a 
 mother than I ? Or a heart ? 
 
 It is terrible — it is war! 
 
 After this the outlook becomes quite calm. I am in- 
 sistent on being a stoic — like my companions. War is not 
 made for philosophers. One must act, not think. I take my 
 brandy and iced coffee, and lay down, utterly spent. We 
 sleep. And there is a dead man not four paces away ! . . . 
 
 Later on I have the watch. A man has his shoulder 
 ripped open by an explosive bullet. The blood gushes 
 out. He screams — reaches out wildly — collapses, moaning. 
 The sound is dreadful. Nausea gets me again. Am I never 
 to grow accustomed to these scenes? Sickening, true; yet 
 who is disturbed in the company? Nobody. Not the co- 
 pain* in his guitoune who will know him no more. Not the 
 
 ♦Friend 
 
YPRES 33 
 
 watch standing by whom he splattered upon. Not the first- 
 aid unit who binds up his wounds. 
 
 The day passes, smoking cigarettes — calmly, monoto- 
 nously. 
 
 The night passes, thawing out considerably in milder 
 weather. 
 
 I have made a great discQvery : If the brandy is taken 
 after the ice-cold coffee it warms everything up ! 
 
 But what a poignant tragedy stirs on this day — ^the nth 
 of March. One of the men receives a package of sweet- 
 morsels from home. We are invited to share with him, and 
 he addresses us, saying softly: 
 
 "From the mere, a watch — look, a knife, a pocketbook 
 with ten francs, mes amis, and all this! . . ." He shows 
 us cakes and cookies and several kinds of raisins and nuts, 
 and he is as pleased as a child at Christmas. His face 
 looks like an animated cherub, but grimed with dirt. He 
 smells bad, this soldier, but he has a good heart. 
 
 He starts for his guitoune to wait for us there, and I 
 pluck him by the sleeve, saying in his ear : 
 
 "Be careful on account of the passage. The parapet is 
 low. Somebody killed there yesterday." 
 
 He jerks away, nodding. 
 
 "Eh Men. It is all right." 
 
 One instant later there is a scream. Parisot goes over to 
 investigate and comes back with a frown. 
 
 "Shot in the belly — dying," he says. 
 
 We feast on the cakes, — like ghouls robbing the dead, it 
 seems to me. The sergeant-major is gathering the victim's 
 newly-acquired possessions to send home — only not the 
 food. 
 
 At five, welcome orders come in — we are relieved from 
 duty during the first part of the night. This means before 
 twelve. Joyous news! Monotony and grime and horror 
 are biting in too deep. We must get out — into fresh en- 
 vironment. As usual we take up the night watch, but gather 
 our knapsacks up close, filling them in ; despoiling the gui- 
 tounes of tent-cloth and blankets. Not until 11.30, however, 
 
34 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 does the relief start in. We go out, single file, and silently 
 out of the firing zone, with the snapping rifles and angry 
 shells far behind, and the solemn night before us, girthing 
 in Ypres. 
 
 Four kilometres farther is Vlamertinghe. We negotiate it 
 by five o'clock marching right along. It is the morning of 
 the I2th of March, 191 5. We are lodged in private houses. 
 The furniture is moved out by the occupants, then the gov- 
 ernment steps in, throws us a bundle of straw in attic or 
 cellar, as the case may be, and we are told to sleep soundly. 
 Every one crumples into the hay, thanking the good God that 
 it is fresh, — then oblivion, until the morning has advanced 
 several hours. 
 
 Now cleanliness at the front is next to — impossible! but 
 a shower-bath is provided, cold enough ! and underneath go 
 the pailus, shrugging and shivering, but grateful. I snatch 
 my turn. Dieu! Whoever thought it was so pleasant to be 
 clean again! 
 
 After this, the clothes. It is necessary to give these 
 a sound scrubbing. "Be thou thine own handmaiden !" The 
 government furnishes the soap. The gummed-up rifles are 
 a sight. Every bit of the mechanism is dirt-crusted. Blan- 
 kets follow, tent-cloths, and the knapsacks. Finally the com- 
 pany must identify itself ! 
 
 "Supper is served, m'ssieu's!" directly after; and we file 
 out to see the sights. 
 
 Vlamertinghe is a town of scarce three thousand inhabit- 
 ants. Twenty-two kilometres from the firing-line, only an 
 occasional Teuton shell wings its way over. A home 
 crashes, the debris spins out, flutters and falls. The in- 
 habitants take it all as a matter of course. 
 
 We have no permission to go to Ypres, but the following 
 day Parisot and myself, joined by Felize, start for the 
 English encampment. Many of our boys are there. The 
 English have attempted conversation but with ill success. 
 I am alone skilled in both languages, so the troops cluster 
 around, every one eager to make an exchange for tobacco 
 and cigarettes and knives, razors, jams, canned mutton. 
 
YPRES 35 
 
 Prices range — ^but seldom high. Everything changes hands. 
 
 We spend a fair afternoon and wind up together clustered 
 in a drinking-house and raising up Belgian beer. 
 
 "Flat stuff an' 'ardly fit!" says a disgruntled "Tommy." 
 
 "What does he say?" Parisot asks me in French. 
 
 "He says it is stale." 
 
 "Tell him it has been waiting for him eight months!" 
 Parisot retorts. 
 
 I tell this to the Briton. 
 
 "The bloody bloke !" he sputters, while all his comrades 
 are laughing. " 'E's got a 'ell of a lot to say. Tell 'im we'll 
 show 'im before the Summer's along." 
 
 I can see bad blood is brewing because Parisot has it in 
 for the British. He insists that the real struggle occurred 
 before ever a man got over from Britain. Now, this may 
 be so. France faced the enemy and established history dur- 
 ing those early periods while yet her allies dozed. Still, I 
 have known rare fighting since these remarks, and have 
 never had reason to believe "Tommy" falters. 
 
 The town-houses are regulated by law. Every public 
 place is shuttered by 8 130. The "Tommies" whistle and sing 
 as they swing down the road. Our own cantonment is un- 
 disturbed and another night passes in straw bedding. 
 
 We are reviewed for arms by 9 A. M., and told off for 
 leisure, but ordered to return by four. At this time the 
 word goes out to be ready to entrench again by nightfall. 
 It is the 15th now, and thawing slightly. 
 
 We leave Vlamertinghe, arriving at Zonnebeke by 10 
 P. M. Just outside of Zonnebeke is a large structure — a 
 former brick fabrique. It is strawed and thawed and not 
 lacking cheer. We are clustered into this, and commence 
 an easy, loafing night, — ^but this is quickly dissipated. The 
 entire company is started in handling materials from Zon- 
 nebeke, which is a sort of depot de materiel. 
 
 We have to carry boxes of cartouches* barbed-wire 
 fencing, steel shields for the parapets, heavy sheet 
 metal for the roofs of the guitounes, and additional 
 
 ♦Cartridges, 
 
36 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 manner of stuff of all natures to the firing line. Two hun- 
 dred metres beyond the brick factory' shelter quits, and it is 
 from there over an open field we proceed in full exposure 
 of the enemy. Shots and shells scream. Danger hovers with 
 each step. 
 
 As night progresses the wind changes and a freezing 
 snap sets in. A cutting chill goes through the air, through 
 our limbs, bluing the hands. My numb fingers clutch 
 colder steel — cling with deathlike grip. Across the fields, — 
 bullets flying, — I feel a spectre stalks. I hear him, run from 
 him. . . . My imagination! 
 
 Cold dew comes out on my forehead. 
 
 After this trip we are ordered into quarters. It is strange 
 — ^psychologically, the captain or the lieutenants seem to 
 know just when they have reached the breaking-point with 
 the men. 
 
 We build up rousing fires inside the fabrique. It gets 
 almost cheerful. These spasms — fear and chill and death 
 and life and relaxation — follow one another rapidly. All 
 the human passions and beliefs, rushing with the speed of 
 express trains, leave one exhausted — worn — weary. 
 
 In the morning — cristi ! the sun is shining with the warmth 
 of a Spring day ! The terrain is quiet. We warm our cof- 
 fee. Light up the cigarettes. I link my arm through Pari- 
 sot's and off we go for a look at the sights. It is only a 
 hundred metres to the Chateau de Zonneheke, or, rather, 
 what was ! The building is a well of debris with tottering 
 walls, wavering shadows and slinking forms. Through the 
 halls black holes grow intelligible with the entrance of the 
 sun and we are able to read whole tragedies into every- 
 thing. 
 
 "Were I a painter . . ." says Parisot. 
 
 And I can only echo : "Were I a poet. . . ." 
 
 What havoc is wrought in this once marvel 1 
 
 Tapestry, paintings in oil in distorted frames, chinaware 
 and silverware, — the whole matter looks disinterred. The 
 furniture to a stick is crashed to death ; glasses, candelabra, 
 priceless ohjets d'arf lie strewed to the winds. It is so njel- 
 
YPRES 37 
 
 ancholy, the whole grand scene — so utterly without hope. I 
 have my choice of the riches of a Pharaoh. I annex two 
 books. Parisot sighs over inlaid tables. He is art-struck. 
 He helps himself liberally to these things, which is nonsense. 
 One cannot pack more than their sac. 
 
 "Poor fool," I say, laughing, "are you going to eat from 
 nacre and ebony ?" 
 
 "Fout le camp au diahle!"* he grumbles. "I know I have 
 to throw it away, but look at the top will you, — that is rare." 
 
 He leaves it standing in the open field and we pass the 
 day in reading — racy French literature. The men are loll- 
 ing around, smoking their pipes. Another group spreads a 
 blanket over the floor and settles down to cards by candle- 
 light. The building is extremely high-vaulted, giving it the 
 appearance of a cavern, shades flickering in the single small 
 light like a pirates' cache. 
 
 By nine o'clock we are ordered back to work. It is the 
 same heavy employment as the previous night. Shells fall 
 constantly into Zonnebeke. On the night of the i8th of 
 March it commences to snow, which works finally into a 
 blizzard, piling up drifts a whole night and a day. Labour- 
 ing through this to the front is madness ! But we do it, — 
 again and again, — ^loading up supplies. War has no mercy. 
 
 Some time following the relief comes in. Back as far 
 as St. Jean, ploughing through the sleet, stamping the snow 
 to pack-ice, staggering under the azor f — we finally find rest 
 at dawn, utterly spent. 
 
 The sun, reflecting upon the snow, sends us out of the 
 straw into a flaring daylight. Our men stand around with 
 their shirts in their hands. What is this ? Examination ? . . . 
 
 "Felize," I say, approaching him, "what does this mean ? 
 What are they doing?" 
 
 "Don't be so smart," he says, "they are examining for 
 totos. You don't know what are totos?" — as I look in- 
 credulous, — "well, they are trench-life, vous comprenez? 
 Life in the trenches, is it not ? Yo-ho ! Well, mon copain, 
 
 *Go to the devil, 
 t Knapsack. 
 
38 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 you are no better than any one else. You will get some 
 just the same. Totos are no respecters of persons." 
 
 I cannot answer anything. The gruesomeness of this sug- 
 gestion is appalling. And all at once my back commences 
 to feel uneasy ... oh, my Heaven !-^parasitic ! In my 
 shame I rush out — away — into the solitude. ... In one in- 
 stant I have off my shirt. I am all alon^ — chiding behind a 
 tree. One — two of these lice are visible on the liquette. 
 We call it liquette — ^not chemise, the shirt. They are small 
 things and dirty — miserable, — the totos. I have a wild de- 
 sire to cast the whole thing away, but I cannot go back 
 without a covering. On it goes again. I make haste to 
 the cantonment, have a change of litien, and pass the thing 
 over to a woman who is washing for the soldiers at a few 
 sous each. 
 
 The impression is with me all the balance of the day. 
 Totos! . . . human lice . . . filth! Ugh, shudders go up 
 and down the spine. I will never forget it. This to me 
 is the vilest feature of the whole war. I can face rifles, 
 
 cannons, wild men, boches, — ^but totos Pied de choux! 
 
 Totos! . . . 
 
 Lunch over, Parisot and Felize proceed with me to 
 Ypres. It is only a couple of kilometres from St. Jean. 
 This ground is the most fought-over — with but one excep- 
 tion — of the entire terrain. The weather is quite warm. 
 
 Ypres must have been a fine-looking little city in peace 
 times. The faubourgs are not much damaged up to date. 
 The centre, however, is practically destroyed. Ypres' 
 famous cathedral, for instance, is one-half a ruin — 
 the good half trembles in the breeze. It ought to fall. 
 Demolition is no demolition unless the whole thing goes. 
 One does not like to see half of anything. I do not ap- 
 prove of a man without legs or a churn without a handle. 
 One goes into war to be killed and a maimed man has not 
 fulfilled all the conditions. 
 
 Now, the historic Holies d'Ypres, on the other hand, is a 
 first-class heap of rubbish. Small parts of walls, upright to 
 a height of three metres, wear the old-time glory : paintings 
 
YPRES 39 
 
 and decorative art, which simply accentuate by their whim- 
 sicality the utter debris of the balance. The undestroyed 
 area of the city, which is the business portion, slumbers on 
 the surface. Underground trade is going ahead lustily. We 
 buy anything we want — food, knick-knacks, bazaar clothing, 
 — out of cellars, from women for the most part. Vegetables 
 are on display. Groceries on the shelves. Cafes serve liquor 
 — wines and beer, and special Belgian concoctions. And 
 with every order of meat the everlasting French-fried pota- 
 toes and salad are brought forth. 
 
 Ypres wots little of the Hun. Her walls may fall, and 
 citoyens perish; shells scream overhead, or claw through 
 stone and bone. Business is more profitable than ever. Her 
 money coffers gleam brave and bright. 
 
 St. Jean is by far the more restive under battle restraint. 
 That is, the inhabitants know more misery and less forti- 
 tude. Amusements there are none. We spend our time be- 
 tween drilling and the shower-bath. A young woman is 
 keeper of the house in which we are quartered. Her father 
 is at home, and brothers away on the battle- front. A neigh- 
 bour is carrying on something terrible about the loss of her 
 son. Papa Porquet quiets her. "What do you expect, ma- 
 dame — war is war !" 
 
 There is a small hubbub outside. We go into the street. 
 A taube is flying over the lines and into the very heart of 
 the city. It swoops quite low, the observer evidently making 
 his calculation and marking for batteries. It is not two min- 
 utes when the shells begin to fall inside the city. Everybody 
 goes into hiding, swearing and expostulating at the Germans 
 and wishing them no end of ill-luck. It is not by any means 
 a pleasant sport — waiting and presuming you will be killed. 
 Non-combatant raids are the worst form of terrorism the 
 Hun has yet invented, and it makes the blood boil with in- 
 dignation when a trooper has to sit by with his fusil across 
 his knees. 
 
 By and by a tremendous crash marks the retirement of 
 the batteries. The earth breaks up at some metres distance 
 and the air becomes filled with charred and sooty smoke. 
 
40 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Pretty close," Papa Porquet mutters, his face grave, and 
 rising as if to go out. His daughter intercepts him. 
 
 "Wait awhile," she says. 
 
 Several soldiers come in looking and squinting their eyes. 
 
 "Where was it ?" he asks. 
 
 "Half a kilometre over," shrugs one, pointing with his 
 thumb. "Bad business ; somebody is killed." 
 
 "Soldier," adds another, — "they blew up the house." 
 
 Papa Porquet's white face relaxes. He smiles and pats 
 the young daughter's head. "It is over now. Well, there 
 you are." 
 
 This daughter tells me by and by they feared the 
 blast had damaged her sister's home. "She lives in that 
 direction," she says, "but there are no soldiers quartered 
 on the premises." 
 
 Parisot and myself go over to have a look at the dam- 
 age. Sure enough, a house is laid in ruins. They have a 
 lot of confusion at the scene "and a good deal of crying. 
 
 "What's the matter?" Parisot asks a neighbour's boy. 
 
 "Nothing. Only a woman and her children." 
 
 "Killed?" 
 
 "No. A soldier is killed." 
 
 "All this excitement for a soldier ?" shrugs Parisot. "At 
 the front it is nothing." 
 
 "Nothing!" shouts a woman indignantly. "You call it 
 nothing when a father is killed and all his children put into 
 the street?" 
 
 "Whose children?" 
 
 "The soldier's— fool!" 
 
 "Then it is not a Frenchman?" 
 
 "It is a Belgian and he \was visiting home." 
 
 "Ho-ho!" says Parisot. "That is indeed grave. What 
 about the children?" 
 
 "That remains to be seen," replies the woman. "Elena is 
 a widow now and Lord knows her father has little 
 enough." 
 
 "How many children ?" 
 
 "Five." 
 
YPRES 41 
 
 "Whew! Who is her father?" 
 
 "Porquet over there. He will strangle when he hears the 
 news." 
 
 "Whew!" Parisot whistles the second time. "Shall we 
 tell him, Americain ?" he says to me. 
 
 Now this is a job I do not like. It is terrible to be the 
 bearer of such tidings. 
 
 "The poor little girl," I am thinking out loud all the 
 ,time, referring to the daughter. "What will she say? It 
 must be her brother-in-law who is dead." 
 
 "You go and tell, Parisot," I say, looking away from 
 him. 
 
 "Diable!" he says under his breath. But he goes. 
 
 In the evening I am back at the house. Nobody is here 
 but the soldiers in quarter. I say nothing. Pretty soon 
 Parisot comes in and signs to me. I go out with him. 
 
 "See here, Americain, how much have you?" 
 
 "Money?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Je suis faucheJ"* 
 
 "Dieu! Not a sou?" 
 
 I shake my head. 
 
 "Well, see here, do you think we can get up a collec- 
 tion?" 
 
 "For who?" 
 
 "The widow, andouille! She has five small children." 
 
 "We can try." 
 
 We pass around the village, but principally among the 
 soldiers, and Parisot has a good deal to say. "What's the 
 matter ?" I ask him. "Are you smitten with the girl ?" 
 
 "With the young one — ^yes," he confesses frankly. "I 
 have been observing her from the beginning, but I think 
 she has a sweetheart somewhere." 
 
 "Leave it to me — I find out," I assure him, taking in the 
 money where we can get it, and that is mostly everywhere. 
 It is not uncommon to have instances like this any time, but 
 the population is always willing to help, and this is charac- 
 
 *I am broke. 
 
42 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 teristic of the whole of Northern France and Belgium. 
 
 "Do you think it is quite fair to make up to the girl with 
 the war on?" 
 
 "I cannot help the war," he grumbles, "But the girl- 
 well, Jesu! she is sweet!" 
 
 "Yes, she is a nice one, — has nice eyes," I say agreeably. 
 
 Parisot looks at me sharply. 
 
 Shortly we go to our cantonment and our pockets are full 
 of wealth. I empty mine into his. 
 
 "Go over and give it to them yourself, soft-heart," I say, 
 laughing, pushing him away. His face becomes red. But 
 in the evening he whispers in my ear : 
 
 "You should see how happy! I think there is nobody 
 else." 
 
 Which shows how inconsistent a lover can be, because 
 he told me in the afternoon just as emphatically that there 
 was some one. 
 
 On the morning of the 24th of March we are notified to 
 get ready for a return to those infernal trenches ; but first 
 there is a general review. I really pity Parisot through all 
 this for the poor fellow has fallen deeply in love. His 
 head is in a turmoil, and his heart . . . There is no living 
 with him at all ! It is just Juliette — Juliette — Juliette !" 
 
 The girl is really a very fascinating creature. She seems 
 to favour this Frenchman with her heart, but he is not sure 
 and she will not tell him. In fact, I scarcely think he has 
 dared lift eyes to her fully as yet. Fancy a soldier, game 
 to the core, ready to rqsh into the path of the enemy, face 
 him, breast exposed and eye to the rifle's mouth — ready to 
 sacrifice all, and life itself, for his country's welfare with- 
 out a quaver — and afraid to open his mouth to a slip of a 
 woman ! Well, that is love, or whatever the novelists care 
 to call it. 
 
 We leave St. Jean at seven o'clock on the same night, 
 ploughing the roadways as before and crossing into the iden- 
 tical, shelRorn field behind the trenches. 
 
 The weather is again clear and cold. We move into the 
 same sector, same emplacement as on the earlier journey. 
 
YPRES 43 
 
 and exchange positions with the retiring watch. There is 
 no relief from the dread monotony. Trench life is life in 
 an open grave without the actual safety of death. This 
 may seem paradoxical— but at least when you are bouzille* 
 you are through. 
 
 "Never fear," says my copain, "you will be in action 
 early enough. It is only too soon to suit me." 
 
 He evidently refers to his inamorata at St. Jean. Love 
 and war are supposed to blend well, but to my mind illy 
 enough. 
 
 March 25th— two men killed ! 
 March 26th — three men killed ! 
 March 27th— four men killed! 
 Was ever such monotony ! 
 
 Yet a slight variation occurs in this second instance. It 
 is a bomb and not a rifle-shot that renders our comrades 
 hors de combat. You can hear these things departing from 
 the boche lines — see them travelling at a slow pace over the 
 short distance. Shaped like a vermouth botlJe a;nd about 
 the same size, coloured in reds and blacks, they are easily 
 visible in the pale sky. You go to left or right in the 
 trenches, according as the men on watch sing out: "Go 
 left!" "Go right!" The explosive power of these terrors 
 is enormous. And the principal result, outside of getting 
 killed, is to smash a good many men's ear-drums. 
 The 28th of March is Palm Sunday. 
 The day opens with a spray of bullets and five or six men 
 wounded. The accuracy is so fiendish, I make a mental de- 
 duction from whence this could have come. Having satis- 
 fied my mind, I send word to the captain, who advances him- 
 self to investigate the source. He shoves a periscope above 
 the parapet. Instantly there is a rain of lead! . . . 
 
 "Mon capitame," I say, "it is that little house standing 
 on our right. They have a machine-gun and engage us on 
 the flank." 
 
 "I believe you are right," he rejoins. "Tiens! Do you 
 hear something?" 
 
 ♦Killed. 
 
44 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 It is a delicate music, and now lusty voices pick up the 
 chorus. The boches have an accordion and are singing: 
 "Die Wacht" . . . 
 
 This sentiment goes for nothing. "We give it to them 
 right !" mutters the captain. He telephones back to the bat- 
 teries, and a half hour later an artillery-officer makes his 
 way through and looks over the ground. 
 
 "Order this trench evacuated here at two," he says ; and 
 at two we are told to withdraw at a discreet distance. The 
 officer returns and the batteries give them one shot. It 
 falls right of the house, but correctly distanced. He tele- 
 phones back: ' "Two turns to the left." The words are 
 scarcely out when a second shot wings over at a relatively 
 low angle. 
 
 "Rase le parapet!"* Parisot sings out, and the hepis go 
 off our heads like magic. But the shell travels true. It 
 lands squarely in the boches^ nest, hurling parts of it a good 
 many metres in all directions. 
 
 A terrific detonation shakes the air. Rifles crack and 
 blare. The artillery-officer orders through the phone : 
 
 "Meme angle; ti/r fauche par quatre!" f 
 
 An instant later four shells come screaming together. 
 They plant with the firmness of avenging angels in the 
 Teuton camp, and debris, stone and armament clutter the 
 air! The whole thing goes up in a gigantic cataclysm. 
 There is the jargon of twisted metal, echo of voices and 
 blasted souls 1 Music ? — what but the Heavenly anthem for 
 these poor devils from now on. One is too often tempted 
 to be lenient with the foe. 
 
 Our relentless artillery man orders still another rafale 
 of four. This is an earnest that the house will speak no 
 more. 
 
 "I hope they will be satisfied now," says our captain. For 
 a Palm Sunday I think we have done very well. Fritz re- 
 mains quiet from now on — ^to such an extent it arouses 
 suspicion. However no further bombs come over and W4 
 
 *Burn the parapet! meaning, a low shot. 
 tSame angle; fire by four. 
 
YPRES 45 
 
 are relieved by midnight. The way over to Ypres is a blank. 
 We sleep on most of the march. It is sheer doggedness that 
 keeps a muscle moving after every bit of energy has been 
 pressed out. 
 
 We go into our old lodgings and give over the next day 
 to the cleanliness that is "next to impossible." 
 
 An Alsatian in our company — we have about eighteen — 
 lays me a wager that he can obtain more food without money 
 than I can with it, in a neighbouring store. It is conducted 
 by a "jeune femme," and she is not unprepossessing. Imme- 
 diately I see his plan, which is simple enough, and practised 
 every day. The fellow is going in for a smash, and if he 
 makes good, well, then it is up to the boy how much 
 of the food or the stuff he can carry away. Surely he gets 
 all he wants — and toll-less. 
 
 "Stand by," he says, "and give me a chance with the 
 lady." 
 
 The whole company hears of it, even to the captain, and 
 speculation runs high as to which of us will triumph. 
 
 "How many francs have you ?" says Felize to me, intend- 
 ing to bolster up my account. But this is not quite fair. 
 
 "Enough," I retort, though I have but four, and a few 
 sous. 
 
 We repair to the shop, the whole crowd tagging on in 
 the rear. They are grouped around in such a way that 
 they can hear what is going on inside without being seen. 
 All the Alsace boys have money on their man. He is a likely 
 enough looking fellow. 
 
 "Bon jour, petite," he says, coming up to the little shop- 
 keeper. "I suppose you have your fill of soldiers always 
 along this way ?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "You sell much stuff?" 
 
 "Oui." She is evidently awaiting his order. 
 
 "Make much money ?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Love?" 
 
46 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Oui — non, non!" she stammers, confused and blush- 
 ing. 
 
 "You said 'oui,' " he reminds her. 
 
 "I said 'non,'" she retorts. But he does not think she 
 means it. 
 
 He puts out his hand to touch her and she gives him a 
 smart rap over the mouth. The troopers outside let out a 
 lusty yell which puts an end to the whole business and sends 
 her muttering and him swearing out of the store. 
 
 "You have put him up to it !" she cries, shaking her little 
 fist. "Go away, all of you !" My copains can hardly hold 
 their sides. I step up at this instance, and, brushing past, 
 gravely proceed to make my purchases with a chorus of 
 yells and taunts at poor Alsace outside the store. 
 
 He evidently steps inside at this juncture and creeps be- 
 hind the lady's back, where the cool fellow proceeds to load 
 his pockets with all good eatables he sees about the shelves. 
 I am tempted to roar out at him, but the boldness of the 
 thing commands admiration. 
 
 "Are you through?" he says suddenly, appearing on my 
 flank. "If so, we will go. . . ." 
 
 "You go on — get out !" shrills the lady. 
 
 "All right." He shrugs nonchalantly, proceeds to the 
 door. 
 
 "Come back!" she yells, running after him. "Pay for 
 what you have !" 
 
 A second time a roar goes up outside. The herrings, part 
 of his requisition "sans peur et sans reproche," are inglo- 
 riously sticking their tails out of his pocket ! 
 
 She makes a grab for them as he leaps aside and they go 
 out on the floor. 
 
 "See here, what he has done," she sobs, losing her pa- 
 tience entirely. While a shout of glee outside tells of the 
 victory of the Alsatians. "Such dealings I have never had 
 in all my life." She puts her apron to her eyes. "Perhaps 
 you are not going to pay me ?" She eyes me with sudden 
 suspicion. 
 
YPRES 47 
 
 "Certainly I am going to pay you," I protest. "And for 
 what he has taken too." 
 
 I can never stand a woman's tears. 
 
 "There, take the whole lot," I insist, pressing the full 
 amount of money into her hand. It is all I have. If I had 
 more I should probably give her that also. She is not un- 
 comely. And — well — that is the way of a man. 
 
 "Come often! Come often!" I can hear her shouting 
 clear down to the camp. 
 
 "Sure we'll come often," says the Alsatian at a discreet 
 distance. "We made a rich haul that trip." He is drawing 
 snacks of every description out of bulging pockets and dis- 
 tributing with a free hand. 
 
 "Not you. It's as much as your life is worth," I retort. 
 "Do you know I paid for your d d herrings? , . ." 
 
 "Well— you got them." 
 
 I turn to Felize: "Of all the brass nerve, this fellow 
 beats them all. I got the herrings, yes, so I should pay for 
 them — and he walks away with the entire store !" 
 
 "She had no business to refuse me," he chuckles, with 
 his mouth full. "Next time she will know better. Wait 
 until she checks up her stock." 
 
 Next day a complaint is received from the little store- 
 keeper and the captain summons both of us for an explana- 
 tion. 
 
 "Who got the herrings ?" is his first enquiry. We burst 
 out laughing. "Here, — ^the lady says you stole them from 
 her store." At this moment she herself jumps in on the 
 scene. 
 
 "They are a couple of scheming braggarts and I want 
 them to pay me what they owe !" 
 
 "Pay?" says friend Alsace with the most innocent air, 
 "you are already paid." 
 
 "No, m'sieu, you have not pay me for them herrings !" 
 
 "Not me, no; but frangin here, — he is pay you for the 
 fish." 
 
 "But not for the balance the stuff!" 
 
 "He took nothing else !" 
 
48 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 This is too much. Both the captain and myself can 
 hold in no longer, ancl we burst into hearty peals of laugh- 
 ter. They are about as incomprehensible — she with her 
 Belgian, he with his Alsatian accent — neither of whom can 
 elucidate a word of French properly. 
 
 The captain sweeps us all outside with a gesture. 
 
 "Go along with your herrings," he shouts, "you make me 
 sick! Stinking fish — it is no wonder you are all quarrel- 
 ling. It serves you right. Debine-toi!"* 
 
 We go laughing down the way, — that is to say, I laugh. 
 The others: she calls him robber and he calls her wench, 
 and they quarrel like a couple of sweethearts. 
 
 "lis s'engueulentf" f says Felize catching the infection. 
 "He will be loving her yet !" 
 
 And so it proves. 
 
 The Alsatian, taken with the spirit of his "femme bel- 
 ligerent," calls regularly in the store and his hands are full 
 of confections ; so it must be that he has made his smash 
 after all and I am a fair loser of my bet. 
 
 April whirls in with a frightful wind-storm, not uncom- 
 mon in Belgium, and veering into rain and a deluge. We 
 are once more in the trenches — same emplacement. The 
 downpour continues for fully twenty-four hours. The straw 
 in my guitoune is floating on a sea of mud. Every poilu 
 complains and rips out oaths like rifle-shots and twice as 
 frequent ; and with as little cheer as mortal man ever knew 
 before an Easter mom, we stand our watch in the oozing 
 earth. 
 
 The dawn buds rich with the promise of flooding warmth 
 — the sun comes up, rays spread over mire and flood, and 
 slowly the whole prospect commences to steam. 
 
 The poilus take new life and a rejuvenated soul from 
 each added filling of the lungs. They straighten out the 
 guitounes, man the pumps, and give a hand to the reclaim- 
 ing of their residences generally. 
 
 About ten o'clock Parisot is bending over our cachibi 
 
 *Beat it 
 
 J They argue? 
 
YPRES 49 
 
 when a small missile strikes him on the back. He springs 
 up startled. There is no enemy in sight. He supposes he 
 must have been mistaken, stoops again to his work. A small 
 paper roll lies before him. . . . 
 
 Parisot hesitates for the fraction of a second before 
 attempting to pick it up. The boches have so many fiendish 
 tricks. Perhaps it hides a small exploding bomb. He 
 reaches out finally, — takes it in his hand. It is a message 
 wrapped around a little stone and tied with a string. 
 
 "See here, copain," says Parisot, motioning me, wreathed 
 in smiles, "Fritz wants to make friends with me this mom- 
 ing. 
 
 On the paper in excellent French is inscribed : 
 
 "Happy Easter, Kameraden Franzosen, will the war soon 
 be over? Have you bread? We give you tobacco in ex- 
 change. We are Saxons." 
 
 I have since learned that this is the first message of 
 friendship that has crossed the "gully of sighs." It is a 
 memorable thing. I am a little awed. 
 
 "Sure, send them bread!" exclaims Felize, ever matter- 
 of-fact, and perusing the message, which is passing from 
 hand to hand. 
 
 We cut several wide slices from our loaves, impale 
 them on the ends of our bayonets, and cristi! over the 
 parapet they go, slung wide into the other trenches. The 
 response is instantaneous ! — ^packages of tobacco leap across 
 and bombard our lines. Fritz is open-handed in this choice 
 of ammunition as in all others ! 
 
 We have done pretty good business. No further attempt 
 at camaraderie is made, however; and, except for the lack 
 of a single rifle shot, the day passes as any other. Before 
 dusk a second epistle wings over from the boches: 
 
 "Kameraden Fransosen, we relieve to-night. Prussians 
 take our place. We are Saxons." 
 
50 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 So. The friendly Dresden boys are going to desert us 
 in favour of their more blood-thirsty confreres. The Prus- 
 sians are first-class devils in the trenches, and nothing suits 
 them better than to attack. Further, their engineer corps 
 is an A- 1 unit. Surprise sorties and tunnelling are their 
 second nature. 
 
 A thunder of rifle-fire announces the change. Bengal 
 rockets flare. The burst and whistle of shells is terrify- 
 ing. Pandemonium breaks out all at once! The entire 
 line brightens with continuous flashing shots, and it is as 
 much as one's life is worth to hazard a look. 
 
 "Let them expend their ammunition as long as they have 
 too much of it," cautions our captain, his word carried for- 
 ward to the entire company. "Save your bullets — don't 
 shoot." 
 
 We are all on watch without chance to rest in the guir- 
 tounes. It will be a wild night ! . . . 
 
 The storming has commenced at one, and it continues 
 ceaselessly until four. With so much shelling one would 
 think the holocaust must be frightful, but we have only eight 
 killed and fourteen wounded in the whole emplacement. 
 These bodies lie as they have been shot, adding a gruesome- 
 ness to the scene. The wounded have first-kit treatment, 
 the surgeon working in the glare of the rockets. 
 
 Toward daybreak the whole thing eases up. 
 
 By the time we have ploughed from under this bombard- 
 ment, the sun is out, redoubling the warmth from yester- 
 day, and the ground commences to bake. 
 
 We eat and smoke and read our newspapers, which have 
 come in from various quarters. Mine occasions a good deal 
 of comment — it is from San Francisco. The boys gaze on 
 it without understanding and with a tinge of awe. America 
 — especially, California — means a "Promised Land." 
 
 The relief is due at eleven o'clock. Pending that time 
 there is apathy on the general front, strangely enough — ^total 
 inertia. We suppose the Prussians are resting after their ex- 
 ertions of the previous night. That was a mad bombard- 
 ment. Twenty devils let loose could not have paralleled it. 
 
YPRES 51 
 
 I have the watch from ten until twelve in the night. I am 
 thinking : "If the relief comes in at eleven they will shave 
 a full hour from my time." 
 
 Parisot goes on watch the same as I. He is checking off 
 the moments on his tocarde* every time a rocket goes up. It 
 is ten . . . ten-twenty . . . ten-twenty-two . . . twenty-five 
 . . . forty . . . forty-four 
 
 "Fifty!" he sings out, exactly as there is the crack of a 
 shell; and, following on the heels of this, a rumble — a 
 gigantic upheaval, throwing us both on our faces . . . then 
 cataclysm! We go up in the air, violently wrenched . . . 
 a deafening detonation breaks! Horror — torture — ^misery 
 . . . shrieks of wounded men — dying, throaty noises ! The 
 whole earth seems to cave and fall upon us as we are 
 thudded down ! 
 
 "Ah, God — ^what is this?" moans a choky voice close to 
 me. 
 
 I put out my hand and contact something warm — swim- 
 ming 
 
 Dazed terror comes over me — ^hysteria ! I withdraw my 
 hand rapidly, wipe it on the earth . . . Something warm — 
 swimming — Wild fear now that the thing may be Parisot's 
 blood — sticky, red 
 
 Ugh! 
 
 "Parisot — Parisot!" The rifles are rattling — machine- 
 guns. 
 
 That is my voice, but he will not hear. Over this pan- 
 demonium — no. If he is dying — dead — ^no ! 
 
 "Parisot! . . ." 
 
 "Oui, copcdn — ^here." 
 
 His cheery voice, ringing out, and a shudder of earth at 
 my feet . . . some one is struggling up. Red rockets hang 
 over the air. 
 
 "Oui, copain — here." 
 
 He gropes around my head where it is half-covered with 
 earth. A weight is on my chegt. I cannot rise. 
 
 "Parisot! . . ." 
 
 ♦Watch. 
 
52 THE "CHAIIMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Cristi !" It is his sharp exclamation. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "A bad mess here. Somebody has been spilled all over 
 you." 
 
 "Dead men?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 That fear again — wild terror! . , . everything breakitig 
 loose in the head ! I struggle to get up, — ^to fly — ^to race — 
 to get out, somewhere 
 
 "Here — ^here; wait until you are free. The earth is 
 down." 
 
 He is digging, throwing things here — ^there. 
 
 Dead men — arms, legs — maybe. . . . 
 
 "Diahle!" He gives a tug — throw. 
 
 It rolls off — falls to one side. 
 
 "Get up !" He jerks me to my feet. A crash of bullets 
 wings its way over, scorching my ear. "Planquez-vous!" 
 We are down again on the ground. Whroarrrr! T-zing! 
 Our own 75s are smashing through now, backing up the 
 foe. Rrrrip ! They are growling — spitting, like mad dogs. 
 
 Lying flat — right by my ear is a soft, low sound. A 
 moan ! Ugh ! 
 
 Smash — wang ! 
 
 The moan again. 
 
 T-zing — whroarrrr I 
 
 Several cries . . . then the moan. . . . 
 
 Oh, God — ^what is war ? 
 
 A voice raises over the uproar near at hand — a foot kick- 
 ing right and left: "Mille tonnerres! get up — go over to 
 the croneaux — ^all of you! Hell's pigeons, that you lie 
 there ! Up — all of you — poltroons!" 
 
 "Where is the relief?" 
 
 "Relief be dam " 
 
 The snap of an angry shell cuts short his speech. He 
 strikes out, and something yaps — groans 
 
 "Euuuch!" 
 
 I can hear the officer's breath whistle in. He knows he 
 
YPRES S3 
 
 Ii»s struck wounded men and the thought is not pleasant. 
 The big 75s are pounding — hard. The rockets flare. A 
 shatp, cutting, tremendous crash occurs over to the left, 
 tearing the inside of my ears like paper ! It pains — oh, how 
 it stabs and throbs ! 
 
 "Vermouth bottles !" mutters Parisot, grimly. 
 
 "Au creneau!" says the stern voice of the officer. 
 
 "Yes, my lieutenant," Parisot responds, getting over to 
 the parapet. 
 
 It cannot be helped. I feel around in the mud and filth 
 and among the maccabes* — choking, ready to vomit — with 
 the rifles spraying death overhead and the marmites^ 
 screaming. The darkness is settling down with the inter- 
 mission between rockets growing wider, and more frequent, 
 and less light, and more dull splotches every moment. The 
 battle is drawing off — like thunder retreating; — a storm, 
 splashing wildly, smashing violently overhead one instant, 
 the next fading, bearing away into the distance with farther 
 and farther detonations as it cools. 
 
 That is engagement — ^war, line to line, over a valley 
 of sighs! 
 
 I locate my Lebelt after fair search, proceeding to the 
 creneau. Havoc seems to have been confined mostly to our 
 trench and the ground beyond their lines. Not a head to 
 shoot at — not a limb or arm. It is battle-ethics to fire, 
 though, so I let fly — ten — ^twenty rounds at the invisible 
 enemy. Parisot has done likewise. He peers cautiously 
 over the top — drops instantly. . . . 
 
 "Sacre bleu! — don't move, it is another Vermouth !" He 
 has seen the thing headed to the right, and it explodes a 
 few metres away, hurling dirt in my face. Again that 
 awful ripping of the ears, and pain. The charge in those 
 things is frightful. 
 
 This is the dying gasp though. It quiets after this. We 
 have a chance to examine what remains in our emplace- 
 
 *Dead men. 
 tGerman shells. 
 JFrench rifle system. 
 
54 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 ment. Things are a fine havoc. The first explosion is 
 most to blame. It came unexpectedly — in our very midst. 
 The Prussian engineers have upheld their reputation, — they 
 mined our trench. Stealthily, steadily, was this done — prob- 
 ably begun at some far-distant point and burrowed through 
 with the precision of gophers. It must have taken days; 
 these last boys put it into action. 
 
 The mine spread through twenty-five metres. Fifteen 
 of these were ground of the 7th Company — ^to our right ; the 
 balance, ours. Our 4th Section got it the worst. Their 
 entire earthwork is a mere ant-hill now, torn before the 
 blast, which raised the floor and razed the parapet all in 
 one jangle. Four mangled forms is the toll here. Six 
 men are wounded. In the 7th, twelve men are dead and 
 nine severely wounded and in a pitiful state of agony. 
 Trench-mining is like that. You take the other fellows 
 in the back. You burrow, hunt and dig, without knowl- 
 edge from them — ^you lay your lines. You light your 
 fuse. You know they must be resting — singing — dreaming 
 of home and peace, perhaps — ^and tonnerre de Dieu! It is 
 over — one giant, blasting sheet of venom, shot up through 
 the ground at their feet, — ^volcanic in its action, demolishing, 
 tearing, destroying. Sixteen lives are puffed out in an 
 instant. Overhead, underneath, before and behind — it is 
 all the same. 
 
 Lord pity us ! 
 
 We have just the time to dig up these wounded follows 
 and place them back against the wall for examination, when 
 the relief is announced. They come, filing, into the Hades 
 and grime, — ready to take up the work where we are leav- 
 ing it. Fresh men, fresh thoughts — for the stale surround- 
 ings. Fresh courage to get out the wounded — fresh apkthy 
 toward the dead. 
 
 We quit the hell-hole with prayer on our lips — glad to get 
 out into the midnight, over the fields, and away. We march 
 to St. Jean. The straw is spread in the cantonments as 
 usual — we are into this and asleep for a peaceful dawn. 
 
 The 6th of April a procession marches into St. Jean. Not 
 
YPRES SS 
 
 a gala fete or a celebration ; not a riotous band. They are 
 laying the dead away, in tent-cloth, in the simple cemetery 
 of St. Jean, and the rifles speak with a military salute. 
 
 Following this it is announced that we have seen our last 
 of Belgian soil. The whole company is elated. 
 
 "Let the Englishers have the Flanders front — pas pour 
 moi!" Parisot shouts, throwing his kepi into the air. "Hur- 
 rah ! We are off for France !" 
 
 This voices the disposition of all. They are willing 
 enough to die for the patrie, but let it be on home soil, Al- 
 mighty God ! 
 
 We are carried out of St. Jean on the morning of April 
 9th in auto-busses from the boulevards of Paris. 
 
 "MADELEINE—BASTILLE— \odky there!" shouts 
 Parisot, pointing. And the sign is still tacked up in the 
 front of the wagon. 
 
 "We are going to the Madeleine! We are going to the 
 Madeleine!" shouts the section, cheering lustily. This is 
 hearty ! This is good ! 
 
 All along the road are English troops going toward 
 Ypres. These are the ones for our sector. We sing. We 
 send jibes at them, and throw over la croute.* 
 "Tiens! Look out for marmites!" 
 "He, Tommy, take your totos along!" 
 "Frangin, what do they eat in London these days — 
 French pastry?" 
 
 "Ma rosalie," sings another poilu, referring to the Eng- 
 lish bayonets, sword-edged in contrast to the French, which 
 are shaped like a large stiletto. "Cut 'em up good, Anglais 
 — sausage meat, you know!" 
 
 The auto-busses rattle into Herzeele, Department du 
 Nord, and we are again lodged privately in some homes. 
 It is about three in the afternoon. The days are longer and 
 balmy with the forecast of Spring. The village has only two 
 thousand inhabitants and they are most hospitable. 
 
 Parisot's usual good spirits are undergoing a dampen- 
 ing. He has not heard a word from St. Jean in all of three 
 
 *The food. 
 
S6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 days ! The mails missed in Zonnebeke owing to the trouble 
 in the trenches, and in St. Jean he was too dirty on the 
 day of our arrival and too hurried on the day of departure 
 to pay Juliette even a little visit. Parisot, were he a man 
 of butter instead of brawn, would wring his hands. As it 
 is, he laments : "She will, no doubt, forget me quickly. 
 It is so with these young fair things. Their hearts are 
 flotsam for the passing soldafs fancy, and mine is empty 
 now. Oh, woe is me. La mart soit douce!"* 
 
 "Have a cigarette," I offer, lighting a seche. "It will 
 help you to forget this Juliette who seems so precious. 
 Twenty days ago you did not know her — ^and you lived just 
 the same." 
 
 "Lived?" 
 
 Such indignation! ' 
 
 "Never in my life ! Never did I know what living was!" 
 
 "You will die just the same." 
 
 "Ah, that is it. I will die, and she — she " 
 
 "She will marry somebody else," I say withoift hesitance. 
 
 He gives me a look of scorn. 
 
 "You think? Well, guess again, mon copain. She will 
 not — she will wait for me, that is a sure thing! I am not 
 going to die — the bon Dieu looks out for that, and we will 
 marry so soon the war is over!" 
 
 Broadly he smiles, and genially his spirits return, having 
 convinced himself of her felicity. He draws 'round his 
 canteen and takes a deep swallow of pinard. f "Ah, good !" 
 he says, wiping his mouth, "she will love me yet and the lyar 
 will soon be over." 
 
 Brave, big-hearted Parisot! 
 
 She may love you yet — as we all love you ; but the war 
 will not be over! 
 
 These are morbid thoughts. 
 
 "See here, have you had your frichti % mooning here ?" It 
 is Felize this time, who has missed us at the kitchen. 
 
 *Death would be sweet. 
 
 tWine. 
 
 JFood. 
 
YPRES 57 
 
 "What is to eat?" 
 
 "Ragout and punaises." 
 
 "Punaisesf We are turning up our noses. "Punaises" 
 are bed-bugs, which is the poilu's slang for lentils, the small 
 flat army beans that we are fed morning, noon and night. 
 This diet becomes sickening. 
 
 "Never mind," says Parisot, "let it go. To-morrow I 
 have a grand plan for something extra." 
 
 "Yes, and leave your 'affaire d'amour' outside the house, 
 if you please. I cannot stand Juliette with every meal." 
 
 He gives me a look and we both laugh and go in the 
 house. 
 
 The next day Parisot is about early after the drill. 
 
 "Come along; we go to the fields." He links his arm 
 through mine. "No Juliette this time — ^but pisseniit." 
 
 Pissenlit is dandelion salad, with which the fields are full 
 at this time. We collect a large crop, rambling about, laugh- 
 ing like children. 
 
 The boys at the camp are gleeful. Several of them make 
 up a splendid salad. But when it comes to the seasoning 
 they are stumped. Who will go to the shop for oil and 
 vinegar ? 
 
 "Send Mueller!" somebody shouts. 
 
 A yell of laughter goes up. Mueller is the Alsatian 
 whose dried herrings almost brought us to grief, and him to 
 matrimony. He stands there, reddening like a school- 
 girl; for, since his further acquaintance with the "femme 
 belligerent" it was pretty serious for the boy. 
 
 "Not 'Hareng-Saur' "* — ^his nickname, coined after the 
 herring episode — "he forgets to come back; don't you, 
 Mueller?" 
 
 "He, Mueller, do you think you can land a second?" 
 jibes some one else. 
 
 The "Hareng-Saur" feels pretty miserable through all 
 this. 
 
 "Here, I'll go," says Parisot, feeling a kindred spirit. He 
 takes up a few sous here, there. By and by he is back with 
 
 *Dried-Herruig. 
 
S8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 the seasoning. The Alsatian hails him before the house — 
 out of ear-shot. 
 
 "Tell them, Parisot," he says, "that the shop-woman is 
 a belle dame sans scruple. She is perfect — ^irresistible — 
 you are in love with her already. She has charms — ^you 
 have succumbed — so would they all!" 
 
 My copain is in at once on the joke. 
 
 "M'ssieu's" he says with grave solemnity, on entering, 
 "you have conferred on me the greatest boon on earth. 
 You have shown me the most beautiful of women ! I am in 
 love with her already — she is charmante — glorieuse — irre- 
 sistible!" 
 
 "Where? Where?" comes a chorus of ready voices, 
 
 "In the shop, of course, andouilles!" 
 
 Out they go, clustered, leaping and swearing — each rush- 
 ing with the speed of all his legs to the shop-woman ; who, 
 Parisot confides to me, is a grisly old dame of no less than 
 eighty winters. 
 
 "It's a good one, Mueller," he chuckles to the Alsatian. 
 "Come, we'll have the salad ready and eaten." 
 
 This we hasten to do. We make up a good portion each 
 and the balance is put away behind a pork-barrel in the 
 stable. These poilus are foxy fellows. They will imme- 
 diately know a joke is played, and there will be no rest from 
 the search. 
 
 In six or eight minutes they are back — swearing, guffaw- 
 ing. We are eating with crammed mouths out in the 
 stable. 
 
 "Rest well, my frangins," says Parisot, sitting on the 
 pork-barrel, "it serves them 'jol-lie well right.' " It is 
 comical to hear Parisot trying to mimic the English. 
 
 They come filing out in the garden, "marching by one," 
 and clamouring for revenge with every fibre. 
 
 "Nothing to serve, gentlemen," says Parisot, turning our 
 plates upside-down. "We are sorry ; you are too late." 
 
 "Late, is it ! We show you who is late. That is a fine 
 joke you perpetrate all right — how smart you are !" 
 
YPRES 59 
 
 They are about to pitch into us when an order comes, 
 sharp, distinct : 
 
 "Attention !" 
 
 The column halts — swings around, cursing, but clicking 
 the heels. We leap to our feet — Parisot from the pork-bar- 
 rel, and it turns over. 
 
 "Ah— ha— ha— aa!" 
 
 Ringing laughter comes from a dozen throats as a com- 
 pany of Canadians bursts around the side of the barn, 
 scrambling for the pickings, which they have evidently been 
 taking fully in from a side-window. But they are not quick 
 enough. In a flash the disillusioned poilus leap for the pis- 
 senlii — fasten on it, and bear it away triumphantly in the 
 face of the tricksters. Disappointment sits on every face. 
 
 Seeing this, "Come — ^let us buy them a round of beer," I 
 suggest to Parisot; and Mueller escorting, we march the 
 "Tommies" off to the nearest bistro.* 
 
 ♦Drinking-house. 
 
IV 
 
 ARRAS 
 
 THIS soft life, so to speak, continues over a period 
 of only one additional day. On the 14th we are 
 hustled off afoot for Broxelles, through country- 
 side rich with flooding sunlight and sweet-smelling 
 earth. The tiny shoots are just greening on the trees, and 
 moss raising underfoot. We quarter in a barn filled with 
 straw. Very soon it starts to rain and develops a cataract 
 through the roof. The poUus swear like fiends, scrambling 
 about in the water, and each taking a soaking impromptu. 
 It is a wonder, with all the hardships and dampness and poor 
 drainage, that the illness is very scarce among the men. The 
 skin becomes inured or impervious, or we are too intense 
 while at battle to foment aches and pains. 
 
 At ten o'clock of the 15th day of April we arrive in St. 
 Omer. The rain has eased up, the roads are steaming under 
 the usual sun. We continue a steady march through the 
 north of France and lodge in Wisernes, the small village a 
 few miles beyond. 
 
 The farm upon which we quarter has fresh greens and 
 milk and butter at reasonable rates. Parisot is blue as we 
 are passing continuously farther from his "amour," without 
 giving him necessary time to receive letters from her. 
 
 "Be glad you have a fresh egg and forget Juliette for 
 a while," I coax him. 
 
 "It is you are too fresh!" he retorts. This is unusual 
 from Parisot. 
 
 I glance at him keenly. His hair and moustache are un- 
 kempt, cheeks sallow and fallen in, and his eyes have a 
 sunken look. Am I harrowed too, I wonder? Is it the 
 life or love with him ? He notices my scrutiny. 
 
 60 
 
ARRAS 6i 
 
 "Forgive me, my friend," he says, laying his hand on 
 mine. "You are right, but it gets in the blood. We must 
 be over with this thing (he means the war), and back to 
 normal, or it wears us out. Look at me now — ^what am 
 I? Wretched — ^unkempt — unwashed. An animal — a. thing 
 — ^not a man! You should see yourself. But there, let 
 me not discourage you, my copavn. The war is — the war. 
 But you have not seen it the worst. Wait until Lens." 
 
 "You think we go to Lens?" 
 
 "Mais, certainement! Arras it is — ^you see. And plenty 
 of fighting too." 
 
 That is all. He turns away. Not one word about Juliette. 
 Not one word of his love or heart-hunger. 
 
 We march off to Fruges, and from there to Heuchin the 
 next day. 
 
 The road leads through a narrow ravine. Suddenly every 
 man is at attention — marching in regular and perfect for- 
 mation. It is like a drill. 
 
 "What is it — review?" I question my copain. 
 
 "Exactly. The Staff is on the hill." 
 
 Sure enough, a group of officers, in the identical horizon 
 blue of our own dusty, dirty uniforms, sits astride cavalry 
 mounts on an adjacent slight rise of ground. One of their 
 number — a little in advance of the others — sweeps the 
 column with comprehensive eyes and a slight frown. His 
 cape is thrown back from his shoulders. The day is warm. 
 He sits soldierly, yet at ease, relaxed yet fully cognisant 
 of his high position. His moustache uptilts slightly, tinged 
 with grey. There is something regal in this man's appear- 
 ance. We are not looking for autocracy in France, but we 
 sigh audibly after passing before his scrutiny. It thrills ! It 
 makes one feel proud and ennobled, and, in some way, up- 
 lifted! We sense vaguely we are parading before a per- 
 sonality — a hero — an idol of the masses, and the tears come 
 into the eyes and appreciation on the lips. 
 
 "General Foch," says Parisot, the all-knowing. 
 
 The poker has made good up the back ! Each man, in- 
 spired, trudges his weary way — after distancin^f the Staff 
 
62 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 — with less weariness and less complaint; with greater 
 confidence and brisker stride. Not one of the unit drags 
 or falls to the rear. Not one is picked up by the wagon. 
 In appreciation of this the captain doles out a ration of beer 
 to each — one half-litre. 
 
 Marching for the day, then, over, we lodge in Heuchin in 
 a flour mill. It is amusing to see the poilus issue forth the 
 following morning. 
 
 "Ghost! Spectre! Come out and shake yourself!" 
 shouts Felize, dragging me out in the daylight by the arm. 
 I am snow-white from top to toe ! We are, fortunately, by 
 a river's bank, so the day proceeds with a wholesale wash- 
 ing of clothes ; especially so, as the totos are more than evi- 
 dent. We sun our first batch, make a shift — ^bathing all over 
 — and jump into these fresh things. After which it is sim- 
 ple to do up the remainder and graduate with a clean score 
 before night-fall. 
 
 With the sun in long slant rays from the west and 
 purpling the whole horizon east, Parisot and I go into the 
 woods for violets. Strange occupation, this, for throat- 
 cutters; but recall we have a lover in our midst, whose 
 heart is urgent if his mail-pouch is light! 
 
 His sentiment is contagious. We gather a quantity of 
 the posies and Parisot does them up in a little packet quite 
 elaborately and addresses the whole to Mile. Juliette Por- 
 
 quet. Rue E , St. Jean. Perhaps this will cause him to 
 
 sleep easier to-night. I know it will me! 
 
 We set forth again on the march following out a care- 
 fully worked plan of General Headquarters, it seems, and 
 nearing the front at Valcoraine before dawn. Hostile air- 
 craft are riding overhead. We hear their motors before 
 light, when they swoop pretty shallow ; but dawn wings them 
 all out of range. It is now possible to travel safely only 
 at night. The country is wooded and swinging in hillocks, 
 brave in Spring attire. Valcomine is only a small village, 
 but there is a scarcity of water here more fitting an absolute 
 Sahara ! Even the cafe doors are locked. But in privacy 
 
ARRAS 63 
 
 that is to say, invading the various residences — we are of- 
 fered pmard at a moderate cost, which is welcome. 
 
 Tramping by night and resting by day, we negotiate 
 Frevin Capelle on the morning following. Here are wooden 
 barracks acting as cantonments and built especially for the 
 troops. It seems good to find something prepared in ad- 
 vance. 
 
 Discover us, then, in the north of Arras (Pas de Calais) 
 on the 24th day of April, 1915. Frevin Capelle is a poor 
 apology of a town. In fact, its chief charm, if such it may 
 be called, lies in its rural surroundings. The water springs 
 aplenty from the ground, and cresses, poking up the earth 
 in bush formation, are in growth or blossom or bloom — 
 whatever water-cress is, when in season. 
 
 Ecoivres stands along this same line of march; packed 
 in pretty fully with regiments of soldiers belonging to our 
 division, and quartering here; 
 
 Parisot is the first to discover an armoured train sug- 
 gestively lounging on a temporary trackway close beside, 
 and this gives him the idea he has been formulating since 
 Ypres. 
 
 "We are coming in for a big attack — ^mark my words 1" 
 
 He is borne out further in the morning when we are 
 set at manoeuvres and started toward Aubigny. The Colo- 
 nial troops are encamped here — Zouaves, Tirailleurs, black 
 fellows from the Soudan and Senegal, but not one in the' 
 gala attire of yore! All in sober khaki now — the flaming 
 chechias hidden beneath a khaki band. 
 
 We are still in red pants 1 However concealed beneath a 
 covering of blue overall. Some of our earlier boys, to be 
 sure, are rewarded with dark-coloured velvet pantaloons. 
 But the very first of the "bleu horizon" — the new sky-blue 
 uniforms — spring into being with the Classe 15 — ^young boys 
 joining our regiment at Heuchin in the flour mill. 
 
 Returning from Aubigny, the captain assembles us all be- 
 fore him. "Well, how do you like your new steel helmets ?" 
 he demands of the company. 
 
 There is an impressive silence. Every one personally 
 
64 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 feels guilty, having given the helmets a trial for their ef- 
 fectiveness and thrown them all away ! This was in Ypres. 
 The metal worn close on the head gave great discomfort. 
 
 The company plucks up courage to reply in concert: 
 "They are miserable! We cannot wear them at all!" 
 
 "You have brought them back with you, I suppose?" 
 he remarks with suspicion in his tone. "Not at all !" shouts 
 Felize, indignantly. "We threw them away!" 
 
 "So! Fine business!" says the captain, disgustedly, 
 "You are extravagant 'piou-pious,' and it would serve you 
 all right if I sent you to the guard-house. School-boys! 
 When anything does not suit you, you just throw it to the 
 wind. Do you think France is made of money? Do you 
 think the government can afford to waste? It is the same 
 with the rice !" 
 
 Captain Niclausse continues : 
 
 "As long as we have boni in the company we buy all the 
 suplement we can, but once let the money run out — well, 
 it is rice or nothing — ^you starve !" 
 
 Papa Niclausse says this without rancour. He is big- 
 hearted. Further, he is right. And he means hy "boni" a 
 small allotment of money given over to each company com- 
 missary or sergeant-major for extras, such as special 
 foods, sweetmeats, choicer morsels. This is the "suplement" 
 of the company. And when it runs down, assui-edly we will 
 have to fall back upon that abominable rice ! 
 
 During bayonet drill in the afternoon we are prepared for 
 action by the announcement that "big business" is brewing. 
 
 "We shall be in the trenches by May ist," says Parisot; 
 and he proves to be right. 
 
 In the glaring sunlight of high-noon on this day we are 
 ordered out of Frevin Capelle and started toward the 
 Bois d'Ecoivres. This is a small wood outside of the vil- 
 lage of Ecoivres, and the soil is a peculiar yellow clay. 
 
 "In broad daylight!" is my comment, advancing toward 
 the lines. 
 
 "But, of course, copain. We march by boyau," says 
 Parisot, enjoying my astonishment. "Wait until you see 
 
ARRAS 65 
 
 these little trenches. They are a marvel o£ the genie." * 
 
 Just outside of the Bois is the first of these boyaux. It 
 is a communication trench dug to a depth of probably one 
 metre, 50 centimetres, and is 90 centimetres wide, with the 
 earth dug out and heaped up on both sides, forming a double 
 parapet. 
 
 We are walking now at right-angles to the front. No 
 need to crouch — the parapets are an effectual screen to a 
 man upright ; and if the rifle is held barrel downward, hung 
 through the arm, no evidence is presented of an enemy 
 stalking. The boyau deepens as we progress, and twists and 
 winds in little sharp curves to offer security from bar- 
 rage fire. We proceed four kilometres (approximately 
 2}4 miles), "marching by one." Other boyaux are criss- 
 crossing, communicating obliquely with other communica- 
 tion trenches — the whole sketching labyrinthian over a maze 
 of land^ape. In order to distinguish one from the other 
 they are named appropriately — and comically like city 
 Streets : "Parallele de Nancy," the "Tranchee de St. Eloi," 
 etc. The first of these marks th^ second, or reserve, line 
 of trenches, and bisects the latter — our boyau — a certain 
 distance from the actual front. 
 
 It is four o'clock before we are up with the first line and 
 in a position to relieve the troops there. Several of these — 
 older men, between 40 and 45 years of age — ^greet us in 
 a sort of semi-whispered camaraderie : 
 
 "You have a good sector here, boys — it is as quiet as 
 home-sweet-home." 
 
 Parisot assures me this will not be for long. "Of- 
 fensive is coming and we will be in the thick of it," he says. 
 "I know it— I feel it! Why, otherwise, should they have 
 sent for the 'Division de Fer de Toul'?" 
 
 Parisot is very proud of the Iron Corps. 
 
 This trench, now on inspection, is a solid-built wonder 
 that puts the Ypres line to shame. Warm weather has 
 baked the soil into hard and fast granite, which is as 
 spruced and clean as if a broom were brought into play 
 
 ♦Engineering corps. 
 
66 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 hourly. It is like a hotel-lobby. The boyaux are smooth 
 and level enough for a cycle-track. Astonishing ! 
 
 "These fellows passed a better winter than we," Parisot 
 comments. "No doubt they ate warm food because the 
 kitchens can be reached in broad daylight." 
 
 "Yes," I reply, "and, furthermore, the ground is dry. 
 There will be no more freezing in water to the knees — ^no 
 more mud and filth. We can be in comfort for the balance 
 of the year." 
 
 Parisot looks at me in wonder. What kind of war do 
 I think this is, he is undoubtedly thinking — a stalemate, a 
 war of words ? But I have learned to expect nothing until 
 something starts. 
 
 I find the first-line trench, then, as solid as Helgoland — 
 as fortressy as the old-regime Bastille. The guitounes are 
 splendidly ensconced, hidden and secure, but there are too 
 few of them. We are a larger relief than the former. 
 Parisot, Felize and myself set to work with our small 
 tools to construct an abri for ourselves. 
 
 From the captain's observation post I have a good view 
 across to the German lines. They are here all of a hundred 
 and fifty metres from ours. The entanglements are rein- 
 forced more rigidly than in Flanders — wire mesh crossing 
 and counter-crossing in dubious fashion, interminably wind- 
 ing and setting up a solid formation of barrier. 
 
 When even falls we divide the watch in rotation. Each 
 of us is thereby enabled to dig the cachihi a little deeper. 
 
 The ration or consignment of food in French is called 
 "ravitaillement." At dawn a squad of our boys start forth, 
 passing through a boyau to the rolling kitchens which are 
 just at the end. Up, comes the steaming coffee, — soup! 
 Sweet change, this, from the icy order of frichti in Belgium. 
 We divide into squads, certain of us going for ravitaillement 
 with each meal. This equally exposes each man to danger, 
 whether from shrapnel spraying and breaking in the boyau, 
 or shells screaming over into the trench. 
 
 Parisot lets out a whoop ! This is unexpected from him. 
 We are cautioned to whisper only in the front line, other- 
 
ARRAS 67 
 
 wise the listening post of the enemy — the "paste d'Scoute" 
 — will pounce upon some stray phrase and use it in disad- 
 vantage to us — the watch being changed, a relief or offen- 
 sive ; which gives him an opening for attack. 
 
 Parisot has received — a letter from Juliette ! 
 
 He rushes over to the half-finished cachibi, crawls in 
 where no prying eye, though probable cave-in, may catch 
 him, and settles down to read. 
 
 Felize, not being in on the secret, frowns and taps at his 
 forehead. He is expectant that his dear comrade has gone 
 mad. 
 
 "What ails him, Americain? Has his gnole You 
 
 know, is he affected ?" But it is something besides brandy 
 that has gone to his head. 
 
 "Babillarde" * I remark, lighting up a seche: "Babillarde 
 from St. Jean." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 The eyebrows of my friend go up. Was there ever a 
 Frenchman to whom an "affaire" did not appeal? 
 
 "Who is she? Dis-moif" 
 
 I shake my head. 
 
 "Parisot in love," he murmurs. "Well, that is the first 
 time I have knOwn it — in him." 
 
 Felize has been an acquaintance of my copain for many 
 years in Epinal. 
 
 "Is she fair or dark?" he persists. 
 
 I turn away, laughing. Who am I that I should give 
 away Parisot's secrets? But Felize persists, clutching me 
 by the shoulder, whispering in my ear: "Dis-moi!" 
 
 "Well— dark, then," I retort, "but speak to him yourself 
 if you want to know." 
 
 "It is not that, frangin" he says, slowly. "But I have a 
 sister— you — ^you see. She — well, she really lost her head 
 about this fellow. He loved her like a— a good comrade ; 
 and she like a — well, otherwise. It is a bad situation. My 
 sister writes him too. Is this from Epinal — or St. Jean? 
 Are you sure?" 
 
 ♦Letter. 
 
68 THE "CHARMED, AMERICAN" 
 
 " 'St. Jean,' he says to me." 
 
 He nods, troubled. , 
 
 "I don't know, but I think it is quite severe." 
 
 "Who did you say was the girl?" he enquires for the 
 twentieth time. 
 
 "Papa Porquet's daughter in the Rue E . But do not, 
 
 Felize, on any account " 
 
 He turns away. Parisot is coming towards me. He 
 frowns, winks to me once or twice, and, at the first op- 
 portunity, takes me over to the guitoune. 
 
 "Here — read it!" he says, pressing his habillarde into 
 my hand. 
 
 "Your letter? Why should I read your letter?" 
 
 "Read it!" 
 
 "Not on any account!" 
 
 "Silly !" he retorts, "There is nothing in it." 
 
 "Well, if you feel that way." 
 
 The letter commences in a gentle sort of way: 
 
 "Cher ami, this will reach you as you are on the road to 
 France — ^undoubtedly forgetting me, or, at least, believing 
 that I am forgetting you. But, as you see, I am not. I write 
 you at the very earliest moment. I write you, although you 
 did not think it worth while to bid me — with all your former 
 protestations — a good-bye. My friend, I do not reproach 
 you. Why should I? Why, indeed, should we blind one 
 another any longer — ^my heart goes away with some one 
 else, and yours — well, I presume yours is in France, in 
 Epinal, where it belongs . . ." 
 
 Both of these statements occasion me the greatest wonder. 
 I look at Parisot . . . 
 
 "Go on — go on!" he urges. 
 
 ". . . forgive me, friend et soldat, for this confession : I 
 saw one of her letters to you. It fell from the pocket. I 
 would not have taken it, of course, for the world . . ." 
 
ARRAS 69 
 
 "Cristi !" mutters Parisot under the breath, kicking at the 
 parados with his boot. 
 
 "Well, that is the explana " I commence. 
 
 "Go on, espece d'andcmille! If you stop another time, 
 je te casse en deux* so help me Heaven!" 
 
 "As for my heart — ^he neither knows nor cares, who has 
 become master of it for life. Let this console you, then, 
 if indeed you need consolation, never having loved where 
 you proclaimed you did! If he is well, I am happy — voire 
 camarade, you know whom I mean. Will you, can you 
 write me — just a line? I dare not ask hmi. My hopes for 
 your good health and the continued success of your com- 
 pany . , . Sincerement . . . 
 
 JULIETTTE p." 
 
 I hand Parisot his letter, shrugging; not understanding 
 all of it, and little caring. 
 
 He smiles: "What do you think?" 
 
 A diabolical smile is on his lips instead of sorrow. One 
 would think he would mourn. He seems, rather, inclined 
 to laugh. He folds the pages and slips them into his pocket 
 — sniffs, draws them out again and hands the packet to me. 
 
 "You might as well answer it." 
 
 "What for I ? Answer your own mail." 
 
 "Ah — ^ha — ha, that is a good one — what for you!" He 
 bursts out into a good round laugh. Several of the boys 
 look astonished and grin and lift their eye-brows. The 
 caporal frowns and touches him on the shoulder. 
 
 "Close your trap \" he orders. 
 
 "Pah!" rejoins Parisot, shaking him off, "Get away, 
 cabot. The boches don't care for small dogs — only large 
 ones !" 
 
 He refers to the nickname of the caporal. We call him 
 "cabof which means a small dog which every one kicks 
 about — which barks but does not bite. The caporal is in 
 
 *I break you in two! 
 
70 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 just this position between the dictates of his officers and 
 jibes of his men, 
 
 "Quiet!" orders the JOM^-lieutenant, passing through. 
 
 "You answer the letter — she wants to hear from you," 
 persists Parisot, lowering his voice. 
 
 "From me? You are crazy! What have I to do with 
 Juliette?" 
 
 "She is in love with you !" 
 
 "Pah !" I have a hard time keeping in my laughs. 
 
 "See here — see!" He opens the letter again. "She 
 says she loves you!" 
 
 "Go away — ^you are crazy! Absolutely, Parisot, I think 
 Felize is right — ^you are affected!" I touch my forehead, 
 reaching for my fusil. It is time to change watches. He 
 grips me by the arm. 
 
 "Really, I am in earnest, Americain. The girl has lost 
 her heart. If you will not write her — I must." 
 
 "Do it — do it! But leave me absolutely out! If you 
 mention it again, I will kill you !" 
 
 A marmite comes over with a shriek, exploding ten or 
 twelve metres over, hurling earth and small bits of metal 
 over on our roof. The tick-tick and clump! comes down 
 like hail and a landslide, but the abri remains in perfect 
 condition. Parisot stretches up and peers about the trench. 
 
 "!Fritz is getting busy," he says. "Well," yawning, "if 
 you feel that way, it is a pity to waste good sentiment on 
 you. I will write Julie " 
 
 His voice trails off as I advance to the creneau. I am 
 relieving Felize, who has been relieving somebody else. 
 
 "What does he say? Is he very much smitten?" 
 
 Clunk ! Whroarr ! 
 
 Another marmite breaks up the ground entre les lignes; 
 rifles snapping after this fitfully. I fire a couple of rounds 
 myself through the shooting-hole. 
 
 "No. He is not smitten at all. And — really — I am dis- 
 appointed in Parisot. I thought he had a heart," I retort. I 
 am about as indignant as I can be. I have shown Juliette no 
 attention whatever. "Your sister is far too good for that 
 
ARRAS 71 
 
 'morceau de fromage!'* I advise you to write and tell her 
 so at once." 
 
 He is astonished because I am so earnest. 
 
 "What is the matter?" 
 
 "Nom d'un chien! Don't ask me — I am mad !" 
 
 He goes away wondering. 
 
 The idea turns over and over in my head, what have I to 
 do with that Julie in St. Jean ? I have spoken to her three 
 times probably in my life. Parisot is a fool — an idiot^— • 
 
 Tssseee ! 
 
 "Planquez-vous !" 
 
 Whroarr ! 
 
 The shell screams overhead — ^buries itself behind the 
 parados. 
 
 In the evening we are put to work enlarging the main 
 boyau — the Boyau d' Evacuation, widening it out from 
 ninety centimetres to a metre and twenty centimetres. This 
 is the passage for wounded soldiers, and a grim prediction 
 of the coming offensive is in the work. 
 
 We are relieved on the 4th of May. The 153rd Regiment 
 comes in to take our sector and we retire as far as Ecoivres, 
 eat a pan of hidoche f and army bread, deposit our belong- 
 ings, with the exception of fusil and cartouches, in a stable 
 there ; and start off again for the front. We have picks and 
 shovels, and are called upon to dig what is known as the 
 "Parallele du Depart." This is a trench between the lines 
 before the main parapet, and ahead of the wire entangle- 
 ments. It is prepared in advance of an advance; occupied 
 by troops who are leading the attack. But first it must 
 be constructed. 
 
 The genie have initiated things by tunnelling every fifty 
 metres beneath the wire entanglements, which lets us pass 
 without observation from the front line trench actually into 
 No Man's Land ! 
 
 The night is inky black and without a breeze or fog. 
 We are cautioned to be mute as we value our lives, and it 
 
 ♦Piece of cheese. 
 
 tMeat 
 
yz THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 is not necessary to repeat the warning. Issuing out into 
 that soUtude so tense with listeners, so pregnant with mis- 
 chief — it is a weird and uncanny experience and one full of 
 dangers and fortitude. We lay our rifles on the sod and 
 start in with the picks and shovels. Each man knows his 
 task and sets to work to be over with it as rapidly and noise- 
 lessly as possible. The occasional rifle blares — barks. The 
 usual bullets hum. It is singular chance to which we can 
 lay our lives. 
 
 After a half-hour of this work, some man speaks low. It 
 is probably only a whisper, but it punctuates the silence hor- 
 ribly. Instantly there is a stir — one feels rather than 
 hears it — a whistle — a light flares up from the Teuton 
 side — a jus&e eclairante! 
 
 As the rocket leaves, with one accord we cast ourselves 
 flat on the ground, breathing in earth, and the pulse racing 
 up like mad! Mitrailleuses flare into action. A rafale of 
 bullets comes singing through the night. Streams of these 
 pass on over, and one or two of our men shriek and then 
 moan. Somebody rises to his feet. He is immediately 
 whisked off and flattened to earth again, crying loudly! 
 The firing continues while the light lasts; when, having 
 satisfied themselves that we are devastated for the night, 
 peace descends upon the Teuton camp once more. 
 
 We go to the work and the parallel widens and deepens. 
 Six of our men are wounded in thighs and groins, and one 
 is dead. It is he who stood up, silhouetted in flame and 
 shell. 
 
 At three, dawn floods up and we pass through the tun- 
 nels and back to Ecoivres. How long and beautiful the 
 days are getting! Streams of sunlight perish the shades of 
 night. A misty vapour ascends and leaves clearness and 
 beauty on the sod everywhere. Verdure is spreading under 
 this. 
 
 We lodge in a barn. Packed together like swine inside, 
 too many men for one hole, the straw is filthy rotten and 
 alive! Vile contrast to the glories of nature! The hay 
 is smelly with manure. It must have been requisitioned 
 
ARRAS 73 
 
 clear from a stall— under the horse's belly and hoofs and 
 swarming with totos. Millions of these vermin, virulent 
 creatures, are nestling and breeding and bedizening our 
 velvety couch. 
 
 "Parisot!" I shudder, "you do not expect to sleep in 
 that, surely?" 
 
 He shrugs. 
 
 'War ii 
 
 "No, totos are not war, my friend, and if you want to re- 
 main here, why do so ! But not I !" 
 
 I grab my tent-cloth and make a break for the open air. 
 Parisot and Felize, laughing heartily at "our crazy Ameri- 
 cain," follow after. 
 
 "Right," says Parisot to our other friend, designating 
 me. "He has not such crazy notions after all. A bachot * 
 in the open is far preferable to that." 
 
 At these words a large shell tears up a furrow a rod 
 sway, whistling by my head and exploding with viciousness. 
 
 "He! II est mains cinq!" Felize shouts ; and indeed it has 
 "missed me by an inch." "Are you so smart, my friend, 
 that you must sleep in the prairie ?" 
 
 "No matter. I prefer that to slow death by the totos. I 
 don't worry about sauce-pans — come on!" I respond, 
 marching straight ahead. Parisot shrugs in his usual non- 
 committal fashion. We pitch our tent-cloths in the open; 
 and before long the entire company is lodged outside, under 
 protest of the captain and lieutenants. 
 
 With the falling of night comes fresh labour at the 
 parallele. It is fairly deep and protective after this. Have 
 the Teutons no notion of our advancement? Not an ex- 
 tra shell is extended during the entire process. Day fol- 
 lows nigh^ and night follows day with intermittent tasks. 
 Returning from the parallele, it is to swallow a quart de 
 fits t in order to remain awake and energetic, and a first-class 
 job at the big spring near Ecoivres. We are ordered to fill 
 hogsheads with water which are then transferred to the py- 
 
 *Bed. 
 
 tOne-fourth of a litre of black coffee. 
 
74 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 lones. These are second-line trenches, filled with reserve 
 stock. 
 
 By high noon of the 5th day of May these labours are 
 completed and we are released to a much-needed rest. 
 Under the warm sun, reclining in prairie-tents, it is balm 
 to a war-racked frame; for, although I have been in no 
 actual offensive up to this date, I have been subjected to 
 horrors and terrors I did not deem compatible with a human 
 consciousness. I seem to mellow now with the harmony 
 of nature, never more poignant than on this borderline of 
 shadow — to fit into her mood, to give myself up to her lux- 
 ury, and I slumber 'neath the sweet spring skies. 
 
 They rout us out by evening with the picks, and it is 
 to finish the Boyau d' Evacuation for the wounded men. 
 This is deepened and widened and tamped down hard, mak- 
 ing a broad even passageway to the first dressing station. 
 We are about to retire, with a sigh of satisfaction, when, 
 without warning, there comes a sprinkle, then a rain — out of 
 a clear sky! It is not shrapnel nor marmites, but truly 
 enough slushy, sticky rain that makes of the boyau a muddy 
 pasty trough. 
 
 This is abominable. Curses, imprecations, fill the air! 
 And with each fresh shovelful of the slush comes a cave-in 
 from above, filling the trench and clogging the tools with 
 clay. The storm rises like a tropical hurricane blowing over 
 the whole terrain now ; shrieking, whisking and fluttering the 
 tent-cloths, carrying away kepis from the guitounes, 
 drenching the men and bedeviling the trenches. We are 
 caught in the utterly black night, cut off from command- 
 ing officers, and under orders to improve the boyau. There 
 is nothing for it but to remain at work. Until two in the 
 morning we struggle, chilled to the bone, running with water 
 and mud. 
 
 I hear a sharp exclamation behind me. 
 
 "What is it, Parisot?" I say. He has thrown aside his 
 shovel and picks up his gun, and I see him just in the 
 flare of a fusSe, rubbing his hands with mud from the bar- 
 rel, on his fahard. 
 
ARRAS 75 
 
 "J'en ai mare!" he exclaims irritably and loudly ; and this 
 is immediately echoed by the entire company, who throw 
 away their tools with one accord. 
 
 "We are tired of it ! We are tired of it !" They take their 
 rifles in their hands. "We are here to fight, not dig graves." 
 
 "Tiens! In two minutes we will be dead men!" 
 
 "There ! You see — there it starts again 1" 
 
 They refer to the marmites which are beginning to sing. 
 
 "Fritz is waking up. Let's go out and fight! 
 
 Not one of us has actually the idea of leading an attack 
 without orders. But that standing in clammy damp with 
 cataracting water flooding down has jostled all the submis- 
 sion out of us. 
 
 Parisot realises he has awakened these rebellious thoughts. 
 
 "Come," he says, soothingly, "it does no good to com- 
 plain. Take your tools," he suits the action to the words, 
 "marches par un — allez!" 
 
 He starts off down the boyau, and the men, falling in, but 
 grumbling fretfully, follow in his footsteps, wringing wet. 
 
 Suffice it to say — we are not reproached. Our officer, a 
 joMJ-lieutenant, has fallen before a shell; but so deathlike 
 is it in those solitudes along the front, that even a passing 
 soul is challenged without a word ! We are entitled to rest 
 until mid-day on the day following. This is a supreme 
 concession, considering the offense, but Captain Niclausse 
 is a humane animal at heart. 
 
 When the rain is through, we are through with our 
 sleeping too. We are re-sent to the boyau and there re- 
 make the chiselled walls of the trench. On the 7th we grad- 
 uate into stevedores again. From grave-diggers to pack-ani- 
 mals, and back again, and back again ! Oh, it is patriotic, 
 it is inspiring war-work, I tell you ! 
 
 We shoulder crates and boxes of explosives— grenades, 
 crapouillots, torpilles. A thousand and one small biff -bangs, 
 any one of which is calculated to blow you off the side of 
 the earth with less effort than it takes to breathe. 
 
 Excited? Not we— we drudge ! We feel as if we could 
 welcome some such nerveless exeunt, with each straining 
 
76 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 load upon the back. But labour begets its reward. Every 
 detail arranged, France is ready to launch her grand attack ! 
 
 The schedule calls for oifensive work on the 9th. The 
 weather plays in with us and clears, leaving an open sky and 
 a warm and brilliant day. Our blankets are stored back in 
 Ecoivres, and all extra clothing wrapped individually and 
 stored away, labelled, in the company wagons. 
 
 The Classe 1915 is composed of rather young boys. They 
 are new to the game. The balance of the troops of the 
 "Division de Fer de Toul" are seasoned veterans by this 
 time — old-timers, and copains et 'frangins. 
 
 At this time, just on the eve of the Allied offensive, with 
 the air tense and every muscle of every participant on the 
 qui vive, I come to know a soldier, who, by his utter lack 
 of imagination, earns the sobriquet of "La Terreur." He 
 is a tall, gaunt Parisian — extremely tall and extremely 
 gaunt, who hails from the Villette.* 
 
 He has few friends though his sense of humour is ex- 
 orbitant, few admirers though his bravery is conspicuous, 
 few enemies though his tongue is a whip-lash. He is gen- 
 erally accepted as one of the "loaftingue dingo" — that is, 
 crazy nuts — if not their star performer; and hesitates be- 
 fore neither love of God nor fear of the devil to perform 
 what he will, how he will when he will. 
 
 "La-Terreur" towers over the trenches so his head is 
 constantly in danger, yet some potent force pulls him 
 through scatheless. We are thrown, from this day of May 
 9th onward in Arras, Champagne and the Vosges, to- 
 gether like two copains, though we never become them. It 
 is as strange to be copain with this man as to be bed-fellow 
 with a lizard. Not that he is slippery or unclean — he is 
 one of the cleanest men in the company — but because of his 
 queer hare-brained ways, or, rather, his absolute lack of 
 imagination, which is sensibility or soul. He is not an 
 automaton — he thinks! He is not an andouille — ^he is 
 
 *A faubourg of Paris where the slaughter houses are, conse- 
 quently a rough district and one which breeds the type of citi- 
 zen known as the French Apache. 
 
ARRAS ^^ 
 
 clever ! He should be an officer, but is not ! Where to de- 
 fine him, to classify him, or how, is beyond me. I am in- 
 terested, and absorbed — ^but not feelingly drawn toward 
 him. There are men who have to owe their lives to him, 
 but in this he is not even concerned. He owns no emotion ; 
 lacks any sentiment. "La-Terreur" will be an interesting 
 character in the history of the Iron Division, I feel sure. 
 
 The Battle of La Targette and NeuvUle St. Vaast 
 
 On the 8th of May in the year 191 5, our captain and com- 
 manding officer. Papa Niclausse, a strict but kindhearted 
 man who is an officer of the active army — ^not reserve — and, 
 therefore, more to be relied on, gathers us together with 
 strict injunctions regarding the honour of our company 
 and the corps, but particularly the patrie. 
 
 "See here," he says, "we are leaving for death or glory. 
 If there is a man among you cowardly enough to hesitate let 
 the poltroon be struck down ere he corrupt the name of the 
 Iron Division! France's noble sons must rally to the 
 flag. 'On les cmra — les boches!' " 
 
 These are solemn words, but inspiring. A cheer breaks 
 out among the men, who cannot contain themselves : 
 
 "On les aura — les boches!" 
 
 We get them, then! Forward! 
 
 We leave Ecoivres and come up to the first-line trenches 
 by ten o'clock. The men on duty there are thus relieved and 
 repair back to the base for rest and quiet. We are the at- 
 tacking troops. My blood stirs. We face the first of our 
 exaggerated hardships by sleeping on the damp soil. 
 
 I awaken at three, just before the light of dawn, chilled 
 to the marrow, volunteer for the ravitaUlement, and go 
 back to Ecoivres for food. 
 
 The bombardment, preluding the attack, has already corn- 
 menced. The heavy guns are in action. We gather their 
 rumble and detonation passing the Bois d'Ecoivres, and 
 the reverberations roll 'round and 'round, resounding 
 through the village and behind the prairie, over to the hills. 
 
78 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 It is the 9th of May. Five o'clock has already struck of 
 this mad morning. What will be the evening? Who will 
 be dead? Who alive? This copain — this companion at 
 my side — will he live, breathe, drink, eat and sleep, or will 
 his carcass rot, bleeding with the elements that cry out for 
 God and are echoed with Hell's mockery? Shall I walk 
 or shall I — lie ? And will others walk with me ? And, if so, 
 to what? To where? Who is opposing this? God? So 
 these poor hoches claim, as sincere in their convictions, 
 no doubt, as we. 
 
 Well, we will murder them. And they — ^they will mur- 
 der us. And so the carnage begins one hour after we are 
 back again. The cannonading at this time has risen into 
 cataclysm. Shrill shells are screaming overhead, ploughing 
 lanes through the sky in which the air whistles and breaks. 
 Crapouillots and torpUles wing over, fully visible. 
 
 The 75s are close behind us. The voice of these is clear 
 — like a bark, and dry. The 90mm. are behind them, and 
 the 240s ranging far, far back, in the Bois, and grumbling 
 fearsomely. It is peculiar with this thunder. The rocking 
 of the earth seems in conjunction with it; therefore if I 
 close my eyes, I am on a ship, and the ship is swinging, 
 lurching — the waves smashing, tumbling us loosely like on 
 top of the crest of a spurting volcano. Deep growls issue 
 out of the ground. Wild heaves come imaginary from un- 
 derfoot. The air tears. The sky sobs. Things rock and 
 heave, and the heavens belch. 
 
 My company is eating with the usual ravenous appetite. 
 We have canned' beef — boite de singe, and bricheton,* and 
 a good round ration of pinardf and gnole,^ especially so 
 much of the last that every one grows warm and happy. 
 
 "What is the good of war if one cannot drink all thej^ 
 .want?" shouts "La-Terreur," gulping whole draughts of A 
 superior quality that he bought from some vintegeurs in 
 Ecoivres. It is a luscious stuff and he gives me just a swal- 
 
 *Bread. 
 
 tWine. 
 
 JBrandy. Slang for brandy. 
 
ARRAS 79 
 
 low. He has paid large money for it and reserved it for the 
 last. 
 
 "Who knows — ^you may be dead to-morrow!" 
 
 It is always you, not him, with "La-Terreur." "You can 
 take a little, but if it is a lot, I will kill you !" 
 
 We share our pinard more or less in common, taking 
 it all out of the canteens to lighten the load, dividing the 
 "iiotte"* instead. After this is drunk, Captain Niclausse 
 comes around with more of it. Strong stuff, this, 
 of the officers'. 5'oMJ-lieutenant Lacaverne sends a 
 quantity down the line. We grow hilarious — excited. We 
 long for action — to rise to the attack. The shells crash and 
 rumble, churn up earth and bury themselves over the way in 
 Fritz's dugout. Strange noises commence to issue from the 
 trenches. Orders come briskly. The rifles snap out bullets. 
 The eyes at the creneaux are commencing to blur and 
 tongues to loosen. 
 
 "If we do not go now," says Parisot, "they might as well 
 call it off. MUle diables! I could kill fifty boches!" 
 
 "You ? You could kill none !" laughs Felize. 
 
 "I show you!" 
 
 "Where is your fusil?" 
 
 Parisot raises it from the parados, where it has been lean- 
 ing. The clay from the Boyau d'Evacuation caked in here 
 pretty badly and the culasse f is jammed. 
 
 "Why don't you look after your rifle ? If cabot sees that, 
 he gives you h !" 
 
 Parisot examines it half-drunkenly, trying to manage his 
 fingers to clean it out. He mutters: "Who cares about 
 cabot; he is nothing — is nothing. I get those boches. I 
 show you — you watch." 
 
 Felize is laughing in a slobbery manner and begging the 
 Parisian for more wine. "La-Terreur" gulps deeply, his 
 eyes widening. He holds the bottle high to drain every 
 drop. 
 
 Ping— crrrrack ! 
 
 tBreerfi-block. 
 
8o THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 The glass flies into smithereens, splintering all over him. 
 Several of the poilus drop down on the trench floor 
 laughing. 
 
 "Stick your head over, it goes the same !" snorts Parisot. 
 He can scarce be heard with the din that is boiling. 
 
 I am swimming around in my head. Unreal is the talk — 
 sight — clamour. These lines of soldiers fingering their 
 guns — those laughing few, who are reeling and demanding 
 action. The noise grows more furious — my head rebels — 
 throbs. I am myself longing for some action. Anything — 
 occurrence — movement! Will we never start? The com- 
 mand 
 
 The sun draws up, hovering, spreading. Deep beams 
 strike against the land — glint the metal. Everything sparks 
 and snaps before my eyes. I feel bouyed up. I am very 
 strong — superhuman 1 I can carry the whole works. Noth- 
 ing can stand before me. No German can live! I can 
 break him with my hands — ^he cannot stop me ! Action — ac- 
 tion 
 
 The sun glares, flooding with exaggerated warmth the 
 whole tense inferno. It steams underneath. Red, heating 
 breezes, and a flash of gold, pass over the sky. "La-Ter- 
 reur's" swollen eyes are belching coals — his face ruddying. 
 He breathes by gulps. The trench is hot with fumes. 
 Alcohol deadens as it starts to life. Our sensibilities are 
 dull-edged, but the thought is keen — we must attack ! Kill ! 
 KILL! Stab — blow the brains out — murder — red 
 
 On the right is the ist Regiment of the "Legion 
 Etrangers,"* the Zouaves and the Moroccan Division. On 
 our left the i ith Division of Nancy. Our own breasts form 
 the centre and heaviest attacking column. Before us is 
 the village of La Targette — our first objective. By heavy 
 storm, which is direct assault — hand to hand conflict — we 
 expect to gain this. 
 
 By nine the captain has distributed to each man a cigar. 
 
 "Face Fritz, mes enfants, with a cigar in the mouth. It 
 lends courage," he says. "Likewise we show them we 
 
 *Fb"rdgn Legion. 
 
ARRAS 8i 
 
 don't care — not one of us, for his d d marmites!" 
 
 More pinard, more eau de vie.* The head is swimming 
 — the heart swelling! 
 
 The captain's voice again, ringing, clear: 
 "Huitieme Companie, sac au dos, bayonetfe au canon, et 
 suivez derriere mot!" "f 
 
 At this instant I feel a peculiar shudder pags all over my 
 body. It ripples down my spine, catching me by the throat, 
 stifling my breath ! A moment my heart lurches, clutches — 
 I tremble like a leaf. My hands juggle the rifle. I am 
 afraid they will drop it. Every muscle relaxes — every nerve 
 sings. My head grows hot — seems bursting! On — on to 
 that inferno ? Shells bursting in the parapet shower a litter 
 of dirt and debris over us all. Men are screaming — ^moan- 
 ing. On — on into that? 
 "Suivez — moi !" 
 
 Captain Niclausse is leading on before us — into the little 
 tunnel under the entanglements which leads to the Parallele 
 du Depart. The men follow after — at his heels. My turn ! 
 I draw breath — plunge ahead, men crowding behind me. 
 Wooden ladders are placed against the parapet of the 
 Parallele every ten or fifteen metres. We surge through, 
 down the temporary trench, and are ready to advance. At 
 nine-fifteen comes the order: 
 "En avant, mes enfants — c'est pour la France!" % 
 The scene is indescribable. It becomes grandiose. Ac- 
 tion takes the place of morbidity. We spring up the lad- 
 ders — but they are too slow. The blood boils — demands in- 
 stant, clamorous energy ! Those on top reach down, clutch- 
 ing the hands of those below — dragging them up by main 
 force — setting them on their feet entre les lignes. The 
 whole company goes over in one scramble — ^up — up, mes 
 CO pains! That scene has acted like a stimulant on my spirit 
 — I become inspired ! 
 
 ♦Brandy. 
 
 t Eighth Company, knapsack to shoulder, bayonet to nfle, and 
 follow behind me. 
 tForward, my children— it is for France! 
 
82 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Over the parapet we are in a clover field. Sweet, dew- 
 crested clover, the scene of bloodshed! One hundred and 
 fifty metres beyond lie the German lines — we have three 
 advances to make of fifty metres each, orders being to 
 flatten down between each advance. The machine-guns 
 spitting at us can rake us down with each step. We are to 
 cross as rapidly as possible — ^not running — but walking at 
 a brisk pace, keeping a straight line, and lying down, and 
 rising and advancing and lying down again. 
 
 Once outside the trench the bullets commence to whistle. 
 Mitrailleuses start a steady thrum, pouring flaming lead in 
 our way — the rifles of the enemy come into action. I start 
 across the clover-patch, with the spouting jets across as a 
 guide. Our artillery leaves off its close curtain and throws 
 a barrage on the second-line Teuton reserves. The noise is 
 deafening. A screaming shell comes close — is gone! 
 
 The little caporol of my escouade pitches forward. 
 
 "Oooh! I am touched!" he shrieks. 
 
 Twenty-five metres — and he is gone ! Cabot — ^gone ! 
 
 We advance thirty more. Flat — everybody ! Not a word 
 is spoken — everybody like an automaton — every one flat! 
 Every one, that is, but — "La-Terreur." He stays upright — 
 he kneels. 
 
 The captain shouts over: "Espece d'Abruti! Tu va te 
 faire bouzHler comme un fou!"* 
 
 He replies: "I cannot lie down because I lost the cork 
 of my canteen and it is full of pinard!" 
 
 I hear him over the din, and he says : "Americain, sup- 
 posing we empty it. God knows, you may be killed by the 
 boches!" 
 
 I, of course, not he. That is his philosophy. But I take 
 him good-naturedly and drink the wine. 
 
 Up we are again — ^up and loping across the field — an- 
 other fifty metres. 
 
 "Ah, God!" shouts a man on the right. The machine- 
 guns get him. He spins, his rifle flying wide and nearly 
 
 ♦Can't you lie down like everybody? You will get killed like 
 a fooll 
 
ARRAS 83 
 
 levelling another man, before he pitches headlong and we 
 leave him — lying flat! 
 
 We are across the stretch. A young voice says : "Help ! 
 I am wounded!" Then cries out, sobbing — ^lying there 
 and sobbing. It is a boy — one of the Classe 15. 
 
 "Where are you wounded, my lad?" 
 
 "In the back. Oh, help me \" 
 
 "I cannot," I reply. "Stay where you are. If you move, 
 you di^!" The mitrailleuses are thundering. If I move a 
 finger, they have me ! Planque ta trogne!* As soon as we 
 are in the German trenches the machine-guns will be si- 
 lenced, then if you can walk, go back and save your life." 
 
 No sooner said, these words, when he moans. 
 
 "Oh," he says, writhing up on his elbows, stretching up 
 his head as if he were in the greatest agony, "oh, I suffer," 
 sobbingly, "I suffer so ; I cannot stand it. Oh, good-bye, I 
 have to die!" His voice chokes. A shriek pierces the 
 morning air — he drops flat. A bullet has caught him in the 
 brain. 
 
 There are moans and screams now on every hand — with 
 each flash of the rifles. We scramble up — advance. The 
 commandant (major) goes out — the capitavne falls, badly 
 wounded. We advance farther. Men are staggering — 
 reeling everywhere. . . . One machine-gun battery is still 
 in action — directly ahead; all the others silenced by our 
 artillery. An order comes over from the left : 
 
 "The last half-section to the right, advance through the 
 wire and silence that gun !" 
 
 The last half-section includes Parisot, Felize, "La-Ter- 
 reur" and myself. We plunge ahead with the sergeant be- 
 fore us. He drops like a stone, head foremost. We go over 
 him like beasts enraged, wild to tear through — ^blood-lust 
 on us all ! The entanglements are twisted and partly shat- 
 tered from our batteries. We smash and hack our way 
 through, tearing what is left with the butt end of our fusils. 
 My falsard is torn — our capotes — Parisot hacking and curs- 
 ing. 
 ♦Down with your head. 
 
84 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Bande de vachest" he yells. "Bande de vaches!"* 
 
 We drop into the German trenches, "La-Terreur" in the 
 lead — I second. Parisot is following so close, his body is 
 rubbing against mine. A pare eclats f interrupts the trench 
 at this point, closing us off from view of the machine-gun 
 outfit on the opposite side. In this way we are upon them 
 before they are aware. Dead bodies sling across the para- 
 dos. Lying in pools of blood and water, ghastly heads and 
 arms stumped off at the elbows and wrists, confront us. The 
 legs of a maccoheX reach straight up from the waist as he 
 lies half-buried in clay, balanced in upright position by a 
 shovel. "La-Terreur" strikes against this shovel. Imme- 
 diately there is an explosion followed by tons of earth, it 
 seems, crumbling on our heads ! 
 
 "Diahle! A death-trap!" he exclaims, springing back. 
 "The boches have connected this up with wires !" 
 
 Over the broken bodies we clamber — straight into the 
 face of the defenders. Three are left, manning the mitrail- 
 leuse. They throw up their hands. 
 
 "Kamarades Franzose!" 
 
 The appeal comes too late. Until the very moment that 
 we emerged from the pare eclats, the machine-gun was 
 still spitting fire and destruction into the heart of our 
 troops. 
 
 "La-Terreur" roars: "Au diahle!" — jamming his bay- 
 onet through the belly of the first. A long, deep groan issues 
 from him; he puts his hands to the hilt where it connects 
 with the rifle, and sinks, his eyes bulging. Fearful sight ! 
 
 I turn to the centre one. He wears eye-glasses, and his 
 face is rotund and red. I bring my rifle down across his 
 head with force and a long spurt of blood shoots out and 
 up in the air ! The crunching impact leaves me weak, and 
 sickened with fear. I back up — ^there is an overpowering 
 desire to flee — ^panic — ^but Parisot is behind me, shoving for- 
 
 *Herd of cows! 
 
 tCircular, indented parapet every few metres in a front-line 
 trench. 
 I Dead man. 
 
ARRAS 8s 
 
 ward — yelling like a demon! He brings his gun to his 
 shoulder and fires with accuracy directly into the huge, 
 gasping mouth of the third German, blowing the top of his 
 head c|ean oflf ! 
 
 We leap to positions in the trenches that are built up 
 with sand-bags and signal the company, spread out flat on 
 the field, to advance. They come on with a roar! "La- 
 Terreur^" meanwhile, discovers a packet of cigarettes and 
 some matches on a shelf and adopts both. 
 
 "Fritz is not such a bad fellow," he says coolly, light- 
 ing a seche, and offering one to me, "he leaves us a smoke." 
 The trench seems to be in our hands in this sector and our 
 artillery is preparing the way further ahead. The sous- 
 lieutenant comes over with a rush, a rifle in his hands like 
 any poilu. 
 
 "Boys," he pants, "let us go on to the village." 
 
 The village is only twenty metres away. We are after 
 him toe-to-heel. The entire company streams behind, anx- 
 ious for further fighting. The trench is running parallel to 
 the highway connecting Arras and Bethune and leading into 
 La Targette. Already littered with the bodies of dead 
 hoches, slaughtered by the inferno of shells, we leap the 
 parados and fall literally in their midst. Such a havoc — 
 such a butchery — such a stench! The whole village reeks 
 with blood. The ill-paved streets are slippery under the 
 bright light, and huddled masses attest the zeal of the 240s. 
 Here a soldier without a head — here head without torso. 
 Rifles — grenades — lie everywhere, splintered, driven into the 
 mud. 
 
 We come at it hand-to-hand with the survivors! They 
 are brawny, muscular fellows, with spiked helmets and 
 fierce countenances. They know no quarter — receive none. 
 Our grenades are useless. Too slow. We throw them 
 away — ^attack the houses — nests of snipers! — ^batter in the 
 doors with the butts of our fusils! They go down with 
 a crash, resounding, a cloud of dust rising — swearing voices 
 
 curse us into h , hurling epithets indescribable to the 
 
 tongue ! 
 
86 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 There is a whistle beside my ear, and I duck in time to 
 avoid a flare of bullets from the roof of the house adjoin- 
 ing — a tile-roofed, squat abode. The snipers have smashed 
 off parts of these and are firing through. 
 
 "We get them!" shouts Parisot, leading. We scramble 
 up the steps and hammer the door. Across the street is 
 another rifle contingent blazing at us. It is a race vi^ith 
 death. Either we get in, or are murdered outside ! 
 
 "Dieu!" A buUet takes the skin off my copain's third 
 finger, leaving it streaming with blood. "I get them for 
 that !" he shrieks, battering with all his strength. The door 
 gives in! We leap up the stairs, into the muzzles of five 
 long Mausers! 
 
 Ping — Tzing 1 
 
 They go off with a crash and the floor seems to come 
 up ! Parisot is lying on top of me, and we are unhurt. A 
 form leaps over — tall, ungainly, followed by others, coming 
 in at our door, firing as good as they get from the quartet 
 upstairs. "La-Terreur" kneels on the stairs directly before 
 us and is peppering the Germans with a hail of lead as they 
 retreat from the stair-top. Back — ^back — ^they are backing 
 up; and now, reinforced, we start in pursuit, pouring in 
 slugs all the way. 
 
 A regular abattoir greets us on the stair-top. Three of 
 the hoches are lying, soaking in blood. The fourth crouches 
 in a comer, his hands over his face. 
 
 "Kamerades Franzose!" says a voice coming from be- 
 hind us. We whirl around. A handsome German officer 
 steps from a closet, helmet in hand. 
 
 "Je vais fen f outre, sale vache!" shouts "La-Terreur," 
 blinded by madness, stabbing at him with his bayonet. The 
 officer goes down with a smash, clear over the railing of 
 the stairs, eighteen feet to the floor below. He lies tihere 
 huddled and inert. We strike out right and left as other 
 skulking forms appear, everybody seeking for mercy — no- 
 body getting any. 
 
 We are half-crazed with lust — like demons, killing to kill, 
 fighting to fight! I fire into the chest of the German op- 
 
ARRAS 87 
 
 posite, crouched in the corner, and he gurgles and rises 
 to his feet, reeling. Felize finishes him ! We have cleaned 
 up that rendezvous of wrath then. No single live enemy 
 remains. Outside the artillery duel is increasing. The 
 house rocks. Jar follows crashes that tilt us over and seem 
 to raise us and set us upright again. The thunder strikes 
 close, rolls and splinters the ear-drums, falls away into si- 
 lence — breaks again with a clashing noise outside — redou- 
 bles, flares louder forth — detonates ! 
 
 "La-Terreur," Parisot and Felize start for the street, 
 shouting. I attach a small red flag to my bayonet, climb 
 to the roof and wave it high overhead. When it has flut- 
 tered for full a minute, I hoist it down, return to that upper 
 abattoir, and pick my way between those rigid corpses that 
 so lately were coursing, vibrating men! Ah, me! What 
 desolate spectacle is this! A humped-up form deploys 
 across the stair-top, his head cast over on his breast, his 
 tw6 hands together in the attitude of prayer. I knock 
 against the supplicant, so something drops and rolls, rattling 
 from step to step the full flight down, and landing with a 
 circular spin beside the body of the officer. I stoop and 
 pick this up — a miniature ! JBloody, soot-begrimed — I wipe 
 over the face with my thumb and bring to light an image 
 framed in curls twisting with blond delicacy about the ex- 
 quisite forehead. A gentle oval-faced child with the Dres- 
 den-blue eyes of a Teuton. 
 
 By eleven o'clock the village of La Targette is ours ! 
 
 The cannonading leaves off — is directed toward La Folie. 
 The hoches, however, return our earlier salutation from 
 further off with redoubled vigour ere long, splitting the air 
 with screech-shells. 
 
 I turn into the street, the bayonet and lower half of my 
 rifle dripping red gore, and face "La-Terreur" with the 
 visage of an Indian! The entire front of him is streaked 
 with paint — no, blood ! his hair matted to his forehead, his 
 eyes blazing like a fiend. 
 
 "En nom De, what a countenance you wear !" I cry, aston- 
 ished. 
 
88 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Ah— ah, that is good! You should see yourself," he 
 rejoins. 
 
 Am I, indeed, such a monster? Mercy-God, pray for 
 us! 
 
 The JOMJ-Iieutenant and many members of our company 
 are crouching alongside a wall. We turn the corner of 
 the house to rejoin them when a giant shell explodes, hurl- 
 ing us flat on our faces with the force of an avalanche. The 
 whole company goes down. I am stunned for some min- 
 utes with showers of glass raining around and a swarm of 
 rifle-bullets swimming over. We cannot discover from 
 whence these are issuing. The .yoMJ-Heutenant clambers to 
 his feet. 
 
 "Come, boys," he says, "the day is not yet finished. We 
 have our first objective, but let us go ahead." 
 
 Every one is in that exalted state of mind — or depth of 
 blood-lust — they would go to the ends of earth with less 
 provocation ! 
 
 We cross the garden on a lope, leap into a communica- 
 tion trench marked with German script on a small board; 
 "SUEZ CANAL," and start a violent rifle fire toward our 
 enemies, who are returning the compliment with machine- 
 gun batteries advantageously placed. Our mortality is high. 
 This duel keeps up for a half hour. 
 
 "Take shelter, one by one, behind that meule de paille* 
 Easy now." These orders from the ^OMJ-lieutenant. 
 
 The "meule" is twenty metres ahead. We leave the 
 trench singly, crouching low to advance to the safety of- 
 fered. The German machines are directed right into the 
 heap, but the bullets do not pass through. They sing continu- 
 ously like a bee-hive. The duel keeps up at this vantage. 
 
 "Let them have it," instructs our one officer. 
 
 We are in a peculiar position now. We cannot advance 
 directly — we cannot retreat. On one side is a narrow coun- 
 try road dividing our position from an orchard ruddy with 
 bloom. The trees are not all intact. Bullets and spraying 
 shrapnel have made a havoc here. The boughs droop in 
 
 *Straw-heap. 
 
ARRAS 89 
 
 places disconsolately. It aflfords good shelter, however. 
 We point this out to the lieutenant. 
 
 "Eh bien, we make for that," he says. "Get ahead, a few 
 of you, on your hands and knees. See if you make it in 
 safety." 
 
 With the roar of cannons in our ears, we start across. 
 Wriggling at times on our stomachs like snakes, flattening 
 to avoid a rafale, we make the road and dodge behind in- 
 tervening trees. A perfect crash of bullets greets this es- 
 cape. We draw on their fire as much as possible to give our 
 comrades a chance to negotiate the pass. It is cleverly done. 
 We have only two men slightly wounded. 
 
 Overhead the trees are clustered with sweet-smelling 
 buds. It is May-time — Springtime. Oh, the glory of that 
 landscape and the havoc of it all! On swaying boughs 
 bright song-birds are twittering — ^giving up their throaty 
 melody between war's cadenza. Caring not a whit for shot 
 or shell, oblivious of lightnings or thunder — man-made! — 
 their mating songs fill, like nectar the throat of an exquisite, 
 the air of Arras. 
 
 With every burst of the machine-guns now our number 
 is steadily diminishing. Bodies of comrades, torn and 
 broken, commence to litter the ground. Sights and sounds 
 alike become insupportable. 
 
 "Away, ye nestlings!" I shout — around me the sobs and 
 moans of the suffering men. They are struggling up to their 
 feet, numbers of them, clutching at branches and^buds in 
 dying agony, straining at roots. "For shame! Strangle 
 your songs!" 
 
 I refer to the birds. The men are lying like so much 
 grain done up in sacks in the orchard. Heart-rending, these 
 piercing shrieks of the helpless ! The duel goes on. I snipe 
 at an insolent boche scanning us openly over the face of the 
 reserve parapet, and he goes up with a leap, dropping flat. 
 Half a hundred bullets go smashing into his form before 
 it is prone. We leap from tree to tree, sniping as we go, 
 crossing the orchard. The day has waned to twq o'clock and 
 
go THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 no mouthful of food has gone between our lips since early 
 dawn. Do we think of that? Our sous-lieutenant is down 
 with a bullet in his thigh. No ofHcer left to command? 
 Each man is on his own now. 
 
 A heavy barrage comes over from the enemy's side. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching — ching — whrroarrr! 
 
 It strikes two metres over, exploding with the sound of 
 a spinning saucepan, jarring us all and rocking our heads 
 from side to side. 
 
 "Marmites!" sings out Parisot. He dodges a rain of 
 shrapnel by dashing for cover to another tree. The shrap- 
 nel comes over, bursting like rain ; the place getting hotter 
 and hotter every minute. 
 
 And all the while we are awaiting reinforcements from 
 our own lines that do not arrive. What can be delaying 
 the trench-clearers ? The barrage fire ! That is it — and we 
 are cut off ! Where are my friends ? "La-Terreur" is not in 
 sight. Felize I lost on entering the orchard. Parisot has 
 vanished like a ghost. 
 
 The enemy, heavily reinforced, commences a counter- 
 attack. Our situation is therefore critical — worse: desper- 
 ate ! We dig in with our small tools, opening up a hole large 
 enough to protect our heads. Some are digging, some snip- 
 ing. It is necessary to hold off Fritz. The minutes drone 
 on — hours punctuate with the murderous fire ahead. We 
 can only return at intervals now. The ammunition is giving 
 out. One from another we are borrowing cartouches* I 
 am down to my last round — six, rolled into the magazine. 
 
 What next? 
 
 I am wondering. 
 
 Six o'clock falls. The daylight is waning. Long shadows 
 lower — the firing leaves off, first incessant action and finally 
 even at intervals. In this lull we are suddenly relieved! 
 The men come dodging over across the road and across the 
 orchard, springing nimbly from tree to tree ; and it is a dog- 
 tired, dishevelled, disorganised company they succour. I 
 
 ♦Cartridges. 
 
ARRAS 91 
 
 leave my station without one bullet either through my capote 
 or in my lance-pierre !* 
 
 Parisot joins me, limping near the cross-road. 
 
 "Amoche?" f I question, much concerned. 
 
 "Non. Panouille there, stepped upon my ankle when it 
 was knee-deep in mud. I got it wrenched." He points to 
 the irrepressible "La-Terreur," who turns up at his side. 
 
 "Be glad you do not bouffer le pisenlit par les racines, 
 man frangm!" % retorts the Parisian dryly. 
 
 "See touthibe.% He fixes you up," I advise. 
 
 We start over to the village together. Fragments of our 
 regiment — ^portions reuniting from every company that yet 
 survives — are organising on the cross-road between La Tar- 
 gette and Neuville St. Vaast. It is a costly victory. Every- 
 one looks grave. Who is missing among us ? Only Felize. 
 This will be a blow. I have acquired a deep affection for 
 this boy. We are assigned to different units as a fresh 
 squad of officers comes up to take charge. 
 
 "Brave boys!" comments the commandant, looking us 
 over. "You did well to hold the enemy in check. The 
 counter-attack was especially heavy." 
 
 Where is Felize ? 
 
 "You must have some food," continues the commandant. 
 
 Food? Who has thought of that? And it is now nine 
 at night, and we have not eaten since five. 
 
 I am assigned to the 146th Regiment for the present as 
 soutien de mitrailleur.'^ 
 
 "Good-bye, Parisot," I say. 
 
 "Look at La Targette !" he returns. 
 
 I turn and look. It is in flames ! 
 
 "So is Neuville St. Vaast," says a familiar voice. 
 Felize! 
 
 "Hello, Felize!" I shout. "I thought you were amoche." 
 
 *Rifle. 
 t Wounded ? 
 
 tBe glad you do not eat the salad by the roots, my brother, 
 meaning a buried man. 
 §The doctor. 
 If Assistant machine-gun operator. 
 
92 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "I wish so. I am tired. A bachot* would feel good; 
 but in this hell-burning land one should be glad that he lives, 
 n'est-ce pasf" 
 
 Fclize is getting to be philosopher too. 
 
 The flames mount and crackle like brittle branches, 
 spreading into the sky and illuminating everything with a 
 sanguine brillia:nce. No need for rockets ; Bengal fire fades 
 before such a spectacle. Ashes float along on the breeze 
 and catch in our clothes. Small sparks wing over. The air 
 is dense and acrid with smoke, tangy in our nostrils and 
 biting our throats. It is on two sides now, coiling, sailing 
 heavenward, the long pierces of fire stabbing in between. 
 
 What a sight! What a sight! Is there no shelter 
 here? 
 
 Felize is assigned to the regiment with me, and we are 
 ordered with a machine-gun squad, a half hour later, to the 
 village of Neuville St. Vaast. On nearer approach it is 
 more of a ruin than ever. The boches hold part of it yet, 
 deployed and strongly fortified in a cemetery, from whence 
 they are pouring forth an unearthly rifle-fire through the 
 burning night. 
 
 We circumnavigate this — reach a whole house, and erect a 
 mitrailleuse inside on the first floor. From this elevation 
 it is easy to draw bead on the cemetery position, and we 
 propel a raking fire toward the innocent head-stones, glar- 
 ing white in the light. 
 
 "Tiens! Un traifi de plaisir!"1f shouts Felize, falling flat 
 on his face in the apartment. We all go down, and a 
 whistling shell bursts in the room overhead, tearing out the 
 heart of the furnishings but injuring us not at all. 
 
 Coincidentaily with this, however, a marmite strikes the 
 street below and before, and the fragments come flying up 
 all around us. 
 
 The sergeant of the squad frowns heavily. 
 
 "We had best get out," he says, "else the next one gets us 
 sure." 
 
 *Bed. 
 
 t "Look-out! A pleasure train!" Tlie nickname for a shell. 
 
ARRAS 93 
 
 We shoulder our guns and make haste to evacuate the 
 premises. 
 
 Ah-ching— ching— ching— ching— whrroarr-r! 
 
 The second arrivee catches the house exactly right, split- 
 ting it open in front and hurling pieces of the brick and 
 timbers right and left ! 
 
 We are, however, twenty metres away. In another in- 
 stant, a second shell flinging into it, it bursts into flames, 
 adding smoke to the general cataclysm. 
 
 We repair to the cross-road to report to the officer-in- 
 charge, who is the commandant, and a great-hearted, sym- 
 pathetic man. 
 
 "Lay off," he urges, "the way is thoroughly won. It is 
 one o'clock and you need sleep against to-morrow." 
 
 We are without food. We are without water. We know 
 only we are too tired to acquire either. 
 
 "Dieu! I am tired! J' en ai mare!"* groans Felize, 
 his voice choking a little from sheer fatigue. "Let us 
 stretch ourselves here." 
 
 We do that. Foodless, drinkless, like tired vagabonds — 
 as we are — we lie down on the border of the road to snatch 
 a few hours' rest. The cannonading goes on ; the sauce- 
 pans sing; the flames mount, higher and higher, like Pur- 
 gatory-tongues into eternity; the moon sheds a pale, dis- 
 seminating glow over the head-stones in the St. Vaast ceme- 
 tery, behind which skulks the foe — we sleep the sleep of the 
 exhausted. God watches over His sons! 
 
 All at once 
 
 The table is laid for dinner at home and my wife is 
 coming in with the "gumbo." It is steaming from the tureen 
 and breathing a rich fragrance of minced vegetables all over 
 the room, where sunlight filters in through the windows. 
 On two sides my girls are running, playing a game about 
 the table. I seat myself ; mouth prepared for this fine dish. 
 
 "Here, sit down, you small babies," I say playfully to the 
 girls, and my little one climbs up with great laboriousness 
 to her chair, settling herself and almost dragging off the 
 *I am sick and tired of it. 
 
94 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 table-cloth in the struggle. I have an instant's fear it will 
 up-set— clutch at the table to steady it. It sways — the 
 tureen turns over — my wife springs back — screams: 
 
 "Mon Dieu, Franqois, you are spilling it !" 
 
 The whole thing goes over with a crash ! 
 
 I leap up dazed ! The splinters of a marmite are settling 
 around and a thick cloud rising in the air. 
 
 Holy Mother! That must have been a smash! 
 
 The whole roadway is covered with soldiers lying in the 
 dirt with heads on their knapsacks and still sleeping, only 
 those close up rubbing their eyes and gazing around like me. 
 
 "A close call," ejaculates one, "we have the good God to 
 thank for that." 
 
 "The good Fritz, say rather!" retorts the other dryly. 
 "We better move." 
 
 The picture of my home-life has vanished into the 
 evanescence from which it sprang. I see the dawn is un- 
 folding — a sweet, half-moist breath issuing from her parted 
 lips. The dank poilus, heavy with filth and disreputableness 
 from the trenches, blood-stained and weary-eyed, rise to 
 their knees in a vain effort to shake off the lethargy of 
 nature's demands upon their strength. They have been bat- 
 tling for twenty hours, relaxing for three. Is it any wonder 
 the poor emaciated devils relinquish their couches with re- 
 gret? 
 
 Staggering up finally, they look upon the altered sur- 
 roundings with a lack of understanding. Everything has 
 changed since the previous day. La Targette and Neuville 
 St. Vaast are belching heat and smoke and showing charred 
 skeletons to the awakening day. The heavy artillery on 
 both sides engages with eloquence more terrible by day 
 than night. Roadway, orchard and farm are in a tur- 
 bulent state. Bodies of baches and poilus; lie intermingled 
 attended with horrible significance. . . . The mounds rise 
 like dung-hills and equally odorous. Disgusting. ... I 
 must be out of this — either fight or run ! 
 
 I rouse Felize. 
 
 "Come," I say in a low tone, "it is all very well to stay 
 
ARRAS 95 
 
 with these boys, but I prefer to be with our own regiment. 
 Do you know where they are? Can we find them?" 
 
 "We can try," he responds, as I swing off down the road. 
 "Your as de ccvrreau." And it shows how absent I am in 
 my thought that I have let the knapsack He in the road for 
 the first time since Decize. 
 
 I raise it from the ground. A bullet has perforated the 
 gamdle* right in the place where my head joins on my 
 torso when I am asleep ! Dieu! An inch up or down, and I 
 could march with saints ! My capote is sped through like- 
 wise. 
 
 We start for La Targette, walking briskly, and into a 
 charred village and one heaped with dead men. 
 
 "Carrion !" splutters Felize. "Let us be through this 
 quickly. 
 
 The bodies lie in the open and among tangled ruins — 
 boches and poilus mixed as before, and in some instances 
 almost embracing. Their rifles are broken off short in 
 many cases, showing battering-ram tactics ; in others, large- 
 powered shells have done their work, shattering men and 
 steel with equal candor. The melange is frightful. Shall I 
 ever forget? 
 
 What is this? 
 
 I turn him with my foot — delicately, and shudder back! 
 It is poor Mueller, the Alsatian, whose "Hareng-Saur" in 
 Vlamertinghe nearly jailed us both and won him a sweet- 
 heart. Poor chap— lying on one side of the street with his 
 belly ripped open — his entrails in a pool. 
 
 Sauce-pans are breaking fearfully near. Rifle-bullets, 
 too, are shaving close. For some reason, in that lane of 
 sorrow, they are inconsequential. One grows like that. We 
 proceed to the end of the village, rather staggered with 
 smoke and coughing raspingly. 
 
 "Oosh!" says Felize, jumping — stroking the back of his 
 head, "Une belle m'a rase les tiffes!" f His hand comes 
 back with blood. It has grooved his neck — the bullet tear- 
 
 *Little tin pan for cooking strapped outside the sack. 
 tA ball singed my hair. 
 
g6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 ing away the outer covering of skin. The wound is very 
 slight, but needs washing. 
 
 "You stay here ; I am going over to that farm. I know 
 where there is water and I am going to get it," I tell him, 
 intending to bring over a pail and to dress his wound. 
 
 The farmyard is not many paces removed from the edge 
 of La Targette. Every farmyard has a well. I round the 
 corner of a burned dwelling and come facie to face with a 
 giant boche who is advancing the same as I ! 
 
 Cristi! 
 
 My rifle is in position in an instant and I have it levelled 
 at his breast. 
 
 "Kamerad Franzos," he cries, throwing up his hands, 
 "nicht caput!" Which seems to mean: "Do not kill!" I 
 have no intention of so doing, since he is unarmed. I am 
 sick of slaughter anyhow. 
 
 "What are you doing here ?" I manage. 
 
 He conveys that he was hidden in a cellar during the 
 battle. 
 
 "Any more of you about ?" 
 
 A negative shake of the head. 
 
 "Very well then. Forward march, and point me out a 
 well." 
 
 This he is willing enough to do when he grasps my 
 meaning and a suggestive poke from the rifle. We come 
 upon a crude-fashioned well with a chain and pail to draw 
 up the water. I signal him to lower it and he does so and 
 offers me the brimming bucket. 
 
 "Any poison in that ?" 
 
 For answer he gulps down a quantity. I order him to 
 fill my bidon* and take a deep draught myself, after which 
 we march to the road again, leading into La Targette. 
 My prisoner is as docile as a lamb, but what in thun- 
 der am I going to do with him? I have Felize on my 
 hands, and this German — An officer of the French 
 artillery comes striding along. Will he please see my cap- 
 ture to the rear ? He will. He orders him roundly out of 
 
 *Canteea 
 
ARRAS 97 
 
 sight, and I return to succour Felize, but he has vanished ! 
 Where ? The fire is waxing hot. Marmites are whanging 
 briskly. I come upon a small detachment of troops — not 
 more than a dozen men headed by a sergeant. I wave my 
 hand and advance toward them up the road. A tall form 
 singles from the rest and returns my salutation with glee. 
 "La-Terreur." The big Parisian is more than ordinarily 
 flushed, and it comes out they have been lushing liquor. 
 "Whose house did you ransack ?" 
 
 "Nobody's," he replies. "Fritz wished me some of his 
 beer!" 
 
 Sure enough, they have been treated from German knap- 
 sacks. 
 "Where is the regiment?" 
 
 "Ah, that is it! Where is it? Diable! How rotten, 
 walking among dead ones." 
 Clung ! Whrroarrr ! 
 
 Four of our regiment go down and out right here. 
 "Dead ones, you say?" commences the sergeant, scram- 
 bling up from his hands and knees, 
 
 Whatever was meant to complete his sentence is silenced 
 by the splinter of a marmites striking him in the throat, cut- 
 ting it from ear to ear. 
 
 "Cristi," sputters "La-Terreur," rising at the same time 
 and receiving full in the face a red stream from the ser- 
 geant's gaping wound, "let's get out of this." 
 
 He crawls off into a little gully with me at his heels, 
 spitting and vomiting, and several members of the regiment 
 follow after. Then the German products commence to rain 
 with as little diversity of direction as they have mercy. 
 It becomes a hole of hell. Terror strikes at my throat — 
 that vague fear of apprehension and hysteria; with each 
 crash I become more excited — chaotic — I want to run — I 
 am panting — choking — eyes popping — yes, I want to run — 
 
 ,dash out — away 
 
 I turn to look back of me — to leap out into that field — 
 of death, perhaps. . . . 
 There is a cow grazing gently by the clover, oblivious to 
 
98 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 shot or shell. A cow — fearless — cow — The sense of this 
 brings me back again to sanity. I could laugh aloud — the 
 relief — But, ah God, war is terrible ! 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching — whroarr ! 
 
 I pluck "La-Terreur" : "The village is better than this." 
 
 "Go along to your village," is his uncompromising an- 
 swer. 
 
 I start out. Hands and knees I cut across the road, run- 
 ning with body and head low wherever possible, and flatten- 
 ing or crawling elsewhere. The balance, seeing me over in 
 safety, do likewise. We foregather in the cellar of a ruined 
 house to talk it over. 
 
 "Well, let us go back to Neuville St. Vaast," finally some 
 one suggests. 
 
 We decide on this and start forward. There is a boyau 
 running parallel to the road and not as exposed. We go 
 some distance through this. It is a quagmire of battered 
 men, limbs and torsos, scrap-heaps of humanity more pa- 
 thetic than any painting, more foul than any morass. They 
 lie in exaggerated positions, some grinning at us, some 
 pointing; all knotted up into heaps, and, then again, split 
 into fragments. 
 
 Death — death — death — death ! 
 
 "Do you know where the 156th is?" "La-Terreur" asks 
 an officer, passing through from the other direction. 
 
 "No. But go forward and remain at Neuville St. Vaast. 
 If I need you I will call you out." He turns deliberately 
 and starts back in advance of us. "See here," he shows 
 us a small street running from the end of the boyau to the 
 village itself, "pass this way and take shelter behind that 
 garden wall. You are comparatively safe there. Await my 
 orders." 
 
 We duck low, emerging from the communication trench, 
 and skim up the street like robbers. Behind the wall is a 
 patch of garden and sunshine and peace. It is the loth of 
 May, and a bright, fair nine o'clock. The past twenty- 
 four hours are an eternity of butchery and desolation. Per- 
 haps we can forget it here. But the garden holds the worst 
 
ARRAS 99 
 
 sight of all — a young woman of possibly twenty years, 
 sprawled across the door-sill of a cellar. Her feet are 
 down and her head, twisted to one side, contorted into a 
 shapeless, shameless mass. . . . Her breast . . . clothing 
 ripped and splashed ... a dull sodden spot on the gleaming 
 white . . . 
 
 We set to work with small tools, carving out a grave. It 
 is a rude receptacle . . . wrap her in a blanket — The bul- 
 lets are whistling like pipes of pan. 
 
 What was she doing in that garden? Why alone — de- 
 serted, when the civilian populace long were fled? What 
 lust and degradation had she known at the hands of de- 
 spoilers, this French peasant — war can tell — perhaps; her 
 dumb mouth — never! 
 
 We turn to the other side of the wall. The garden 
 holds charm no longer. The street of the village stretches 
 before us, clogged with bodies. Four bleach in the sun — 
 a hoy-boche, slender and waxen-white, flat on his back, the 
 flies — ^large horse variety — nibbling his face; a huddled, 
 vicious mass, twisted sideways, helmet askew but still 
 clinging to the matted head ; two others side by side, face- 
 down, backs all bloody — poilus. 
 
 The air is thick then — hazy with smoke. Ashes and soot 
 float over us. The houses are burning across the street, 
 short tongues of flame licking their quivering sides. 
 
 We are a hungry lot of bedraggled beggars, the only sign 
 of gratification seeming to come from the totos. Quan- 
 tities of these filthy little vermin have ensconced all over 
 my body — my legs and back swarming with them. They 
 bite peculiarly and the itch spreads like a disease. There 
 is no interrupting it. Every man has it, just the same as he 
 would have cholera or eczema. 
 
 "La-Terreur," rubbing his back against the wall, frowns, 
 drawing in his belt. "We must have something to eat," 
 he complains, "soon, otherwise my back and chest will 
 meet. See here, the house behind us is not razed, what do 
 you say we go in and discover something?" 
 
 I reply : "In it is !" and we start together. Sure enough 
 
loo THE "CHARMEO AMERICAN" 
 
 the house is a bureau of supplies — a Teuton provision depot ; 
 and included in its forage is all and more than sufficient for 
 our needs. This is the place for souvenirs : rifles — Mauser 
 gmm. pattern — ^bayonets, equipment of all kinds, boots, hel- 
 mets, provisions enough for an army! Here are smoked 
 hams, sides of bacon, big German sausages of various 
 calibres, coffee, sugar, biscuits — a. melange of excellent 
 products and provender, and we feast our starved eyes on 
 the whole. 
 
 "La-la, I told you, Fritz is a good fellow," says "La- 
 Terreur," wagging his head. "Look what he has left us." 
 
 We load up our arms to the full and proceed to the 
 street. The whole famished crowd dives in with a whoop, 
 and, regardless of shot and shell, lunches heartily. We open 
 tins with our rosalies, slice up sausage and ham. 
 
 "Coffee," sniffs our compatriot from the Villette. "What 
 is food without drink ? Americain, can you lend a hand for 
 a quart de jus?"* 
 
 "Smash up the beans — there are plenty in that house — 
 and I will draw water," I return. We both go back into the 
 depot, he for his beans, I for a utensil to heat the water. 
 A generous casserole answers the latter purpose well. 
 "Cristi ! What have we here — cigars ?" 
 
 Examination proves they are of the best class, and into 
 the street, among the boys I go, each one of whom is soon 
 puffing a German cigar. The lead is whistling tunefully 
 through the garden, yet despite this and our unhealthy find 
 of a few moments previous, I cross the rancid garden in the 
 direction of the water-well. My Parisian has meanwhile 
 smashed up coffee-beans with the butt-end of his fusil. He 
 deposits these in a big iron pot and in goes my water from 
 the casserole. Now it is up to some one to locate a stove. 
 "La-Terreur" attends to this. 
 
 "La-la, Americain, you are so smart," he chants, taking 
 it from me, starting deliberately across the street to where 
 a house is falling in ruins with the flames still playing about 
 in good earnest. A gray-green form is stretched upon the 
 
 *Cup of coffee. 
 
ARRAS loi 
 
 stoop like a log across andirons. Our Parisian places the 
 pot upon its stomach. The head and feet of the incinerat- 
 ing German are flaring up. Very soon the torso contracts. 
 The coffee boils with a sweet aroma. 
 
 "You see, Fritz is good for anything," explains "La-Ter- 
 reur." "A more useful citizen it would be hard to discover. 
 He provides the coffee and boils the water. It is to the bon 
 Dieu we should recommend him — when we are all through! 
 Jfe^Fritz?" 
 
 The beverage tastes like nectar. We drink and smoke 
 and doze into pastures far away from war and all its 
 gruesome horrors. Again I am at home, and again my 
 children and my wife are around me, and again all is peace 
 and love and tranquillity. And again there is a violent 
 explosion, and cristi ! I am hurled about like dice from a 
 gambler's cup; and what is war if not a dicer's game with 
 the odds all up on death ? 
 
 The second explosion decides us all in a jiffy. We leap 
 up and take stock of this new impending annihilation. It 
 is about three o'clock and the air is jarred with concus- 
 sion after concussion of a harsh, ear-splitting order. Tor- 
 pedoes! Vermouth bottles, as Parisot used to call them 
 in Belgium. Those violent things that burst with more 
 sound than pain, 
 
 I appeal to the caporal : "Can we get out of this ?" 
 
 "Planque ta trogne!"* he shouts suddenly, and both "La- 
 Terreur" and myself lower our heads with a jerk. A 
 "Vermouth" passes over and explodes some metres off 
 so viciously that my ears and throat seem to snap. The 
 pain is at both sides of the head, with dull, stabbing throbs 
 that ache until the eyes water. By and by the film lifts and 
 the pain ceases and a kind of daze succeeds. 
 
 I say: "Thanks, cahot." 
 
 "La-Terreur" sings out: "What is the matter, Fritz? 
 Keep your temper — we don't want it. What's done is done, 
 and the ham can never come back !" 
 
 After the order comes in warning us to be ready for any 
 
 ♦Duck your head. 
 
/ 
 
 I02 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 emergency, half of the boys are sent up to the main road- 
 way, the balance of us to the crossroad. Here is my long- 
 lost Felize, bandaged about the throat but otherwise in his 
 usual downcast spirits. 
 
 "J'en ai mare!"* he says dully. Poilus always have to 
 complain, but they go on all the same. 
 
 "What became of you yesterday?" 
 
 "An officer sent me to the brigade, but when his back was 
 turned I came over here. Je n'ai rien a bouffer." 
 
 Here, then, is the reason for all his disheartenment. 
 
 "Nothing to eat !" 
 
 I dig down into my sack. His eye lightens. 
 
 I give him smoked ham and biscuits and a drink from 
 my bidon. 
 
 "Um, that tastes good," he says of the water, wiping his 
 mouth. The poor fellow — it does my heart good to see 
 him eat. Fasting is poor policy in war. It is always poor 
 policy according to "La-Terreur." 
 
 " II ne faut pas s'en faire !' f That is my motto," he says. 
 "You will be killed just the same !" 
 
 You — not he, as usual ! 
 
 The bombardment of the Teuton batteries grows con- 
 stantly more menacing, and toward five o'clock the great 
 counter-offensive is launched. We are warned of this and 
 posted against a second garden wall, closer to the attackers 
 and in a position to fire against them. Small holes — make- 
 shift creneaux — are drilled every little way. Through these 
 we can shoot and enjoy the luxury of an observation at rare 
 intervals. 
 
 The enemy is advancing from the cemetery of Neuville 
 St. Vaast in dense formation, perfectly visible, but depend- 
 ing upon the shadowing gloom to blanket his actions. 
 
 A shooting tournament begins. It is a pipe to pick them 
 oil. Aim anywhere — ^here, there, in the moving mass — no 
 shot can possibly fare past. What is left from the rifles, 
 
 '''I am sick and tired of it. 
 t Never worry. 
 
ARRAS 103 
 
 the mitrailleuses and 753 mow down; or is it the other 
 way around? Men fly in spasmodic, twitchy fragments in 
 the air. Legs, arms, jolt off and spin up. Mounds com- 
 mence to rise as a quota bowls over, and then the whole 
 thing is exploded with a shell and ground and churned. 
 
 "Gumbo a la Creole!" mutters "La-Terreur." He is 
 grim this time. 
 
 The earth must be a pasture-land of flesh. We can imag- 
 ine the saturation into the soil — crimson clots that migrate 
 to the roots of plants and feed and nourish. Then — ^gen- 
 erations after — ^luscious grapes come up and are pressed 
 and cascade down the throats of people as wine. Wine? 
 Life-blood ! 
 
 After the first great onrushing wave, further advance 
 is checked. The pot simmers down and our rifles leave 
 off. In thirty minutes, but for those scraps before the ceme- 
 tery, no soul would believe a battle had been in progress. 
 
 We retire to our ditch-in-the-road, settle down in silence, 
 and smoke another German cigar before night. Unat- 
 tached, as we are, to this regiment with which we have been 
 fighting, it is not necessary to resume a watch. We lounge 
 about and hum a tune and await the counter-attack. Along 
 about ten it is launched — no different from the first, no 
 more productive of aggressive results. We are in the fire 
 for another hour, shooting through the temporary creneaux 
 of the garden wall, and solidly protected behind. The bom- 
 bardment does not reach us — the rifles cannot. When it 
 simmers down we go back to our ditch and to sleep. 
 
 In the early morning I awaken Felize. I say to him: 
 "Now, come what may, we have to find the regiment, n'est- 
 ce pasf 
 
 "La-Terreur" is on his feet and in accord with us, and 
 away we go to the main road in search of some clue. A 
 cyclist is churning up the dirt, riding hard toward us. Felize 
 intercepts him with an enquiry as to the whereabouts of the 
 iS6th. 
 
 He looks us over, grinning : "Certainement. They are a 
 
I04 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 kilometre back in the 'chemin creux';* but you will have to 
 identify yourselves, and that is a sure thing !" 
 
 The 156th is encamped in a swamp that was property of 
 the baches two days before. It is now the nth of May. But 
 our boys have splendidly accounted for themselves and 
 with little further casualty. Here I find Parisot as opti- 
 mistic as ever, albeit he is dirt-encrusted, and the officer 
 commanding us on the previous day's fighting. 
 
 "Tell me, Parisot," I ask him, "how long is it you are in 
 this hole?" 
 
 "Only since last night. We are herded here like swine 
 and without any food. Brandy is all we have. If you want 
 some, ask cabot there." 
 
 Felize suggests we go farther up to look for an asylum 
 since the space is crowded; and away we go up the hill, 
 four of us — ^to a horrible sight 1 The men of the 3rd Bat- 
 talion are lying on their backs, gazing into the air, their 
 rifles still cocked in their hands — wiped out to a man in 
 one line to a length of 150 metres! Farther down are the 
 baches, equally mowed, but it is with artillery that they 
 have met their end, churned up, irregular and gaping. The 
 bodies are piled one on another to a depth of several feet; 
 cut into several pieces each as clean as a razor-edge. 
 
 Our men of the 3rd must have charged up the hill on 
 the run and been taken on the flank by enemy machine- 
 guns that combed their line with lead. In every instance 
 a small, round, black and bloody hole through the forehead 
 gives evidence of the fiendish aim of the baches. It is the 
 neatest job in slaughter I have seen for many a day. Sim- 
 ply a spraying of the death-engines in the most casual man- 
 ner, and a downright flop of our men. The regiment is, 
 therefore, this much short. 
 
 Felize turns away in horror. "La-Terreur" and I face 
 one another with blanched faces. This spectacle, so far- 
 reaching in its awful immensity — men broken and bled, 
 down with so slight a thing, in many instances, as a rifle- 
 slug, yet eternally done away with, the divine spark extin- 
 *HolIow way. 
 
ARRAS los 
 
 guished — strikes into our very vitals, steeled as we are. 
 We are speechless, but "La-Terreur" marches forward to 
 a guitoune. It is German-made, and, consequently, well- 
 built. They are good constructors as they are excellent 
 cattle. As a fighting unit the Teuton forces cannot be im- 
 proved upon ; but individually — hand to hand — well, it does 
 not take my comment to discover the fact that they are 
 second-class with their enemies. They drive together and 
 fall together ; build together and destroy after pattern and 
 order. 
 
 The guitoune is obstructed with the bodies of German 
 dead — the probable inhabitants. They lay one on another, 
 coming up to the attack, it seems, as each in turn dropped 
 down and out. On top of the heap is a bald-headed, hel- 
 inetless man. His features are Teutonic clearly, heavy neck, 
 clean-shaven jaw. A man of the better class. A man of 
 forty. His belly is ripped open ; his fair face uplifted to the 
 sun, tinged with sadness but without pain, his mild eyes 
 glassy and sinking. Death must have been instantaneous, 
 how otherwise that lack of contortion ? 
 
 Here is a picture of devastation — of war in all its 
 nausea. 
 
 Our Parisian clears away the corpses, tossing them aside 
 like sacks of grain, and with no more compunction, mutter- 
 ing "Sa!" with each one, and "Diahlet" after they fall to 
 the side. 
 
 "There, my fine fellows," he says, finally, wiping his 
 bloody hands on the grass like a butcher, "what gives it 
 now ?" He goes inside but comes out with a fearfully dis- 
 appointed face. "Rien," he mutters, chagrined, as if re- 
 gretting his task. We leave our sacs and our fusUs there, 
 and return to Parisot. 
 
 "What do you eat around here ?" I ask my copain. 
 
 "What do you eat? What you find, my noble friend. 
 What is lying on the ground." 
 
 I shudder. 
 
 "It is not very pleasant, I admit that. But 'a la guerre 
 
io6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 comme a la guerre!'* Open the sacs of a few of our boys 
 and see what there is. Maybe a pretty good ration, if you 
 are lively." 
 
 He evidently refers to the vermin which will get into the 
 azors of the dead. They commence breeding as soon as 
 death sets in, and spread over the whole carcass, eating up 
 the food. 
 
 We are lucky enough to uncover a box of sardines and 
 a pot of jam; also chocolate and a few stale biscuits in this 
 ghoulish work. Not far from the spot is a hogshead with 
 fresh water. We fill our canteens. Returning, Fritz sends 
 over a marmite, which effectually silences an already silent 
 man. But it reads us a warning which is not to be disre- 
 garded. The bombardment is commencing. The guitoune 
 is the best place for us. We crawl around the perished hosts 
 and inside. With shrapnel raining and the fearful death- 
 spectacle outside and before us for company, we dine and 
 wine on sardines and clear, fresh flotte. The panorama 
 should be immorta;lised on some painting. It is a shame with 
 so much woe, that earth must go on indefinitely condemning 
 itself, when a single resolve could absolve the spectre of war 
 forever. Here, the crumpled thousands ; there, in that peace- 
 ful other dream-world of idealism, sunshine, happiness, 
 sweetness and peace. 
 
 I am always thinking these things, and facing the worst 
 side of meij continuously at the same instants. What brutes 
 we become ! 
 
 "Une seche," f says Felize. He lights it and we all smoke 
 — smelling his ! 
 
 In the afternoon the order comes in to change position. 
 We file through a former German boyau clogged with 
 dead, and the stench dreadful, and await further orders 
 for fully two hours. At four o'clock they come in. We 
 move into a half-finished trench and the night drifts down. 
 
 Food arrangements are more convenient for the kitchen 
 staff, but not for us, here than in Belgium. Instead of the 
 
 ♦War is war. 
 f A cigarette. 
 
ARRAS 107 
 
 cooks coming up to our trench, we are forced to go back 
 some distance to the rolling kitchens. Perhaps two miles 
 back, these kitchens are congregated together — thirteen for 
 the regiment — and the ravitaillement, which is the food- 
 squad, goes back and loads up for the balance of the com- 
 rades in each company, lugging the pails and rations for- 
 ward through field-pitfalls, shell-holes and boyaux. The 
 ravitaillement goes by rotation, one man being chosen daily 
 from each escouade, which makes sixteen to a company. 
 
 Our company has at this time only a meagre proportion 
 of its fighting strength, depleted as it is through rigour of 
 battle. It is therefore not necessary to send the full quota. 
 The few return at midnight, having had a great to-do get- 
 ting through, and we eat in the dead of night with the enemy 
 but a short distance away. 
 
 We are not allowed to strike a match. All the same a mi- 
 trailleuse finds us out and murders a fine, young boy. He 
 turns his head in falling ; a cigarette glows between his lips. 
 
 "II grille une seche.* He deserves it," says the caporal. 
 That small point of fire gave a cue to the enemy. 
 
 The ground is the chalky North-of-France soil. Very 
 hard to find comfort in rest on such a soil. However, a line 
 of troops — our first-line — stretching before us, we take no 
 watches, but sleep soundly, every poilu. 
 
 On the 12th of May, with the fair Spring on all sides, 
 we take stock of our surroundings. Our position is very 
 much changed since the preceding night. We are in what 
 is called the "Ouvrages Blames." f Before us lies the "Bois 
 de la Folic" — Hill 140; on our right, now, are La Targette 
 and Neuville St. Vaast, stark, staring, blackened ruins, still 
 rolling smoke ; farther back and slightly left is the Ferme de 
 Berthonval, a farm of generous proportions and former 
 riches. 
 
 Early morning orders effect the completion of our works. 
 The trench is shallow and defies deepening. With small 
 
 ♦He smokes a cigarette, 
 t White Works. 
 
io8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 tools against the chalk-stones, it is very disheartening, but 
 succumbs to patient effort. 
 
 By nine o'clock Parisot ventures, forth with me to scout 
 for water. 
 
 "The Ferme de Berthonvd," he whispers, leading the 
 way out of the boyau. 
 
 We cross a field that is the battle-ground of the Colonials. 
 The Zouave and Moroccan Regiments have been deployed 
 here, and, as in all that grisly campaign, met severe losses. 
 Khaki-clad forms lay strewn about — a death-hush over the 
 whole solemn, sad scene that is unusual at this time of the 
 day. 
 
 "Come, let us get out of it," I murmur. A strange fear 
 clutches at my pulse. No marmites are coming ; not a hint 
 of Fritz. Still — well, the hush sets me tingling. I have that 
 peculiar on-coming hysteria that I have known at various 
 times. Death stalks ! That is it — the spectre of fear and 
 of heroism and destruction. It overburdens me, and I run. 
 Parisot mutters as I stumble on him, but sets up a brisk pace 
 thinking the boches are coming, and so we get over to the 
 Ferme. We have less scruples getting back. Strange. But 
 water is singularly revivifying. 
 
 On the 13th the bombardment increases in volume. We 
 will be called on to stand a lot in the next few days. The 
 sergeant informs me of this. It does not add to my over- 
 burdened nerves, still — action is better than inaction; any- 
 thing in preference to this dull hugging a hole, HUGGING 
 A HOLE! 
 
 Ah ! Great boon ! My turn for the ravitaillement. 
 
 In the night we creep forth — as far back as our old line 
 of trenches, where the kitchens are now stationed. There 
 is not a light in the whole grave scene, and no matches even 
 allowed to be struck. In this gloom, then, we locate our 
 company-kitchen, and meat and vegetables and coffee are 
 dished up to us and poured out in inky darkness. One 
 member of the party hunts up the bread wagon. Ration: 
 one loaf to two men. Another discovers the pinard.* 
 
 *Wine. 
 
ARRAS 
 
 109 
 
 Half-a-litre per man. Gnole * — one litre for sixteen poilus. 
 And so on. The load increases — ^becomes staggering ! The 
 supplements enters at this point ; sardines, chocolate, tobacco ; 
 the letters and packages from "home." In fact, whatever 
 it is that goes up to make the daily menage of a company. 
 
 With noise and jabber and expostulation, regardless of 
 the German bouquets hurtling ever thicker in^our vicinity, 
 the dispensation goes on. The market gives forth its wares 
 — correct proportion to all — and without the gleam of a lan- 
 tern. Remarkable! How now? A large shell, thunder- 
 ing to pieces, urges us to speed up the ravitaUlement. Laden 
 like pack-animals we go out, back to the companies lying 
 there entrenched — ravenous. 
 
 The weather makes a sharp change the morning of the 
 14th, and starts a jetty of rain streaming into our earth- 
 works. The chalky soil gives way to a kind of paste. 
 Smeary and sticky this climbs into our godassesX and 
 clogs up the breech-blocks of the rifles throughout. What 
 a picnic for Fritz! That is — if Fritz knew of it. But 
 he does not, because his own Mauser stock is pro- 
 tected from such conditions. That is where he has it over 
 Lehel. A covering of steel protects the culasse of the 
 Mauser from clogging in just this sort of weather. 
 
 By night we are ordered into the first-line works. Now, 
 here, the same methods of watch and waiting are employed 
 as in Ypres. Bengal rockets go up from both sides. Rifle- 
 courtesies are exchanged. No real damage is done. The 
 eerie, shadowy night carries on with mystic sadness and 
 tense, eager inaction. The 15th passes. The i6th passes. 
 To our left is a steady bombardment. Our sector remains 
 quiet. 
 
 Our company is depleted of officers, never having been 
 re-supplied after the initial gruelling attack when all fell 
 by the wayside. The remaining sergeant therefore is in 
 command up to this point. By nightfall of the i6th a lieu- 
 
 *Brandy. 
 
 t Extra foods. 
 
 tShoes. 
 
no THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 tenant comes over, and it is a poor lot he marshals to the 
 command. Out of 258 men in the original company, 45 are 
 left. What a holocaust ! 
 
 We are immediately ordered to prepare for arduous work, 
 and what this is comes out at about one in the morning. 
 We are to dig a new trench in the fore of our present line 
 and about twenty-five metres nearer the enemy. Twenty- 
 five metres is a long way entre les lignes. This will bring 
 us within talking distance of Fritz and his Mausers. 
 
 "D dirty business!" somebody comments near at 
 
 hand. "You will have your head taken off !" 
 
 It is "La-Terreur," prodding at the wet clay and draw- 
 ing it out with a soft "sough." 
 
 "Miserable poltroon ! I wish he goes to blazes !" 
 
 "Shut up !" says the lieutenant. 
 
 "They shut you up," the Parisian mutters in retort, but 
 not very loud. 
 
 "What is the matter?" I ask him. 
 
 "Nothing. He stole my pinard." 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Felize." 
 
 "I don't believe it!" 
 
 "I did not !" says Felize hotly, under his breath. 
 
 "Shut up !" says the caporal. 
 
 "It leaked out," says Felize. 
 
 "How you know, pied de choux?" flashes "La-Terreur." 
 
 "None of your business !" 
 
 The caporal' s voice comes in now, stern but cautious: 
 "Ferme ton egout ou tu va deMer en tole!"* 
 
 Quiet restores for several moments. 
 
 Then a low-spoken epithet from "La-Terreur." Felize 
 replies to this. 
 
 "See here," says the Parisian roughly, "I give you fair 
 warning now: either you give me the wine in your bidon 
 or you-*-you regret it 1" 
 
 "Mariolle!" f spits out Felize. 
 
 ♦Shut up or you go to prison. 
 tBluffer. 
 
ARRAS III 
 
 I lean over and touch the ci-devant denizen of the Vil- 
 lette on the arm. "Leave him alone, 'La-Terreur.' " 
 
 He flashes up at me and is about to talk, when the lieu- 
 tenant rips out in a tone that will brook no further dis- 
 obedience : "That will do. Now, get to work." 
 
 We go on digging the parallel. 
 
 Later on the Parisian hisses in my ear: "I tell you 
 there is not room for him and me in the same company !" 
 
 I get Felize's ear : "He means to make it unpleasant for 
 you." 
 
 He replies to that: "Never fear. I will make it un- 
 pleasant for him." 
 
 The lieutenant asks for volunteers to go forward on a 
 listening expedition. He thinks he can detect something 
 of the enemy's movements because the quiet is growing 
 ominous. 
 
 "Well, why don't you go, poltroon!" "La-Terreur" hurls 
 at my frangin. 
 
 "Barre tot!"* 
 
 Felize pushes him aside with a grunt and offers himself 
 to the lieutenant. Too late. Eight others have volunteered 
 — myself among them, and two of our number have been 
 chosen. 
 
 "The rest continue the parallel," orders the lieutenant. 
 
 Felize shrugs and returns to his station by the Parisian. 
 Bad blood has surely sprung up between the two, and about 
 nothing ! What evil passions are aroused by war. One has 
 only to see blood to smell it, and smell blood to shed it! 
 That is it — the worst nature is generated in men and 
 catapulted out through the force of battle-lust. I should 
 like to make it up between these two, but that is impos- 
 sible. 
 
 "You better get out of the company," I advise Felize. 
 
 He shrugs again — non-committal. 
 
 The lieutenant and his two volunteers start out stealthily 
 into the night. We see them go— forward — entre les lignes 
 
 ♦Out of my way. 
 
112 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 — crawling hands and knees, growing more indistinct — swal- 
 lowed up in the gloom. 
 
 We dig the parallel. Minutes pass — ten — twenty — 
 thirty 
 
 Three rifle shots ring out in quick succession! Then a 
 scream — long-drawn out. 
 
 We dig the parallel until morning. Daybreak shows us 
 our trench well advanced ; and the rain commences to fall 
 in long, dreary spears. We can work no longer. We can- 
 not go back. We cannot stand upright — it is too shallow in 
 the new parallel. We cannot see our lieutenant or the 
 two volunteers. We can do nothing but lie in clay-mud 
 and water, and hear "La-Terreur" and Felize curse one an- 
 other under their breath and the caporal tell them to "ferme 
 ta boite!"* and the poilus laugh and laugh and grumble. 
 
 Darkness lends its enchantment to our task and the trench 
 is completed. When the day breaks we are through and 
 hungry and the weather is clear. A new lieutenant comes to 
 take command and now we are 43 men. Bombardment 
 advances from the; left. Crashes and belches of mud and 
 smoke float over and stick. In every conceivable niche of 
 our clothes and our flesh is some of the caking stuff. We 
 are sand-crabs in appearance — mud-chickens. It is vile! 
 
 But — the parallel being finished — at least we can rest. So 
 we think! 
 
 Midnight of the i8th. One o'clock. 
 
 "Dig a new trench," orders the new lieutenant. 
 
 Dig a new trench? Dig — a — ^new — trench! No — mille 
 tonnerres! — ^this is a joke ! 
 
 "Come, get started!" orders the new lieutenant. He 
 brooks no nonsense. 
 
 Before the one we made the day before entre les lignes — 
 with the hell-fire bombardment sending sprays of death and 
 exploding things over, we dig a new trench! 
 
 One hundred metres away are the boches. Soon the rain 
 of lead becomes so insistent, we will be, not 43, but 3 of 
 the company left if we persist. No protection, no dull 
 
 *Close his trap. 
 
ARRAS 113 
 
 night even, as the stars are shining brightly ; what, then, will 
 be the result? At this juncture, and simultaneously, as if 
 the same mentation moved us all, we throw aside our picks 
 and refuse to work. 
 
 "Ah, mes enfants," commences the new lieutenant — a 
 diplomatic fellow, "what shall I expect pour la France, cow- 
 ardice from you? I have been told you are the bravest 
 company in the regiment. Here I am with you a matter of 
 only twenty hours and you fail me — utterly." 
 
 He seems really affected. And the poilus are like that — 
 speak harshly to them, order them about, they grumble 
 and groan ; but appeal to their hearts, rouse sentiment for 
 the patrie, you have them like wax. 
 
 We go back to work — with a vim, with vigour ; you would 
 think we are digging just one great grave for our enemies, 
 and to be completed by morning. The lieutenant is pleased 
 and we are promised all sorts of fine suplement. PROM- 
 ISED ! French promises, especially from officers to poilus, 
 are not often fulfilled. 
 
 A quiet morning is the 19th. With less of the marmites 
 and more of the pinard, we are extraordinarily happy. 
 Felize and "La-Terreur" say nothing, but they avoid each 
 other sedulously. The feud keeps up — •silently. It is my 
 turn again for ravitaillement, and an unlucky journey this 
 proves. My constituents — those others of the carrier-ser- 
 vice whose food-time it is — ^have gone forth without my 
 knowledge, and here I am, pledged to navigate that laby- 
 rinth of by-roads, and alone. The night has already fal- 
 len. 
 
 Very soon the sergeant comes over to me and enquires: 
 "Are you not on the ravitaillement?" 
 
 I reply: "Certainement." 
 
 "Well, the boys have gone already." 
 
 "Diable! Why did you not tell me? This is a pretty 
 fix. How am I to know when you do not tell me ?" 
 
 And he assumes it is his fault and replies soothingly: 
 "Never mind, Americain, the boys are not very far. You 
 can catch up with them in a minute." 
 
114 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 I am not so sure, but I start on after them. The night is 
 inky black. Our new position is not over eighty metres re- 
 moved from the 3rd Battalion, that is, what is left of them! 
 but without communicating trenches it makes a hazardous 
 journey before the rifle-barrels of the foe. 
 
 Which way ? That is a question. Our parallel is too new 
 for wire-entanglements as yet. Thus I strike out, without a 
 notion of direction, but assuming I am in the right and will 
 come on the kitchens before long. Everything is still. Not 
 a rifle-shot; not a marmite. Not a breath of Fritz on the 
 balmy air. 
 
 All at once I am grabbed from behind, jerked up and 
 slammed down in a hole ! 
 
 It is so quick, the breath goes out of me completely. 
 What is the meaning of this? A hand is clapped over my 
 mouth. A cold something wiggles at my temple. I am 
 held by the collar in a vise of iron. 
 
 When the breath returns to my body I commence to 
 think. This must be a shell-hole. Who is hiding here? 
 Are they poilus or boches? I assume there are two or more. 
 No one man would have the courage to capture me so 
 abruptly. Where am I ? In exactly what position — before 
 the lines, behind the lines, beside 
 
 A flashing fusee eclairante, lighting the heavens, makes 
 it all clear. I am a prisoner of the Germans! I am entre 
 les lignes, where I marched forth, blithesome and gay, di- 
 rectly into the arms of the enemy, heading for his lines ! It 
 is too astounding ! It would be funny — ^but it is too real. 
 
 A faint, rustling whisper givfes me the clue — it is a paste 
 d'ecoute* I have no weapon to defend myself even if I 
 am inclined to fight, which I am not. We are too pre- 
 cariously located. Either side could rake us down with 
 a volley. Of course it is not to be expected that the Ger- 
 mans will rake their own post, still they might be led to fire. 
 I take stock of my surroundings under the glare of another 
 rocket. We are close to the French parallel in a generous 
 shell-hole protected by sandbags, adopted by the Germans as 
 ♦Listening post. 
 
ARRAS 115 
 
 an advanced point of observation. There are many such 
 between the lines along the whole front. Both sides have 
 them, principally for scouting out the reliefs and move- 
 ments. I have frequently been on listening duty -myself, 
 and it is a hazardous occupation. As a usual thing men are 
 selected who have a knowledge of the enemy tongue. 
 
 I am therefore not surprised when I am addressed in 
 French very cautiously and bidden to lie still. Three cap- 
 tors have me and they rifle my pockets without shame. They 
 take my knife and my pocketbook, my cigarettes and my ci- 
 gars. These latter, by the way, are some of the left-over 
 Germans, so they come back to their rightful owners. I see 
 there is a squad of men doing here what we did the night 
 before — opening a new parallel, and they dig and curse very 
 quietly not ten metres away. The two armies are closely 
 vis-a-vis. I make myself comfortable on a sandbag in the 
 hole. 
 
 Time passes. It registers an eternity. How am I to 
 get away? Visions of prison-camps and poor food and 
 bad treatment flit through my head. We hear such exag- 
 gerated accounts. First one of my captors, and then a 
 second, steps out of the poste, climbing on small steps cut 
 into the wall-face, and crawling quietly to the Teuton 
 trench. One has gone back to report my capture; the 
 other, probably, to warn the parallel-diggers to go about 
 their work more carefully, since our lines are firing rapidly, 
 and I can myself hear the poilus talking about this new 
 activity of "Fritz." 
 
 This is my chance ! The only remaining hoche is stacked 
 up against the wall-face nearest our lines and with his back 
 to me. He is taking in every word of the poilus. His posi- 
 tion remains unmoved ; his eyes fixed. 
 
 "Ah-ha, my fine fellow," I think, "I will keep them fixed 
 for you !" 
 
 I leap at his throat, clutching at the Adam's apple, strang- 
 ling him with as pretty a spring and grip as was ever made, 
 I believe. He gives a gurgling sound ; the apple moves up 
 and down a few times spasmodically ; he fingers his gun. 
 
Ii6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Mille tonnerres! It discharges! 
 
 Now a fine to-do starts along the fronts, rifles blazing, 
 mitrailleuses engaging, rockets flaming in the sky. Both 
 sides are expectant of an attack and we struggle on in the 
 hole. Overhead the bullets spray. 
 
 Whissssst ! 
 
 A Bengal gives me a view of his face, staring, contorted. 
 It is sickening; still I have to get away. If the only way to 
 do it is to choke a man — why choke it is ! 
 
 "That will do for you," I think, throwing him aside, some- 
 what nauseated myself. I peer over the edge. Pyrotechnics 
 make the going unsafe. I will wait a while. After a short 
 time the crackling roars subside and I look out again. Si- 
 lence over "No Man's Land."* 
 
 "Go forth," says a still, small voice within me. 
 
 Up the temporary steps, out of the poste d'ecoute, off on 
 hands and knees I venture. 
 
 Whissssst ! 
 
 Cristi! The hoches have me — flat, flat on the belly! 
 Dragging in my breath, like a drowning man a lifeline, and 
 not daring to stir a hair, though twitching all over, I give 
 them an eternity to withdraw. The clover blooms high in 
 its wilderness profuseness here. I sink in and it is a won- 
 der they can see me at all. Hugging the spongy growth, a 
 Bengal blinks and sinks, and — I am still alive! 
 
 I venture forth again. Another volley! 
 
 "Fout le camp au diable!" f I suggest under my breathy 
 crawling along; but the idea insinuates that it may be 
 French bullets I am dodging. How should my company 
 know? Horizon-blue or grey-green, it is all the same from 
 the lines. 
 
 Rising, crazed all at once, by the peril I am facing, I 
 start off running to our lines. The harder I run the far- 
 ther they seem. My feet are leaden — I cannot lift them. 
 I am panting — gasping ... A whistling lead-slug seems to 
 
 *We call it entre les tignes. I have learned "No Man's Land" 
 from a Canadian trooper. 
 fGo to the devil. 
 
ARRAS 117 
 
 shout in my ear — it deafens me — my eyes become glazed — 
 I hear nothing but thunder — thunder — thunder — ever-in- 
 creasing thunder pounding ... I cannot draw breath— my 
 throat contracts — closes — I choke — stumble — fall ! 
 
 Lying there, everything seems to break in my head . . . 
 hysteria .... my chest clogs — I cannot breathe 
 
 Ah, God! 
 
 After this I grow sane again and I grovel to my hands 
 and knees. Something contacts with my hand in the clover 
 — another hand, a maccahe's . . . — oooh ! 
 
 Again fear clutches me — I quiver and cry, hunched on my 
 knees, finally collapsing and strangling in morbid terror. 
 
 Weakened greatly and unable to stand the strain ... a 
 bright light is coming from nowhere ... I presume I am 
 dead — ^passing into another world . . . All is clear and 
 peaceful — the clover velvety, sough-soughing under-foot. I 
 am walking in Paradise. A faint melody runs over and 
 over, touching a very harmonic tone in minor that tingles 
 and tingles me. Before is a blue river. It runs up to the 
 edge of palisades. I advance to this palisade; it shows a 
 deep cut — hesitate . . . Shall I step in? If I step . . . 
 what . . . 
 
 SANITY ! The trenches before me — not five metres 
 distant, and "Thousand-Eyes," the great French giant, 
 peering through rifle-barrels 
 
 "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! France, do not shoot — I 
 belong to the 8th Company!" 
 
 Leaping forward, I hurl myself over the parapet! 
 
 The fall sends the breath out of me. 
 
 "Diable!" 
 
 "Sacre bleu!" 
 
 "Qu'est-ce que c'est que ga?" 
 
 Epithets come out of several throats simultaneously. A 
 poilu picks up a seche I have knocked out of his hand in 
 the scramble. It is unlit — ^he has been nibbling it. 
 
 Slowly the breath seeps back into me, and I am wringing 
 with perspiration. 
 
Ii8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 A low voice says in a tone of authority: "Who is that 
 poilu? Where the devil does he come from?" 
 
 Gasping, I face the speaker — a sergeant: "Wha — ^what 
 company is this?" I stammer, the water running down my 
 face and back. 
 
 "Dixieme Companie, Troisieme Bataillon,"* he re- 
 sponds. 
 
 "Tenth Company? I belong to the Eighth." 
 
 A lieutenant, hearing the colloquy, carried on in a low 
 tone, advances to the spot. I give him an outline of my ex- 
 perience. 
 
 "Well, so long as you are not hurt," he says, giving me a 
 stiff buckler of brandy, "it's all right. My commissary goes 
 down to the kitchens in a short time. You lay low here, 
 and go along with them then and you find your boys." 
 
 This is easy enough. We come upon them loaded and 
 almost ready to return. 
 
 The caporal says: "What makes you so slow, Ameri- 
 cain?" 
 
 "Slow — I ? Espece d'andouille, next time I will not come 
 at all!" 
 
 ,"Why not?" 
 
 "Because you are a blamed fool !" 
 
 It is, of course, his place, in lieu of the sergeant, to notify 
 the ravitaillement of their duties, and he should have seen 
 that we were all together before starting from the parallel. 
 
 "Well — well, these Yan-kays make peculiar jokes," he 
 tells another member of the corvee.^ 
 
 We drink a qua/rt de pinardX before leaving. There is 
 not much shooting. The hoyaux are choked with water 
 from the previous rains. Observing this, cabot orders us 
 to cross the open field. The soil is wet and slippery and 
 sprinkled with shell-holes, any one of which is enough to 
 stagger a man. A warm wind flutters across the plain at 
 intervals bearing a frightful odor — dead human flesh. Since 
 
 *ioth Company, 3rd Battalion, 
 f Squad. 
 JMeasure of wine. 
 
ARRAS 119 
 
 the battle of May 9th these corpses are rotting on the 
 ground. 
 
 "Marching by one" we proceed up to our lines. The 
 scheme is to call out a low word from man to man to keep 
 in file in the dark. 
 
 "Ca suitr* 
 
 %a suit?" 
 
 "Qa suit?" 
 
 I am carrying two uncovered buckets of coffee. Stepping 
 on to a spongy bog, I jolt my neighbour and he slides. He 
 jolts me and I slide. Headlong I go into a deep shell-hole, 
 kissing a maccabS at the bottom of it, the two coffee-pails 
 going up and the whole lukewarm mess pouring over us ! 
 
 "Tonnerre de Dieu!" 
 
 I crawl froni that hole cursing like a pirate and follow 
 the others, who are privately laughing. 
 
 But it is no laughing matter. The boys at the front are 
 furious. 
 
 "Parbleau! Americain, is that what you come over to 
 France for — to spill the coffee ? You can stay at home !" 
 
 Felize grumbles : "Pfui ! You are a fool !" 
 
 "La-Terreur" growls: "It is a good thing it is not the 
 pinard, otherwise you need not come back at all, Panou- 
 ille!" t 
 
 The whole section is without coffee. But these accidents 
 happen every little while, so, when the kicking is over, all 
 simmers down to its normal state. I am forgiven and the 
 incident forgotten. Poilus have strange temperaments and 
 large hearts. "Nothing lasts for ever," is the motto of the 
 war. We expect the first ten years will be the hardest ! 
 
 On the 20th of May we are relieved by fresh troops and 
 sent back into the third lines, which were our first lines 
 before the attack. Heavy reinforcements come from the 
 depot. Our company ranks are swollen to 180 men (from 
 42). 
 
 Felize, remembering my words on the night of the i6th, 
 
 ♦Everybody here? 
 ♦Stupid. 
 
I20 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 when I advised him to get out of the company owing to 
 the antagonism of the Parisian, takes the place of a cyclist 
 attached to a liaison of the bataillon, who was killed the day 
 previous. Felize, before the occasion of the great war, was 
 a professional cyclist in the Hippodrome. 
 
 "I am sorry to lose you, frangin. Perhaps we shall meet 
 later in the war." 
 
 He responds to this: "We have been good friends. I 
 am sorry to lose you too." 
 
 We go together along the road to Ecoivres. A tauhe is 
 flying in the sky right overhead. Our anti-craft guns are 
 sending up a barrage of fire. We neither of us attach much 
 importance to this, however ; and neither, it seems, does she. 
 Parisot joins us farther on the road. Felize takes him aside 
 to talk. They gesticulate earnestly for a while, when our 
 frangin leaves. Parisot comes back to me rather thought-, 
 ful. 
 
 "He is going on furlough to Epinal," he volunteers. 
 
 I say nothing. But I suspect 
 
 "What is the name of Felize's sister, Parisot ?" I ask him 
 suddenly, determined to talk of anything but war. 
 
 He is very startled. His eyes grow wide and he looks 
 at me with a sort of suspicion. Perhaps, seeming to know 
 my powers of attraction for women owing to that unfor- 
 tunate Juliette incident, I can make him jealous, and this will 
 please Felize. His sister, I remember, is infatuated with this 
 boy. 
 
 "What is her name ?" I persist. 
 
 "You are interested in Felize's sister — pah ! What about 
 the poule* in St. Jean, ay? I did not think you are that 
 kind. He, diable — we shall see. She will prefer me to 
 you." 
 
 "Peut-etre." f 
 
 "Absolument! If you think it is otherwise, you dream!" 
 
 "Come. Let us not quarrel about it. We used to be good 
 friends, Parisot." 
 
 ♦Chicken, meaning girl, 
 f Perhaps. 
 
ARRAS 121 
 
 "Out, Americain, we were," he says, his heart softening. 
 
 But the seed is planted. Perhaps it will take root and 
 furnish a fine love-blossom. Meanwhile — Juliette. I am 
 very sorry for her, but what man is not secretly flattered by 
 a girl's attention? What man would not rather perish than 
 forego even the smallest part of it! — "Une poule," indeed! 
 She is far too serious and refined for that. 
 
 Wheeeeshh ! 
 
 A sound like the flutter of gigantic wings comes through 
 the air ! Something flashes steelly in the wet ground a few 
 metres removed. We are thrown one against the other by 
 an irresistible force, a sudden pressure! Frightful sensa- 
 tion! What is this? We await the calamity, but it does 
 not come. The airplane, hovering in the sky above, is still 
 soaring, circumnavigating into position with wide spirals, 
 and climbing out of range of the anti-aircrafts. 
 
 Luckily the bomb does not explode. Examination proves 
 it is one of the great-size air-torpedoes launched from 
 bomb-chutes by compressed air, and, gathering momentum 
 in the fall, a most deadly and to-be-dreaded artifice of war. 
 
 By eleven that night the Germans start a bombardment 
 of our lines. We are ordered into the first-line trenches 
 again at one-thirty. Daybreak finds us in a newly-dug 
 boyau with fresh clayey earth piled high on both sides. 
 We are, then, reserve; but it is an uncomfortable posi- 
 tion for all that. Shot and shell rain over, but one becomes 
 accustomed to the din — to the infamous cries and sighs 
 and the unsteady flickering of the rockets. 
 
 May 22nd ushers in new hell's deviltry. 
 
 The Battle of the Bois de la Folie 
 
 "Copain," says Parisot, as soon as it is light enough to 
 have a look around, "there are no guitounes here, and the 
 day promises to be a hot one. What do you say, we dig 
 a shelter ? Any hole is better than none and we can expect 
 grave chahut."* 
 
 ♦Trouble. 
 
122 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "You think ? Well, the sun is out already. You may be 
 right ; how do we know how long we will have to stay here 
 — broiling like vermin in a sty." 
 
 "La-Terreur" offers his advice : 
 
 "What's the use ... in an hour we may have to move. 
 The i6oth is going to attack and we are the reserve. You 
 will be killed." 
 
 Neither of us pay the slightest attention, but set to work 
 and hollow out a space just large and deep enough to sit in, 
 but well protected. This takes some time as the passage- 
 way is narrow. We are continually called upon to flatten 
 to one side of the boycm, while the telephonists from the 
 genie* and other small detachments pass or re-pass, ac- 
 cording to their errands. 
 
 By ten in the morning of the 22nd the German dogs-of- 
 war let loose their fury. Thunderous reverberations jar 
 the very teeth in our jaws, and shuddering quivers start 
 to play about my spinal column. It is gruesome, waiting 
 there to be annihilated. We seat ourselves in the cachihi, 
 knees to chins, and snap our teeth in grim fortitude. I am 
 commencing to be less sure of myself instead of more so. 
 This thud — thud — thud unseats the nervous system. Panic 
 rests too uneasily upon my shoulders. What will be the 
 finis? I shall probably be torn to shreds and these hurled 
 on the shaking air like chaff from a flail-rap. 
 
 The offensive is originally planned for one o'clock, but in 
 this bombardment climbing the parapet is impossible. It 
 would be extermination for the i6oth. The shelling in- 
 creases, coming heavier and more terrible from the German 
 batteries hourly. The roar is awe-inspiring. Seated inside 
 the small cachihi, fragments of marmites threaten to ne- 
 gate the work of protection we have so laboriously thrown 
 up. 
 
 Parisot tries holding his sac before the opening and a 
 regular tattoo beats upon his gamelle, the little round tin pan 
 strapped on the outside. 
 
 "Come, with your azor" he urges, and I do likewise. 
 
 ♦Engineer corps. 
 
ARRAS 123 
 
 We are smoking our cigarettes, expectant of death, and the 
 deafening detonations explode the ground and pick us up 
 and seem to shake us like rats. The landscape is being dis- 
 torted with each massive burst. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching — whrrroar ! 
 
 A rain of particles, any one of them mortal, hammers 
 on the gamelles, playing a lively tune — a sort of melody. 
 
 "Le Danse Macabre!" my copam shouts, hilarious in the 
 face of danger. I am wondering how the boys outside can 
 withstand the terrific fusillade. Suddenly a head is poked 
 in beside our knapsacks, and a voice implores : 
 
 "Frangins, could you spare a shelter for a poor perish- 
 ing soul ?" 
 
 Rock — sway . . . Tremblers chatter our teeth while we 
 are anxious to laugh! The face of "La-Terreur," looking 
 in at us, blanched and pleading, is so wide of eye and so 
 grey of lip. 
 
 "If you stay outside, we die, I suppose," I cannot help 
 jibing him. , 
 
 "Norn de Dieu — shelter!" he sobs. 
 
 "You know how we are fixed — scarcely room enough to 
 breathe. Still, put your head in and that will be some- 
 thing." 
 
 "Quite so, brother. Ah, you are indeed good! If I can 
 only protect my syphon* the abatis^ can suffer. A shot or 
 two there would send me to the hospital, which is to be 
 desired." 
 
 C-thung — whrroarr ! Whrrorrr ! ! Whrrroarr — rr ! ! ! 
 
 The end of the world can be no worse than this ! Deto- 
 nation follows detonation ; smash and roar and thunder and 
 jargon of splintering, slithering, broken brass and bone! 
 How can they withstand it — ^those outside? How can we? 
 It is more than human fortitude and strength can endure. 
 
 "La-Terreur," now that he is safe in comparison with the 
 preceding moments, regains his levity. He begs me for to- 
 bacco so that we can "griller une seche" before we die. 
 
 ♦Slang for head. 
 tSlang for legs. 
 
124 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Face Fritz with a 'smoke' in the mouth . . , You re- 
 member the captain before we climbed the parapet on the 
 9th ? Donne moi du riffle!" 
 
 He lights up and puffs a few draws in silent enjoyment. 
 The terror outside keeps up without intermission until 
 three. An endless procession of wounded men passes 
 through the boyau, for the most part injured on the head, 
 arms or shoulders, and their moaning and squirming in this 
 death-lagoon en route to the paste de secours is pitiful. 
 What shattered pilgrims of humanity they must continue 
 through life! It is such sights as these that always drive 
 the horrors of war into my soul. Consciousness becomes 
 blunted with the bombardment — shells screaming, marmites 
 jangling — but the eye can always be jarred into sensibility 
 and pathos by suffering in others. 
 
 With the fall of the barrage, we venture out to stretch 
 our legs. Chaos sits on every face, along with the terrain. 
 Mute horripilation succeeds the downpour of Teuton lead. 
 We are ordered to move up into the first-line trenches to fill 
 in the gaps against the advance of the Fritzies. It is always 
 disgusting to fill in gaps! But the 75s start it off with a 
 blast of fire as the first of the attackers show their spikes 
 over the ridge. They come up in dense formation — whole 
 legions of them — and we, behind our mitrailleuses and 
 Lebels, rake them off and churn them about like so much 
 porridge! Not one negotiates the first parallel parapet. 
 Entre les lignes they cave in and the whole clover field 
 looks like a holocaust blown into fragments by blast-bellows. 
 
 A half-hour later all is serene . . . shot and shell cease, 
 faces leave off twitching at the creneaux, the counter- 
 offensive is checked and the birds are singing in the "Bois 
 de la Folic." 
 
 At four, bombardment recommences, but this time from 
 our side of the fence. It is the i6oth preparing the counter- 
 attack and at four-thirty they go over. Marvellous, inspir- 
 ing sight! We stand awed — ordered to hold the lines. A 
 heavy barrage fire goes up on both sides, flame and smoke 
 adding to the exorbitance of the scene. No heretofore- 
 
ARRAS I2S 
 
 chronicled battleground can stand up to this ! It increases 
 in volume — like its earlier brother— in order to hold back 
 the reinforcements, until the Heaven spews fire and a spray 
 of death enfolds both sides. The casualties must be enor- 
 mous! 
 
 Overhead is an interesting air-duel in progress. Recofi^ 
 naissance machines are marking for batteries, and dis- 
 jointed trails of black soot follow the larger sky-planes 
 about. Four enemy scouts are engaging our small pursuits 
 and getting in bursts at various altitudes but not over fifteen 
 hundred metres, I judge. Regardless of our critical posi- 
 tions, Parisot and myself follow these winged warriors 
 through space, taking stock of their evolutions. 
 
 An allied flyer gets on the tail of his rival, firing until he 
 downs him with a grenade from above. A black explosion 
 takes place, peculiarly noiseless beneath all the earth din, 
 and the boche collapses, tumbling and wallowing through 
 strata after strata of air, to the lines below. We give our 
 attention to the victorious scout. He makes a wide turn 
 out of range, returning to the attack. A boche machine 
 is simultaneously "on his tail." The allied flyer — a master 
 of the craft — makes a loop above, negligencing his fire, and 
 getting right in on his rear. From this position the odds 
 are all in his favour. 
 
 With a ripping roar a large bomb breaks up the ground 
 entre les lignes! The earth and smoke, spouting a hun- 
 dred feet high like a geyser, cataract over us, covering the 
 whole works with debris. Parisot and myself struggle from 
 under. We have been cast flat by concussion of the thing. 
 The pressure has been terrific, falling from the clouds. 
 Which one of the boche-6.tvi\s did that? 
 
 "Aah!" 
 
 An exclamation from my copain sends my eyes sky- 
 wards. A big German monoplane falls like a plummet, one 
 wing detached floating below it; but when the weight of 
 fuselage drags it to earth, the single wing drops slower 
 and sails above for an instant like a duck's feather in the 
 empyrean. 
 
126 THE "CHARMEU AMERICAN" 
 
 "Good shooting!" I comment to myself. 
 
 The boches take wing then and fly. There are only three 
 left to our eight. Our pursuits go after, and a cheer breaks 
 out among us down below. This is the first air-duel we 
 have witnessed. Anti-aircraft guns have been blowing white 
 puff-balls of smoke into the sky all about them, but inaccu- 
 racy has robbed them of their game. The noise from these 
 air-guns is enormous, only second to the barking 755. 
 
 Our boys have gained considerable ground. The attack- 
 ing columns are battling in the first-line German trenches. 
 The day is cloudless. The wind is not very strong. Sud- 
 denly we hear shouts and a dense yellow-greenish smoke- 
 cloud rises entre les lignes. 
 
 Gas! 
 
 The attacking poilus come stumbling and reeling across 
 that inferno and toward us. All the ground they have 
 gained is lost. Half their number are asphyxiated and 
 prone. We hastily adjust our gas-masks. They are crude 
 things, just large enough to cover the mouth and lower part 
 of the nose, leaving the eyes exposed. We have not taken 
 the gas-business vei'y seriously. But to see it now laying 
 the troops low, where shot and cannon fail, is a more inter- 
 esting thing. 
 
 Back they come with the rolling cloud behind them, flee- 
 ing like condemned hosts from the devil's minions! The 
 acrid odour becomes stealthy, then smarting — ^finally, stran- 
 gling! Fortunately the wind is very low and our lines out of 
 focus, otherwise mortality must have been high, for num- 
 bers of our men have long ere this made tobacco-pouches 
 out of the masks, and still others thrown them away. Now 
 they have just sufficient of the poison in their lungs to 
 drive home the lesson. 
 
 "See," says the lieutenant sharply, "the government looks 
 out for her poilus, but you — ^you are so stupid and self- 
 willed you deserve to die — every mother's son of you with- 
 out masks!" 
 
 The attacking troops suffer heavily. Half of the lOth 
 Company, i6oth Regiment, are hors de combat. 
 
ARRAS 127 
 
 In the evening at eight we are moved again, and this time 
 to a point on the highway leading from Arras to Bethune, 
 where the Teutons bombard with their usual grave conse- 
 quences. The highway is bordered with tall and spreading 
 trees. These titans of the plant world snip off at the base, 
 and crash and imperil us, and rock to and fro, and 
 splinter to pieces, by the force of the German shell-fire. 
 Each explosion striking right turns them completely over 
 and up by the roots, so the whole thing becomes a holo- 
 caust of branches. 
 
 Earlier visitors have hollowed dug-outs beneath the road- 
 way. In these we take shelter, and the cannonading con- 
 tinues, with lesser force at dawn, through the whole night. 
 
 When the 23rd of May breaks fresh and moist, we are 
 returned to the front lines once more into the identical em- 
 placement. It is Sunday. Few of us remember this, but 
 those few have a softening moment through the splendour 
 of the day. Our batteries take over the racket and start 
 a fearful stream of lead into the German trenches. And 
 this keeps up for a solid hour, from two until three o'clock. 
 
 After this it is : "Suivez-moil"* 
 
 Over the parapet we go, shoulder-to-shoulder, and sac 
 au dos/( into the two lines of trenches before the "Bois de la 
 Polie." Hand-to-hand conflict rages here! The French 
 battering-ram goes through; we take a number of pris- 
 oners . . . lust rages . . . murder reigns ... In the midst 
 of the slaughter we come upon a pitiful sight; the heap 
 of slain of the i6oth. This is in itself not so shocking, 
 but it is the barbarous method that has been employed. 
 One expects heavy losses when the "shock" troops go forth 
 into conflict, but Huns — ^yes, indeed, they are rightly named 
 Huns! 
 
 "Bande des vaches!" shouts Parisot, coming upon this 
 malodorous scene. It is plain our men of the loth Com- 
 pany, in attacking, penetrated to the Bois, when the wave 
 of gas coming over, they were forced to throw aside their 
 
 ♦Follow tne. 
 fKnapsack on the back. 
 
128 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 arms and surrender. Not one in the lot has a fusil. Now 
 the Germans, in place of making them prisoners of war, 
 have shot them down like swine in their tracks. What kind 
 of warfare is this? Hun tactics — of the early 5th Cen- 
 tury! 
 
 "Ooosh ! Such miserable business ! They get the rosalie 
 from me !" My copain spits on the gfound in disgust. "I 
 cannot stand their brutal methods. To kill prisoners of 
 war — it is monstrous! We will have revenge, never fear, 
 my comrades. Rest easy — ^the German pigs 'eat the salad 
 by the roots !' We make marmalade of them !" 
 
 We can push no further into the enemy's country. 
 Heavy fire is directed over, and the marmalade, unfortu- 
 nately, is of the bodies of the slain — slaughtered loth Com- 
 pany — rather than our live foes. Headway is cut off. We 
 remain stubbornly on the gains — Fritz counter-attacking, 
 but without success. 
 
 In the solemnity of night, with the shell-fire minimised 
 to an inconsequential ratio, Parisot is wiping the blood oif 
 his roscdie* 
 
 "Hum, we have them good, ay, old blood-and-thunder? 
 Fritz is pacific — il est bouzille!^ We make fine crouteX 
 for the totos." 
 
 He lights a seche. 
 
 A ?oft, low moan comes in from the darkness ahead — 
 swells to a cry, piercing, long . . . The thing resolves itself 
 into a blood-curdling scream for help! 
 
 Parisot is over the parapet in a jiffy. By the time I am 
 on top, he is entre les lignes several paces and crawling 
 steadily forward. I watch him fascinated. What is that 
 strange sound — like a beast lowing? 
 
 He comes back, wriggling — drawing himself carefully 
 along on hands and knees, with an object on his back. They 
 approach the parapet — linger there a moment. The amocM § 
 
 ♦Bayonet. 
 
 tHe is killed. 
 
 jFood. 
 
 § Wounded man. 
 
ARRAS 129 
 
 gives his peculiar moan — that chilling, glizading cry ending 
 in a shriek, and a mitrailleuse barks sharply from the ene- 
 my's line and starts a rattling cascade of lead spraying over 
 the front. Parisot drops flat. The amoche rolls off, crying 
 all the time, and lies like a sack of flour. 
 
 When the fire quiets down, we help to pull him over. 
 
 It is a hocheH 
 
 Cristi! Did my copcdn know? Has he deliberately ex- 
 posed himself for a German "vache"? This is unbeliev- 
 able. 
 
 "Parisot, the man is a 'Hun'!" I exclaim, as they take 
 him to the paste de secours. 
 
 "II est un homme, et-il est amochS!" is his rejoinder. 
 
 Strange, the emotions that move man. Parisot goes on 
 polishing his rosalie and humming a little aria to himself. 
 
 May 24th is a day of air-duels. The sky becomes littered 
 with engaging planes and the anti-aircrafts nag at them, 
 but again without casualty. White smoke patches arise from 
 our side, and black from the enemy. These shots going up, 
 must, of course, come down. Hence a literal tattoo of 
 spent lead rains down between the lines. It is not pleasant 
 to be attacked from front or rear, but above ! — Holy Mother, 
 that is terrible 1 
 
 The sun is burning hot. We are perishing from thirst. 
 There is not a drop in the canteens. We have had no op- 
 portunity to refill. 
 
 "We want flotte,"* say the poilus. "We want Hotte." 
 
 The lieutenant beseeches them: "Patience, mes braves, 
 after the bombardment you get Uotte. Fritz is speaking too 
 heavily now." 
 
 The heavy mortars are engaging and for two hours the 
 ground heaves and jerks. As usual, now, the reconnais- 
 sance machines are marking for batteries. The hoche planes 
 have large iron crosses painted on the lower surfaces, and 
 a great part of these are taubes — ^monoplanes. Our pur- 
 suits keep nagging about, striving for a burst, but Fritz is 
 
 a good manoeuvrer and such flyers as B- — and I are 
 
 *Water. 
 
130 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 winning their laurels in the air. We have also a goodly 
 group. Our planes are, on the average, higher in quality 
 and speed than the enemy, and our individual pilots are 
 more daring; still aviation among the Teutons is already 
 at a high point of efficiency, and it is nip-and-tuck with 
 the fighters to keep the upper hand at the game. 
 
 "Really, mon lieutenant, I cannot stand ^it any more — je 
 clabote," I tell my superior, my mouth puckered and stony- 
 dry from thirst. "Either I go for water or I die." 
 
 It is four o'clock in the afternoon and no easing of the 
 battery-fire. 
 
 He replies to me: "You are crazy! Still, if you want 
 to get killed it is no concern of mine. I tell you this, Amer- 
 cain, you will never come back." 
 
 "I chance that. Anyhow, what is the difference; to 
 get killed by bullet or by thirst ?" 
 
 He shrugs and I am about to leave. 
 
 "Wait. You cannot go alone. Take three men — one 
 from each section. Bring water for the whole company 
 while you are about it." 
 
 I salute, and the word goes out for volunteers. 
 
 Parisot and "La-Terreur" immediately step forward. 
 They will accompany me anywhere — and so will I, them. 
 The fourth of the party is a young boy — ^not over nineteen 
 — of the Classe 15. We carry each ten watej- bottles of 
 one litre each, and a pail which can contain eight or ten. 
 
 Our corvee * starts through the boyau with the marmites 
 ching-chinging lustily on both sides. I lead the party. My 
 idea is to proceed to La Targette, which is the nearest place 
 for water. 
 
 "Marches par un!" I sing out as we issue from the 
 trenches. It will be easier to safe-guard our lives, "march- 
 ing by one." The Arras-Bethune Highway stretches be- 
 fore, leading into La Targette the shortest way. But here 
 we hesitate. The village is fired with incendiary shells 
 and what remains is going up in dense black smoke. 
 
 "Diable! We will never reach that safely!" 
 *Squad. 
 
ARRAS 131 
 
 The flames are shooting columnally upward, licking at the 
 sky and giving oif a crackling, bursting sound. Small 
 pieces of ash assail our nostrils. Tangy vapour floats over. 
 We watch the spectacle — fascinated. "Back to the boyau; 
 we will follow the way to the Ferme de Berthonval. There 
 is water there." 
 
 We return to the trench and take our way to the Ferme. 
 It is three kilometres off. Winding through, almost nau- 
 seated by our thirst, it is with rejoicing we come to the well 
 and take in each about two litres before filling the jugs. 
 Oh, what nectar for the gods ! Only a man who has stood 
 for forty-eight hours as we did in that clayey soil, in that 
 battle grim, can appreciate such thirst! The pails filled, 
 we rest ourselves for the strenuous return journey, sitting 
 by the well-side — smoking each a seche. 
 
 We start again — single file — for the boyau, but have 
 not proceeded more than a hundred metres through the 
 trench before a hail commences that puts to shame any 
 previous idea of barrage fire I have entertained ! Shrapnel 
 and shell fall with prodigality ! Heavy calibre ammunition 
 splits and throws sprays of fragments like orange-blossoms 
 showering a bride, before, behind, to both sides, and be- 
 neath us ! 
 
 "How can we live through this?" Parisot shouts, shud- 
 dcrinf. We crouch in the frightful deluge. The poor 
 young boy of the Classe 15 is striving to hold out, his lips 
 grey and his breath panting like a hunted thing. He looks 
 so pathetic — so pale, emaciated and small, I put him behind 
 me and flatten against the side of the boyau to cover him. 
 I hear him sobbing with fear. His throbbing heart is la- 
 bouring against me. I am in terror myself — bordering on 
 paaic, but I will not show it before this boy. It would 
 be awful — it would make poltroons of us both. 
 
 "Courage, mon enfant!" I bellow at him. It seems to 
 put life in us all. The splinters send eruptions of earth 
 churning in the air, and these clump down with enough 
 pressure to bury us all alive! We can not move ahead. 
 The marmites are falling — demolishing everything. To re- 
 
132 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 main is a death warrant for each, since there is no gui- 
 toune to protect us. Parisot starts forward. 
 
 "It will not do— you will be killed !" "La-Terreur" plucks 
 him back, retreating, pushing out of the boyau. 
 
 "Planquez-vous !" 
 
 We fall to our knees, hiding our heads to protect them. 
 The shock passes over — explodes farther on. We are all 
 ghastly ; the perspiration running off in streams. We make 
 five metres again, when it is necessary to flatten against the 
 side of the boyau once more to dodge the overwhelming 
 shrapnel. 
 
 "La-Terreur" bawls in my ear: "If you bring your 
 bones back it will not be Fritz's fault this time!" He is 
 actually grinning, but the grin is of distress. His breath is 
 labouring also, and a seche between his teeth is ridiculously 
 awry. 
 
 "Never mind me — ^look for yourself!" 
 
 We come to the end of the boyau and out in the open road. 
 Leaping across this, more dead than alive, we wind up in 
 a heap on the farther side. Our poor copain from the 
 Classe 15 sinks down, his jaw hanging and his eyes dazed 
 and hollow. He is an object of the greatest compassion. 
 We older men — I can see us suffer, but these young boys 
 with their puerility so shocked — it is frightfully impressive. 
 The tender blossom shrivelled in its youth 1 
 
 Parisot discovers a guUoune and we drag ourselves into 
 it, pulling the boy after. The first emotion over, we are 
 able to look about and to roll a cigarette and foregather 
 our resources. The guitoune is on the road from Mont 
 St. Eloi to the Ferme de Berthonval, and to go back to the 
 front it is necessary either to wait until the bombardment 
 stops, in which case our poor boys in the first-line will be 
 choking to death, or to go to the Bois d'Ecoivres, take the 
 Boyau d'Ecoivres to our former lines, re-cross the Arras- 
 Bethune Highway, and with La Targette steaming at our 
 right, make short-shrift to the company. This is a long 
 journey, and, with twenty litres of water each, scarce to 
 
ARRAS 133 
 
 be desired ; still, there is little choice. We cannot remain 
 where we are. The boys are dying! 
 
 Night is coming down. We make the Boyau d'Evacua- 
 tion without incident, and here a sad spectacle meets the 
 eyes : the wounded are being removed to pastes des secours, 
 and more shattered specimens it would be hard to imagine. 
 Seeing we have water, they each beg us for a trifle in trem- 
 bling tones: 
 
 "Donne mot de la Aotte!" 
 
 "Flatter 
 
 "La flatte, frangin, paur I'amour de Dieu!" 
 
 Pitiful appealings — tihese. 
 
 A hard problem it is to decide what to do. Have a hard 
 heart and pass them by, or give to the amache at the ex- 
 pense of the first-line boys — our company? 
 
 It solves itself with the first few beggars who pass. We 
 satisfy them all. But when the line grows endless and the 
 water low, we face each other, questioning. It does not 
 do to return without water, at the same time the 
 amache ... 
 
 Across the open fields is a short cut to the 156th. It is 
 perilous — it is death-defying; but at least we will avoid 
 the wounded and so preserve our comrades. This decided 
 on, over the parapet goes the carvee, each member helping 
 the other; and through the clover we trudge. Rifle-balls 
 come singing past. It is close to ten at night before that ven- 
 turesome journey closes. Then we stand among our co- 
 pams, doling out the precious fluid from the pails like so 
 much wine from Hebe. The single portion is not even half- 
 a-litre in order to make the rounds. 
 
 "Well, sir, you see we are back," I tell the lieutenant 
 smilingly. I make a general report. 
 
 He retorts: "You have the devil's own luck — it is a 
 charmed life you bear, Americain. That barrage-fire grew 
 so heavy, we were sure you could never make the trip. 
 However, you are back and that is all that counts. Go and 
 rest, the four of you ; it is not necessary to stand watch to- 
 night." 
 
134 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Saluting, I make my way to the others. We pass a good 
 night sleeping — with the noise of sixty devils let loose over- 
 head and the smell of burning bodies. The shells, explod- 
 ing among the maccabes, kindle their clothing and flesh, 
 and let off a sickening stench. Until midnight this racket 
 continues, though we are unaware of it. The dawn wakens 
 brilliantly sun-flooded and humming with giant motors over- 
 head. A spectacular air-battle is again waging and wang! 
 snag I the combatants are at it hammer and tongs. Again 
 the ground-guns move into action, and this time with better 
 success. Before long a big German plane comes crumpling 
 down near Carency. It has been penetrated through the 
 tanks from underneath in all probability, and the petrol al- 
 lowed to contact with the engine-exhaust ; because, flashing 
 into flame — followed by a mild explosion — the whole mass 
 smokes in its descent. Death for the pilot must have been 
 instantaneous. And for the observer as well, no doubt. 
 
 Duelling continues at a fair height, and the white-buds 
 puff in the sky spraying from the piitrailleuses at the fore 
 ends of the crafts and sprinkling the air about the duellists. 
 They dive iat dizzy angles, loop, rise . . . pursue one 
 another and battle around, each looking for ah opening. 
 They are making observations as they go also — which is the 
 main business. The dawn being faultlessly clear gives them 
 an edge. By and by our lieuteiiant comes over with some 
 glasses. He is observing the fight, and, moved by my 
 interest, proffers them. Ah! Now the evolutions are 
 frankly distinct. Mr. Boche is not an experienced flyer. 
 He turns tail and flees. It seems there were only two of 
 them in the beginning. Mr. Poilu is after him. He "rides 
 on his tail" ; he sends in good bursts ; he is about to down 
 
 him, when What is this? — a plane from above? — a 
 
 German! Spiral-diving right down from a vicious height, 
 I see him before the duellists, and he is letting fly in a com- 
 plete circle about our own boy.— God, annihilation! How 
 can he avoid it? He cannot! — ^he can't stop! He runs 
 nose-in to the drum of bullets, wabbles uncertainly. 
 
ARRAS 135 
 
 flops . . . starts to sink, swinging to and fro. Now he 
 turns over — ^twists sideways — drops! 
 
 "B -," says our lieutenant gravely, taking the glasses. 
 
 There is a world of meaning in his tone. B is the 
 
 reputed master-duellist of the war. This is his especial 
 "coup" and he never fails to score with it. He flies high, 
 and when his compatriots are hard-pressed, simply drops 
 down from above with the audacity of a raptor, spreading 
 a circular hail of lead about their pursuer's plane; which 
 is generally, as in this case, run into; but which might be 
 avoided by diving away in one case out of ten. If the ma- 
 chine-gun fire proves inadequate, the Teuton is always in 
 a position to level out fifty yards above and behind his 
 poilu victim and to finish things up with a hand-grenade. 
 
 This is hardly pleasant to contemplate; still one must 
 face things as they are rather than as one would wish 
 them. 
 
 "II ne faut pas s'en faire!"* my lieutenant assures me. 
 "We get that fellow yet. There isn't one of them that 
 
 lasts. N will do it or I miss my bet. See !" — ^pointing 
 
 upward — "there is revenge now!" A burning column is 
 
 seething to the ground at our right. "It isn't B though. 
 
 He is on his way to the moon." 
 
 Sure enough the unconquerable German is gradually 
 drawing out of sight. With the glasses I catch him wing- 
 ing away to a height. Our own planes keep up a vigil, 
 clearing the sky-lanes for the passage of a bomber. And 
 when this large battleplane has flown into Fritz's territory, 
 the whole empyrean relapses into inaction the same as the 
 lines, and day moves without a solitary tremour. 
 
 Toward night, however, another attack is launched by 
 our foes but with no better success than those previously. 
 We do not budge an inch. We remain in our captured 
 trenches, facing the "Bois de la Folie," and Fritz "stubs 
 his toe" and falls back as before. The straw-stacks heaped 
 on all sides of our sector — probably forty of them — take 
 fire from a barrage of incendiary shells, so we are in dan- 
 ♦Don't worry. 
 
136 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 ger of being smoked out. This is something new. We have 
 to give the enemy credit. He can invent fresh frightful- 
 ness every hour. 
 
 We are relieved at two A. M. 
 
 Parisot faces me with wide eyes. "Dieu! It is unbeliev- 
 able!" he mutters. "We have been in this hell-hole since 
 the first of May. — Twenty-seven days now, my frangin!" 
 
 No. Impossible ! 
 
 Twenty-seven days — ^without relief — in a first-line trench ! 
 
 Had any one — anywhere — ^told me in former days this 
 were endurable, I should have called him a suborner of 
 perjury 1 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 
 
 WE exit from the boyau between St. Eloi and 
 Ecoivres at daybreak. But what a ghastly 
 change ! In place of the green sward — the mag- 
 nificent prairie that rolled away scarless on our 
 entrance to the Arras front, is now a vast cemetery of crude 
 crosses — small crosses that touch each other, and are 
 marked hieroglyphically and speak in their silence of pa- 
 triot-dead that swore and sweated in deeds of valour and 
 died. And the whole thing is on such a large scale that it 
 is difficult to believe I am yet in the land of the living — ^that 
 I have not foundered in that carnage way back and been 
 sunk down and buried with the rest. I must bear — as the 
 lieutenant said — something of a "charmed life." It im- 
 presses me now, though, — this field of slain — with the im- 
 mensity of the crime on August 4th. 
 
 We proceed slowly to Mont St. Eloi and from there down 
 the hill to Frevin Capelle. We are a bedraggled, weary lot. 
 But dropping into sudden peace from war marks an aston- 
 ishing change ! Cheer is only too ready to gush forth if we 
 but allow her. The hillside on this slope is redolent of 
 everything that destruction is not: sweet waving grasses, 
 undulating meadow dotted with wild blossoms — ^giving way 
 to ploughed fields farther down. Song-birds nestle in the 
 warm, near-Summer air, serenading dawn and ushering in 
 the sun. Where is war now ? Ah, distant — far distant 1 — 
 millions of miles. . . . No, only three kilometres, but it 
 may as well be thirty, or a hundred, or millions. The can- 
 non's bkre is a faint echo, faintly reverberated and trem- 
 ulously absent. A hill divides us — St. Eloi. On one face : 
 
 137 
 
138 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 horror, despicable slaughter and turmoil — all that in man 
 is beast. On the other : tranquillity — all that in man is God. 
 
 We lunch in the open field. It is too sweet to be lightly 
 turned aside. We long for fresh air, scenes and breezes. 
 Our voices go up in various chants, some light with Pa- 
 risian raillery — like "La-Terreur's." A soldier's life is not 
 so certain in this war that he cannot rejoice when occa- 
 sion of safety presents. A fine-looking crew we pass over 
 to the village for wine. 
 
 "Nom de Dieu!" says the village wine-merchant, sizing 
 us up. We are sixty-two men in the company, including 
 the reinforcement — a depreciation that in cattle would be 
 appalling! Our faces are streaked with filth, blood aind 
 totos; our backs swarming with these bugs; our clothing 
 vile. We are odorous — dank. We smell like a herd of 
 swine. We come from open graves and are called men! 
 We have not washed, changed our garments, shaved or 
 brushed in twenty-eight days. We have eaten swill-food; 
 we have rotted with the vermin ; we have thirsted for drink, 
 and shrunken from fatigue. We — 62 men left out of 225 
 — are soldiers of France and just emanating from the 
 trenches ! 
 
 We take the auto-busses at eleven o'clock — not the "Mad- 
 elaine" ones from Belgium, but a new kind — camions, they 
 are called. The driver tells us they come from America. 
 
 "They are the best I have driven," he says, "and I have 
 taken a try at them all." 
 
 We are twenty to twenty-two in a bus. And overhead 
 with a burning sun, and underfoot with a dusty road, the 
 trip is not too pleasant and we are landed not too soon — 
 and it is in a field a few hundred metres before the entrance 
 to Sus St. Leger. Nearby is a house, with a water-well 
 in the garden and a spiked fence going around. This is too 
 much ! — with the thirst in our throats again. We leap the 
 spikes — Parisot, the big Parisian and myself, quench our 
 craving at the well. 
 
 "LaTerreur" says disdainfully, wiping his mouth: 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 139 
 
 "What a pity we have to waste our thirst on ^otte. Now 
 pinard, on the other hand " 
 
 A quaint old lady appears in the doorway of the cottage. 
 _ "Have you any wine for sale ?" we call out, approaching 
 her. She waits until we come quite close, then stares wide- 
 eyed and withdraws into the house. 
 
 "Now, that is intolerable!" cries Parisot, stamping his 
 foot. "She could at least have given a yea or nay." He 
 follows her into the house, and we file after, into the dwell- 
 ing, striving to keep from soiling the dainty hangings. 
 Through to the kitchen we go, kepis in the hand, where we 
 find the old one setting out various measures of wine. "A 
 litre each, mother." 
 
 She draws back as if she had been stung. She measures 
 out the wine silently, with tear-filled eyes. Parisot gaily 
 draws out some coins, offering them to her. She shudders 
 now and bursts into tears. "How is that?" he says, — 
 "Poignon!"* 
 
 I look at his horrible appearance and I do not wonder 
 at her repulsion. Deep crimson stains on one side of his 
 face and capote label him all too clearly a butcher of men ; 
 and a growth of scraggy beard and unkempt, unwashed 
 hair and eyes, streaked with powder-grime, complete a pic- 
 ture of disorder that it would be hard to match. 
 
 "Here, give me the money — I give it to her !" I exclaim, 
 snatching it away from him. 
 
 He laughs. 
 
 "Look there," pointing. 
 
 "There" is a small square of looking-glass and when I see 
 into it I am frightened. What terrible grotesque image is 
 this? What monster out of an inferno? I resemble a 
 man sixty years old, with matted, foul hair and black face, 
 lined and hunted. I look distraught ... my eyes roll, 
 muscles twitch ... my red beard is grey— grimish grey. I 
 have stinking linen and the insects are as prevalent as among 
 the best-kept ordure heaps. I lay the money on the table, 
 loathing my loathesome self. 
 ♦Money. 
 
I40 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "It is not that," sobs the old woman, interpreting my 
 distress. "It is because I have two sons in the Champagne, 
 and how many times did I say, 'Pierre, wash yourself be- 
 hind the ears !' 'Jean, did you make a change of linen this 
 morning?' And all for what? — now they can be as dirty 
 as they like, and all my teaching goes for nothing!" 
 
 "La-Terreur" laughs outright at this, and the whole sit- 
 uation is relieved. She refuses our money, we go filing 
 back to the company and lodge in a barn on one of the 
 neighbouring farms. After a while the packages we so 
 carefully stowed away the first time out of Ecoivres are 
 given back to us. We wash, shave, brush, scour, change 
 garments, and, — without waiting for company rations, re- 
 pair to an inn and order up a steaming supper. It seems 
 incongruous to be dining politely. Likewise, the night in 
 the straw, terrorless and shell-less, is appalling in its peace. 
 
 I buy myself a hair-cut like any exquisite. 
 
 The barber says : "Any news, mon vieux, from the 
 front?" 
 
 I respond to this: "Any news, mon vieux, from the 
 rear?y 
 
 He strops away and laughs heartily. 
 
 "I bet you the Austrians get their tails clipped in Italy," 
 he confides. "It will be a good stroke, and the Americans 
 coming in too." 
 
 "What is this?— Italy— America!" 
 
 "Mais, oui. Did you not know — Italy is at war." 
 
 "Est-ce possible?" I am dumbfounded. "And America 
 too?" 
 
 "Not yet. Les Etats-Unis is expected to declare war 
 hourly. The Lusitania has been torpedoed, and sunk with 
 twelve hundred. Does it not seem to you she will go in?" 
 
 I shrug. I know nothing. 
 
 He continues: "I am surprised you have not been in- 
 formed." 
 
 How could he know of the isolation of the trenches — ■ 
 where death is the only vigil we keep and news only the 
 news of a comrade falling? 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 141 
 
 "Is it indeed so — the baches got that fine steamer? 
 Well — I knew the Lusitania well. I worked in New York 
 two years." 
 
 He treats me to a dose of "Quinine" — "for showing his 
 appreciation to all Americans!" 
 
 "There was one from the other side in here yesterday. 
 A fine fellow, but he is not well." 
 
 "Etats-Unisf" 
 
 "Non, Canadian — from a sector in Belgium." 
 
 "How is it there?" 
 
 "Very poorly. The Germans gassed the whole line and 
 gained everything up to Ypres." 
 
 "Quel malheur! You don't know what a time we had 
 holding that line, and now the English. . . ." 
 
 For the rest of the day we bathe — ^both ourselves and 
 our needy clothing. The arms come in for an overhauling, 
 the sacks; and we pass some time in exercises. It is just 
 as well. Sus St. Leger is but a meagre village in Northern 
 France and without either the amusements or desecrations 
 of an Ypi'es. The countryside is planted out jn cereals, 
 potatoes, vegetables and little woods. Our regiment is put 
 — during the course of the day — on its full war footing, 
 recruits coming in fresh and green from the depot. By the 
 1st of June we are able to review before General Bablond, 
 commanding the brigade, and to receive from him an ap- 
 preciation for the gallant action of the 156th at La Targette. 
 
 June 7th is a nauseating date. I am bidden to assist vjrith 
 a "Parade d'Execution." This is the carrying out of sen- 
 tence on three wretches who have betrayed the colours. The 
 charge reads : "Desertion in the Presence of the Enemy." 
 The first of these is a boy of probably twenty years. He 
 gets twenty years at hard labour — one for each he has 
 lived. Standing with his co-traitors in the centre of a hol- 
 low square composed of four columns of infantry, he hears 
 the charge read without the movement of a muscle; but 
 when his insignias are ripped off — ^the buttons torn from 
 his uniform, a faint cry escapes him and his face turns an 
 ashen, putty hue. 
 
142 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "You are not worthy the name soldier — not fit to wear 
 the uniform of the French Army, and in the name of the 
 people of France and of the French Republic, I sentence 
 you to twenty years at hard labour and to military degra- 
 dation," solemnly intones the officer-in-charge. 
 
 The second case is disposed of in like manner, — only the 
 culprit is given fifteen years out of consideration for the 
 fact that he is all of forty. This will make him a feeble 
 old prison wreck at fifty-five. The gendarmes take over the 
 disgraced and they are marched to the nearest prison bar- 
 racks. 
 
 The third of the trio remains. He has also been stripped 
 of his buttons and marks of honour. His sentence is the 
 most drastic of all: it is death! My heart leaps into my 
 throat as I behold the unhappy man, his lips moving over and 
 over as if in prayer — he is striving to control himself. He 
 sways feebly. His limbs seem to buckle. As often as he 
 straightens to attention, they sink beneath him, and he is 
 in constant danger of sprawling on the ground. This spec- 
 tacle is nauseating. It is degrading. The harshest strains 
 on the battlefields are as nothing compared with this one un- 
 savoury execution. The poilus axe muttering among them- 
 selves. 
 
 A gendarme steps over and he is led to a post in the field. 
 It is very early in the day and dawn has not altogether 
 asserted herself. She comes up now, pink and smiling, 
 and making a mockery of the whole solemn scene. We are 
 three kilometres away from Sus St. Leger, in Iverny. The 
 prairies are mottled with colour. The condemned takes one 
 look around and the scene seems to invigorate him. He 
 draws deep breaths ... he faces the sun ... a gendarme 
 exhibits a blindfold and a trace of a smile crosses his 
 lips ... he shakes his head. Twelve men in the firing- 
 squad are tense; at a sign from' the officer, they fire! — 
 Whrroarr! In one flashing blare it is over — the man is 
 dead. Fallen on his face— rigid — inhuman, a traitor has 
 passed. 
 
 Vive la France! 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 143 
 
 The officer unpleasantly steps forward, adding the "coup 
 de grace." Military exactitude demands this. He fires his 
 ball just under the ear and at immediate range. We are 
 marched in regular formation past the corpse for no other 
 reason than to impress upon us his fate, and allowed to 
 return to the cantonment. 
 
 Suss! — It takes a long time to get this bad taste out 
 of the mouth. Would to God I had never witnessed it ! 
 
 On the loth of June we look our last upon Sus St. Leger, 
 and in the cloudy but warmish ten A. M., sight Tilloy lez 
 Hermanville. Slowly the rain commences to filter down. 
 Discomfort also barks at the door! The town is full of 
 troopers. Out in the meadow, then, we erect our tents. 
 Over these go green branches from the trees — our own 
 first effort as camouUeurs. Overhead is a solitary plane with 
 the enemy's markings. He sails low, with humming de- 
 cadence like a wasp — and equally insolent! We have no 
 way to pick him off. 
 
 Among us things have developed a radical change. Not 
 many of the old-time boys are left — only Parisot, the re- 
 doubtable "La-Terreur," thirty others and myself. I sur- 
 vey the newcomers for a sign of friendship. A caporal — 
 a good fellow, with evident education and some breeding — 
 looms up the first. We readily strike up acquaintance. He 
 is something like Felize, who, by the way, has written 
 from Epinal. He has not seen his sister, who is in Chau- 
 mont, but she would like to know if "their dear Georges" 
 can furlough home soon. Parisot gives a low laugh. 
 
 The joMj-lieutenant, a new man with big ears, rapidly 
 gives him a decision. "Wait until July," he says^ "mon 
 brave; you get a good visit home then." 
 
 My copain swears under his breath: "Sacre now, d'un 
 chien!" And he remarks to me later in the day: "That 
 omcier can hear us brraithe, I believe. Some day he will stop 
 a sauce-pan with those big ears !" 
 
 He is trying hard to mask his disapptjintment. 
 
 Over in the outskirts of Hermanville is a good view of 
 the "sausages" — captive balloons used for observatory posts 
 
144 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 by both sides. They float low and a single artillerist occu- 
 pies the car. When they are attacked or an explosion seems 
 imminent, the observer drops himself out and floats to the 
 lines with a parachute. There is a telephone leading to the 
 artillerist's battery; then a barrage may be sent over — 
 or crack-shots — destroying a whole position. 
 
 On nearer approach — that is, on our evacuation of Tilloy 
 lez Hermanville the evening of June 14th — I observe an 
 interesting fact, a large "sausage" is attached by cable 
 to an armoured motor-car, and floats overhead, moved 
 hither and thither as fire or direction demand, and without 
 delay or descent. 
 
 "There is expediency for you," remarks my new friend, 
 the caporal, who is interested in, and hopes for an appoint- 
 ment to, the aviation. "One is comparatively safe and he 
 sits up above all the racket. When a rafale goes up, the 
 motor-car starts, and my artillery observer is drawn out of 
 range of danger." 
 
 Just as the darkness settles the rockets go up — whole 
 rainbows of them, visible easily fifteen kilometres back. 
 We are approaching the front. At one, we are in Ecoivres, 
 camping in the open, and rising to a hungry, bleak, cold 
 dawn. Dampness is over everything — creeping in the 
 bones ! Ecoivres shows grim marks of battle ravages. The 
 civilian population has fled. Troops, then, deport in the 
 wreckage. It is a changed town, The only shop is a 
 grocery adjacent to the railroad station, and here we are 
 able to exchange our few pennies for produce. 
 
 We start again toward the front. Our old lines are laby- 
 rinthian now — boyoMX chasing in net-work and confusion. 
 One of these leads directly to La Targette. La Targette! 
 Neuville St. Vaast! Only two names for two charred 
 spaces ! Not a stick, not a stone remains but is charred — 
 smothered in ruins. 
 
 Into such a jargon deploys a tunnel, outgrowth of a 
 boyau chiselled under the highway. We follow this. We 
 wait the whole morning in a shell-rocked atmosphere, smell- 
 ing of incineration. Later we pass through a trench labelled 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 145 
 
 "Boyau des Marmites," and the sauce-pans rain all right! 
 Clatter and roar! The fatalities are staggering. Fifteen 
 men go out under this inferno. Not an hour is consumed in 
 the passing— and the deaths! Into a former hoche line 
 furnished with guitounes we finally make our way. Yet 
 this is only for the night. Eventually the company is 
 ordered into Neuville to remain in that hell's-den on re- 
 serve. 
 
 "Americain !" — it is the JOMJ-lieutenant with the big ears, 
 to whom we have all taken a dislike. "Take another man 
 with you and find us a shelter for this night ; some place — 
 mind you — strong enough to resist the bombardment and 
 roomy enough for the section. A cellar will do — depechez- 
 vous!" 
 
 I salute and depart with Parisot. We explore the ghast- 
 liest ruins. Not that we are hunting for ghosts — or misery, 
 but the whole place is such a disorder. The stench of de- 
 struction is frightful. Thousands of valiant men have died 
 and been shattered in that hole. Numbers buried alive, 
 eaten by vermin and incinerated. We stumble over burned 
 things — charred . . . turn up a face here . . . arm there — ■ 
 half-blackened; masculine features distorted; inhuman 
 hatred depicted . . . the license of war — murder — ^in each 
 posture or position. 
 
 We come up to a swaying caravansary. The walls totter. 
 Smell is emanating from it like decay. 
 
 Parisot contemplates it : "Should be a good cellar here — 
 no?" 
 
 There is. It is large and obstructionless, but dead bodies 
 clutter the upstairs floors. These are sagging. If a sud- 
 den explosion occurs nearby, cristi! — the whole unwhole- 
 some crew will come cataracting down on a visit ! 
 
 "Lieutenant," I report, "I have found you the cellar for 
 the family!" 
 
 He follows over and soon the entire company is in- 
 stalled, inhaling the odour of maccabes. 
 
 "Any reason to be so liberal with the smell?" he en- 
 quires. 
 
146 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Noise — ^not smell — should annoy him!" murmurs Parisot 
 sotte voce. He refers to the ears. The officer looks at 
 him sharply, but he goes about his business without com- 
 ment. 
 
 We have not long to wait for the odour to change. The 
 straw in the place is well-rotted and swarming with totos. 
 When the Teuton batteries awake and a stream of shells 
 wing over, sure enough the whole up-stairs comes crash- 
 ing down, mingling us with the dead men and closing in all 
 points of egress from the street! An acrid, acidy smell 
 floats through the debris — assails the nostrils. . . . 
 
 "Gas!" gasps "La-Terreur," — "you will be suffocated!" 
 
 We struggle with our nlasks in a concerted movement. 
 Two of the boys are without any defence at all! These 
 go out first. The poison vapour wafts in through the 
 chinks denser than ever. We see these poor boys murmur, 
 then gasp, and finally strangle, gurgling cries for help and 
 succour and being unable to get either. Oh, the Teuton 
 demons ! Would they could see this, but they might crow : 
 the blood comes up through their nostrils and ears, they 
 toss about wildly in their agony . . . writhe right and left. 
 ... I close my faculties to the sight and likewise the sound 
 — as much as possible. Presently they die! It is the most 
 horrible death I have ever pictured. It causes several of 
 the company to vomit — ^new troops, these are, from the 
 depot. 
 
 Parisot tells me afterward : "Never again, copain, will I 
 take a German prisoner. Mon Dieu — no! Kill them like 
 a dog — comprenezf K-i-1-1!" 
 
 I cannot say I blame him much. That suffocating sight in 
 the dungeon will be with me many a day. Outside it is 
 sunshiny, but hotter with marmites. 
 
 "1 must have water, Parisot," I say. 
 
 "You are crazy !" 
 
 The joMj-lieutenant overhears as usual and addresses 
 himself to me: "N'alles pas! Vous sereztui!"* Severely: 
 "We have enough dead men in the company." 
 
 *"Don't go! You will be killed!" 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 147 
 
 "He — ^the Americain?— never!" shouts a merry voice. It 
 is the lieutenant coming up just then. He remembers my 
 earlier excursions for water. "Go, certainement !" he winks 
 at me. And to the other : "He bears a charmed life. Not 
 a pint of devils could get him !" 
 
 I would like to believe him ! 
 
 A new boy from the depot tacks alongside, 
 
 "Comrade, I know a well," he says, "if you will follow 
 me. I saw it as we came over in the night." 
 
 The bullets whistle with lusty humour. They have a 
 way of singing for the fresh boys. He winces and pales. 
 
 "Never fear, my friend," I say, starting forth, and im- 
 pressing him with the very words Parisot used to me : "It 
 is not the one you hear that hits you. Anyway, whether 
 you die to-day or to-morrow — what is the difference ?" 
 
 He trembles like a leaf. Don't I know that feeling? 
 Have I not experienced it a hundred times ? Fear — FEAR 
 — chilling — riding on the wind — panic — ^nausea — hysteria — 
 FEAR ! 
 
 The well is in the rear of a ruined house. He staggers 
 along this far. I reach over to haul up the chain, but it is 
 broken in two pieces. Bucket I have, but how to reach it 
 down to the level of the water is the problem. A familiar 
 sauce-pan sound sails overhead — smashes with a roar ! My 
 companion takes to his heels without a yea or a nay — ^he 
 is oflF! Myself? I go down — in a heap ... lay there, 
 tremble, stagger up. . . . 
 
 The water — probably there is none; the well — it is too 
 deep! I toss in a stone. Splash! — it is deep indeed. I 
 attach my bucket with a length of telephone wire to the 
 mutilated chain, — too short! Patch it out with a rope — 
 still too short ! The pail slashes around on the surface. 
 Ah-ching — whrroar ! 
 
 I am in despair — marmites . . . more bullets — What 
 mad danger! But — also — what mad thirst! I am dry — 
 oh, so dry ! Ah, my blue tie ! — every poilu has a blue necker- 
 chief — I attach this. Sa, it sinks, with a deep, mellifluous 
 gurgle, into the well below. 
 
148 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Ping! Whitzzz!— 
 
 A sharp sting in my forearm strikes so suddenly, almost 
 I allow the whole precious, straining load to crash — al- 
 most . . . but it comes up, and I totter with it to the 
 cellar to my "family." There is my churlish guide min- 
 gling with the others. 
 
 "Vraiment, you must learn better than that," I shout, "my 
 fine fellow ! Never desert a comrade in corvee." 
 
 My skin is just ruffled in the forearm by the bullet which 
 passed through the sleeve of my capote. 
 
 "Did I not tell you the Americain is charmed?" ex- 
 claims the lieutenant, triumphantly. But he does not know 
 how closely I came to disproving his words. One inch 
 higher in the arm would have lost me the member ! 
 
 We are ordered on the 21st into a trench at a point near 
 the already sensational "Labyrinth." It is called the Rietz. 
 Cloaked with the scars of a recent attack by the 418th 
 Regiment that was without success, we make it habitable 
 and settle down to routine. Comparative quiet persists. 
 
 "La-Terreur" says: "Fritz is up to something. You 
 will be killed!" 
 
 "Not 1 1" I say, and have no sooner spoken than a break- 
 ing explosion occurs behind the parados! It is that sharp 
 sound that splits the ear-drums and pains the inside of the 
 head by its concussion. Vermouths? Ay, a peculiar kind 
 we are afterward to know quite intimately. Thrown up di- 
 rectly from the first lines to a height of a hundred and fifty 
 metres, their wings or screws cause them to swerve and to 
 follow the trenches in a fiendish and roving career. 
 
 "A droite!"* the Watch shouts. 
 
 We all dive right, and the slow crapouillot^ succumbs 
 before the parapet to our left with a terrific and shocking 
 explosion. 
 
 "Planquez-vous!" J 
 
 *Go right. 
 
 fEngine. 
 
 JDuck. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 149 
 
 A whirring song overhead buries in the rear — smash- 
 ing! 
 
 "A gauche!" * 
 
 "A droite!" 
 
 "Planquez vos carafes!" f 
 
 Followed by excruciating thuds, our heads commence to 
 rock and eyes to blind. Human system cannot stand the 
 shock b£ these monsters. Something breaks inside. The 
 neck jars. Our poor young recruits are partially dazed. 
 They follow instinctively. After thirty minutes the sky- 
 terror seems to ease. 
 
 My caporal-irknd comes forth with a bucket of wine. 
 
 "Ah, cabot — pinard?" 
 
 We crowd around, smacking appreciatively. Wine is the 
 soothing luxury of war. An apportionment of quantity is 
 begun, cabot setting the fragrant fluid down. 
 
 Crrrackkk — whroarr ! 
 
 With the force of the percussion he is wrenched from his 
 feet — flung headlong into the bucket ! 
 
 "Diable!" 
 
 "Pied de choux!" 
 
 "Sacre nom d'un nomi" 
 
 "AndouUle!" 
 
 These and a hundred like epithets are hurled at the un- 
 fortunate cabot as we scramble to our feet. No matter that 
 a poilu has been killed — that he lies tossed over the parados 
 with his neck a stump. The pinard is spilled! THE 
 PINARD IS SPILLED ! We old-company men are dis- 
 gusted to the point of violence. 
 
 "Caporal!" hisses "La-Terreur" in his ear fiercely, "for 
 two sous I would kill you for that! Where is the sense 
 in robbing us of our wine? Traitor! Poltron!" 
 
 By midnight a second bucket is sent over. 
 
 With the coming of day is a hush and a breath of Sum- 
 mer. Only one crapouillot explodes during the morning. 
 Piirisot and myself are sitting in the door of our cachibi 
 
 *Go left. 
 
 fDuck your heads. 
 
I50 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 smoking cigarettes when a telephonist of the i6oth ventures 
 along. 
 
 He stops in and says : "Was it here a torpedo exploded 
 this morning?" 
 
 Parisot replies : "No. Farther up to the left." 
 
 He passes on to inspect. 
 
 I ask my copain. 
 
 "You are going toEpinal next week?" 
 
 He smiles a slow smile. 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 Roxane Felize has written him. 
 
 He holds his seche and contemplates the ash a moment 
 thoughtfully — ^but smiling all the while. Finally: "I tell 
 you how it is," he says hesitatingly, "I am well" — rising — > 
 "I am really anxious to go, I . . ." 
 
 The telephonist comes back 
 
 "I cannot see znythmg." 
 
 "Then come with me ; I show you, offers my copain. 
 
 They go off together, Parisot in the lead. He is an ex- 
 cellent fellow after all. I wish him luck ! That he should 
 win the sister of Felize is luck enough, still 
 
 I hear his voice: "It is here " 
 
 Whrrroa 
 
 The whole world comes up in a heap and I go down m 
 the void! 
 
 Rushing waters beat about in my head, roaring — aching — 
 crowding — ah! With a shuddering sigh I wake — buried 
 in the abri! There is no air and I am suffocating ! Fran- 
 tic I grip earth and stone with my fingers — tear — strive to 
 extricate myself. The dark is maddening. ... I try to re- 
 member where I am. Something keeps saying over and 
 over: 
 
 "Get out, Francois — get out, get out, — or you will suf- 
 focate !" 
 
 Mon Dievr — suffocate ! 
 
 I must overcome my panic. The air grows less and less 
 . . . scarce . . . scarcer — I can hardly breathe. I strangle 
 ... see before me writhing figures with blood pouring out 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 151 
 
 of their ears and noses like fountains. God !— help ! Help ! 
 Will no-one — will no-one — I die — die — ^help me. . . . 
 
 I am dragged then from the earth-heap before the 
 guitoune. Poilus are frantically shovelling, firing from the 
 creneaux — swearing. 
 I gasp. 
 
 "W-what i-is it, Parisot?" I finally manage to articulate 
 toward a back that resembles his. The poilu faces me 
 frowning. It is not Parisot. 
 
 "Where is Parisot?" I ask. Sudden fear clutches my 
 heart. 
 
 "Mille tonnerres! — ^how should I know? The whole 
 parapet went up. Go over there — maybe you see." 
 I go to the left, sickish to the core. 
 Cries for help are coming in. It is the telephonist, who 
 comes limping toward me. 
 
 "Why do you cry? Go back to the paste de ^ecours, 
 they care for you there," I instruct him. His head is drip- 
 ping blood. 
 
 Where is Parisot? Where is Parisot?. 
 
 My foreboding becomes a mania. I must find this boy. 
 
 I love him — is he hurt ? Is he — is he 
 
 "Parisot!" 
 
 The cry I give forth is like a wounded animal — stricken 
 to the core. My copain lies drenching in his own blood 
 and fragments, the upper part of his head completely 
 blown away — the lower half alone remaining. Oh, misery! 
 His stomach is split wide. His arms are shattered stumps. 
 His legs . . . 
 
 Grace de Dieu, what words can uncover the horror of 
 that moment? — my young frangin, Parisot the blithe — 
 Parisot the optimistic — not yet twenty-four in age and 
 virile in manhood and strength— wrenched to the War- 
 God — made fodder for the crows. 
 
 I wrap him reverently in his tent-cloth. Later on I will 
 bury him. 
 "H— ellp!" 
 The strangled cry ends in a gurgle. Investigating this, 
 
152 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 and marvelling at my own, and usual, escape, I come on a 
 soldier in a hole wedged under the remnants of a guitoune. 
 We dig him up — much as I was dug, much as we dig two 
 others — with this exception : he is crushed at the waist and 
 his feet are two sodden masses. They have to amputate 
 them. 
 
 My own cachibi is as badly wrecked as his. I bunk 
 in with a sergeant. Parisot's death affects me strangely. 
 When night falls I carry him back to the spot where he 
 fell ; wrapped in his tent-cloth, lower him in the shallow pit, 
 ornamented with a Croix de Bois* inscribed simply: 
 
 GEORGES PARISOT 
 
 8th Company, 156th Infantry, A.R.F. 
 
 Mort au Champ d'Honneur 
 24th Juin, 1915 
 
 I try to sleep. . . . 
 
 The relief is sent in two days later. It is not a moment 
 too soon — for me. The gas-poisoning I have undergone, 
 though far from fatal, has rendered me sick as any dog. 
 Those of our boys left^ to feel anything are as ill as I. 
 But our numbers have shrunken! What with sauce-pans, 
 torpedoes, rafales from the mitrailleuses and gas, slaughter 
 has marked us with a heavy hand. 
 
 "C est le regiment il ne faut pas chercher a com- 
 prendre!" 
 
 This is the motto of the French Army. It means : "Never 
 try to understand anything ^n the regiment!" If you are 
 transferred West or East or South or North, or sent back 
 or sent forward or moved in haste or moved leisurely, or 
 held over or re-transshipped — ^be not dismayed, be not in- 
 quisitive; wonder at nothing — ^this is the habit of war! 
 
 *Wooden cross. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 153 
 
 To be secretive, to be without "raison d'etre," to be openly 
 obtuse. 
 
 We are no sooner motored to Beaufort and comfortably 
 ensconced there, then out again it is, and over to Haute 
 Visee. 
 
 "Tiens," beckons "La-Terreur," on a morning after this, 
 "I have an excellent idea. To-morrow is the 'Fall of the 
 Bastile.' Let us buy frichti * in large quantities and a bar- 
 rel of beer, and celebrate. What do you say?" 
 
 Of course we all agree. Five of us together purchase 
 a barrel of beer — 50 litres — on the eve of the national holi- 
 day and lay it aside to enjoy on the following morning. 
 Blithe faces are among the company. Light hearts are 
 hammering. We promise ourselves, Lord knows! what 
 heavenly treat on the morrow. About midnight I am hus- 
 tled out of bed. . . . 
 
 "He, Americain, he, he!" 
 
 "Who is coming ? W-what ?" I leap to my feet, reaching 
 for the lance pierre.^ 
 
 "Nobody. Don't speak so loud. 
 
 "Well, then, what is the matter? Do you get me out 
 of my bachotX for nothing? Fine business I call it — wak- 
 ing a man from a sound sleep. Barre toi! § I am going back 
 to bed. Poltroon !" 
 
 "He— he! Just a moment !" 
 
 "Not an instant ! Barre toi de la!" 
 
 I shove him aside and roll myself again in the straw. 
 There is a confusion of loud voices, and one, familiar, that 
 says : "Well, let him sleep. It is all the same to us. We 
 have that much more." 
 
 Silence. 
 
 That much what ? 
 
 It dawns on me — they are going to drink the fifty litres 
 before morning ! 
 
 ♦Food, 
 t Rifle. 
 jBed. 
 
 §Out of my way. 
 
154 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "He! What are you doing? Robbers! Thieves!" 
 
 My cries wake the whole company. The lieutenant comes 
 down to investigate. He is quartered up-stairs. 
 
 "What is the matter here?" 
 
 "The robbers are stealing my beer !" I shout. 
 
 "Go to sleep — you are dreaming!" 
 
 "Dreaming? Noth " 
 
 A sharp kick catches me in the shin. I gurgle and 
 stop. 
 
 "PanouUle!" hisses "La-Terreur," — "do you want to give 
 it all away? Say another word and you die!" He has his 
 bayonet at my breast. Fancy coloured lights are shooting 
 through my head. 
 
 "Well, and then?" 
 
 "Then we drink the beer ! See here, the regiment is or- 
 dered to move to-morrow; do you want to leave it be- 
 hind?" 
 
 "God forbid!" 
 
 "Then don't make such a commotion, and come outside to 
 the right." 
 
 I follow out, and my three copains are there. The caporal 
 has a quart * to his lips and his head tipped back. 
 
 "Good cheer!" he says, on recovering. "What was all 
 the racket about?" 
 
 "PanouUle here had a dream. He thought he was drown- 
 ing!" 
 
 "In beer?" 
 
 "In water," says my guide scornfully. "Beer drowns the 
 sorrow, never the marrow, my friend !" 
 
 "Right !" says a voice at our rear. 
 
 It is the lieutenant! 
 
 We come to strict attention, all of us apprehensive. Will 
 he forbid us the beer ? Order us to quarters ? 
 
 "Mon lieutenant," I address him boldly, "we have the 
 order to leave Haute Visee ?" 
 
 "At five A. M." 
 
 "That is bad news." 
 
 ♦Tin cup measuring J4 litre- 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE ISS 
 
 "Terrible !" 
 
 "What shall we do — we cannot leave this beer?" 
 
 "Nov.." 
 
 "But the regiment must move on." 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Then it becomes a necessity to drink the beer, my 
 lieutenant !" 
 
 "So it would seem !" 
 
 This good-fortune is hailed with delight by my copdins. 
 I draw a foaming draught for our beloved officer. 
 
 "Pour I'Amerique!" * he says, smiling, and tosses it off 
 with a single sough. A cheer greets this performance. 
 
 "Ssh !" he says, — "Grandes-Oreilles is up-stairs !" He re- 
 fers to the joMj-lieutenant, who, with his big ears, hears 
 everything, and is equally disliked by inferiors and superior. 
 To waken him would be sacrilege. We quiet as still as mice 
 and with our streaming pails usher in the morning. All 
 the healths are drunk from "Papa" JofFre to cabot; and a 
 double-dose to America for good measure ! 
 
 After this the motors start for Conde Folies and we ar- 
 rive there at ten in the morning. It is cloudy weather with 
 after a while a generous downpour and we all become un- 
 comfortably soaked in the great field before the town. 
 
 "Let us join a corvee and get out of this wet," suggests 
 "La-Terreur." A corvee is leaving for the town. Mingling 
 with this we pass on, and once inside the village, drop out 
 and glide into a bistro.'^ There is a lusty yelling in the back 
 and the crowing of an infant. 
 
 "Chut — silence ! Raphael, let the infant sleep !" 
 
 A small woman issues out and engages the man in charge 
 in rapid conversation. He serves us wine, listening all the 
 time. By and by she goes into the street. He tips a 
 wink. 
 
 "Here, gentlemen, I show you a fine sight." 
 
 He leads us liack into the chamber adjoining where the 
 infant is nestling in a trundle, eyes closed, and in the very 
 
 *For America, 
 t Drinking-house. 
 
156 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 earliest stages of human parturition. A small boy is play- 
 ing on the floor. He has a tin army "Made in Germany," 
 and the small Uhlans, Dragoons, and Hussars manoeuvre 
 about the floor, earnest and warlike. 
 
 "Ah-ha-ha !" laughs my Parisian friend. "You commence 
 early. Well, do you think that Fritz is such a bad fel- 
 low ? I tell you — no ! He gives us good cigars." 
 
 The little boy looks at us with wide eyes. 
 
 "How is that ?" asks our publican. 
 
 I hasten to explain. 
 
 "Fritz stocks up good. Then we drive him back and the 
 whole shooting-match falls to us !" 
 
 A high voice says: "The Germans are falling back?" 
 
 It is the little woman, returning from the street. We 
 take off our kepis. 
 
 "Along the 'Bois de la Folic,' yes, madame." 
 
 She shudders slightly. We look at the baby and hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 "That is a fine child. He will make a great soldier some 
 day," I say politely. She shudders again. 
 
 The publician leads us outside. He says chidingly, 
 
 "That was a bad break you made, m'sieu. He is not a 
 Frenchman's son at all — ^he is Teuton." 
 
 "Who— the big boy?" 
 
 "No. He is French all right ; he is mine. The small one. 
 He is two weeks old, lately down from Belgium. My 
 cousin had a hard time there. She — well — she has occa- 
 sion to remember the Germans. She . . ." 
 
 "You do not mean . . ." 
 
 "I do! Have another drink. You see, m'sieu' s, how 
 necessary it is to drive Fritz back. Otherwise the popula- 
 tion of France becomes — tout un fourbi."* 
 
 "Miserable poltroons !" 
 
 He shrugs his shoulders: "Now go out and fight some 
 more." 
 
 Cursing and blaspheming, we leave the shop. 
 
 "Mille tonnerres! That is enough to poison a saint! 
 *A11 a mixture. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE iS7 
 
 And she is a sweet one too — petite . . . epatante.* . . ." 
 "La-Terreur" runs along in this manner. 
 
 Toward nightfall the company is ordered to entrain. We 
 proceed to the station, pack in cattle-cars no better than 
 wagons padded with straw, and squirm out of Conde Folies. 
 The sleep is rapidly banished from our eyes. Rocking, 
 banging, shivering like poor ketches in a squall, we pass out- 
 side Paris by morning, without an idea of our destination, 
 but hoping to go East. The cars switch from the northern 
 to the eastern line. Now, assuredly, we are going East! 
 At noon Troyes hoves in sight, where we are stopped for 
 half an hour. Troyes is in the Aube. Towns-women and 
 old men bombard us with cigarettes, coffee, wine, sand- 
 wiches and flowers, happy to see the poilus and defenders of 
 their hearths. Cries and laughter follow, and we are treated 
 with the utmost good-nature. 
 
 After this the cattle-cars proceed, passing into Bayon, 
 Department of the Meurthe et Moselle, toward three in 
 the morning of the next day. We are close to the Alsatian 
 Frontier in a neat town of four thousand souls. Most of 
 these are descendants of the old Alsace— the Alsace of 
 the Franco-Prussian War — who have flown before the 
 tyranny of the invader. Factories flourish upon this town- 
 site — industry of all kinds goes along full-tide. 
 
 We lodge in a Chicoree Fabrique. It is near the rail- 
 road depot and several inviting shops where everything is 
 still cheap as it is all over France. Wine is only nine cents 
 a litre, and beer, six. We exercise, train, and take our 
 turns at defensive-parallel building along the River Meurthe. 
 Nancy is not far distant. Nancy — the home of the 20th 
 Army Corps ! I obtain a twenty- four hour permission and 
 fare over, for no other purpose than to ramble old haunts. 
 "The cleanest and most up-to-date city in Eastern France" 
 bears its reputation unsulliedly. It has its hundred and 
 twenty thousand inhabitants, its straight streets and 
 Meurthe skirting the faubourgs, its important industries 
 and historic background. Nancy used to be the capital 
 
 ♦Cute. 
 
IS8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 city of Lorraine when that province wore blue, as Nancy 
 to Metz is but thirty-five kilos — to Strasbourg but one hun- 
 dred and seventy. It was therefore variously garrisoned, 
 but mainly with the nth Division, which i? the Division de 
 Per de Nancy. 
 
 A taube races us into "Little Paris" — ^the favourite 
 pseudonym for this ville. It gains, and on my arrival I am 
 informed much damage has been done. What? Where? 
 
 "In hospitals, m'sieu'. The fcoc^e-devils have a liking for 
 shelling our Red Cross." 
 
 I observe it may be the fortifications they are thirsting 
 after. A deep growl retorts. 
 
 "Fortifications? Chut! M'sieu' le Soldat is a stranger 
 in these parts?" 
 
 I assure him I am not. 
 
 "In my time we were one of the best depots about 
 France," I declare with spirit. "That was ten years 
 ago." 
 
 "Ten years ! Ten months would make a difference ! In 
 the last four we are a hospital base. Now, if you ask my 
 opinion I would say: Reprisals! It is the only thing 
 will teach those boches a lesson. They know — ^the same as 
 we, mon brave — that they are shelling Red Cross. We 
 haven't a fortification in the whole town. But let us get in 
 a batch of wounded men, Fritz is here with his 'plunk- 
 plunks' and bombs them off the face of the earth !" 
 
 "Horrible!" 
 
 "C'estvrair 
 
 We hold a performance in a local theatre with poilu 
 actors. We shift to Menil Flin to occupy reserve trenches 
 for a while. We pass from there back to Bayon, and 
 evacuate for parts unknown very suddenly on the 27th of 
 August. 
 
 I am stepping aboard the train when a hearty cry goes 
 up, echoed and re-echoed throughout the company : 
 
 "Papa Niclausse ! Papa Niclausse !" 
 
 Sure enough, gaunt and sallow-visaged, our captain comes 
 back to us. Wounded on the 9th of May in Arras, his 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 159 
 
 recovery has been rapid, and he stands now, smiling and 
 beaming on us all through his grey moustache, his eyes 
 crinkling at the corners with pleasure. 
 
 "C'est un homme.'"* a poilu near me exclaims. He is 
 one of the old Eighth. 
 
 Together we get into the carriage. The train jolts off 
 to Epinal, Department of the Vosges. 
 
 "Grayon," I say suddenly, — "do you remember a young 
 man named Parisot?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "He died at Rietz." 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "He was born here." 
 
 The chemin de jer takes a sharp turn, going north- 
 west. At dawn we make Vitry-la-Ville in the Marne; by 
 six o'clock Le Fresne. We lodge on a farm. By the 29th 
 — in the evening — we are marching toward the front, the 
 rain pelting down. 
 
 "Into the forest, men !" orders Papa Niclausse. 
 
 We stream over, soaking wet, and build up large pine 
 fires to dry out. Morning shows us "sausages" floating over 
 the Champagne lines. Evening shows us rockets flaring in 
 a misty, uncertain way. We tramp all night. Morning 
 ushers us to another pine forest ; and afternoon brings Gen- 
 eral Balfourier and his staff of the 20th Army Corps, to 
 inspect the regiment. 
 
 "Hola! Le Marchand de Cigares!" f sings out "La-Ter- 
 reur." It is a nickname we have given His Excellency, and 
 a thrill goes all through the company. Sure enough he has 
 his pockets full of "smokes" and disburses with a generous 
 manner. General Balfourier is about as open-handed an 
 officer as there is in France. 
 
 The last day of August, Papa Niclausse gathers us to- 
 gether for a final march upon the trenches. It is ten o'clock 
 at night. We proceed for an hour with the guiding rockets 
 to the fore, villages in ruined procession to both sides, and 
 
 *"Th6re is a man for you." 
 tThe Cigar Merchant 1 
 
l6o THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 clogged with troops and artillery units. Approaching the 
 Borne Seize, we enter a boyau winding over a hill and drop 
 right into the first line of trenches. 
 
 The sector greets us : "Look out for 'You-Yous' !" 
 
 "What are 'You-You^f" 
 
 "Lemons, divided into squares. When they explode, each 
 square is a fragment." 
 
 This is not very explicit. We learn later that they are 
 rifle-grenades, shot with a copper stem about twenty-five 
 centimetres long, and whistling through the air with a sound 
 like hallooing. 
 
 "Tiens! There — planquez-vous !"* 
 
 We wait for the crash which does not come. Not half 
 of them coming over explode. 
 
 "Look out for mines also. Fritz blew us ten days back 
 with an awful mess. If you go up a few metres you see the 
 entonnoir." f 
 
 We settle down to trench routine. 
 
 September ist dawns grave and gloomy and leaden. I 
 make an examination of the entonnoir of our mates and 
 find it an enormous conical hole, easily able to contain a 
 one-story house and lacking none of the colour of a holo- 
 caust. Had this exploded "short," as is sometimes the case, 
 a splendid paste d'ecoute would have been opened. 
 Our reserve lines are the scene of much activity. 
 The genie are tunnelling a mine. The exact infraction of 
 this depends on the character of soil. Be it sandy, the 
 excavation is made gradually down from the second or 
 third line, boarded as it goes, and one man advanced at a 
 time to do the digging. This is owing to the narrowness 
 of the aperture — as minute as possible to admit of opera- 
 tions. The digger cannot stand upright. He pack$ his 
 excavated soil into sand-bags and expels it; and when the 
 mine achieves the enemy's premier position, powder is laid, 
 an electric wire run through, and the whole exploded at a 
 given signal. 
 
 *Duck ! 
 
 tFunnel of earth left after the charge of a mine explodes. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE i6i 
 
 The soil in the Champagne is the usual chalk. Heavily- 
 reinforced and buttressed guitounes shield us in an admira- 
 ble manner. Some are sufiEicient for a half-section — abris 
 collectives; some smaller — abris individus. The banquette 
 de ti/r * at the bottom of the tranchee f is likewise reinforced 
 and of hardened clay, with, before the front lines, an im- 
 mense amount of barbed-wire protection. 
 
 We are one hundred metres from the enemy. The 
 trenches are lined with single wires spanning the parapet 
 inside from top to bottom, and fastened with small iron 
 hooks so they will not swerve. These lead to corps head- 
 quarters, a separate line connecting divisional commander, 
 brigade, regiment, battalioin and company commanders by 
 telephone, and an additional one to the various artillery 
 units. A constant stream of electricians passes through, re- 
 pairing cuts. 
 
 We have a new sort of hand grenade. During the day 
 these come into play. We hold the engine-of-destruction 
 by the handle just below the poiikjt of contact of the four 
 square boards hemming it about, pull a short cord and im- 
 mediately throw point-blank. The explosion follows within 
 five seconds. Hold the missile an instant too long, it splits 
 in the trench and your copains are doomed to pay the same 
 penalty as yourself for this laggardliness. 
 
 I finger them gingerly. 
 
 "Come, Americain," says "La-Terreur," interrupting my 
 meditation, "we have to take the paste d'ecoute." 
 
 Night-fall brings a waft of clouds as black as ink and 
 surcharged with rain. It sputters and falls the whole night 
 through. The sergeant on patrol duty comes out to us. 
 
 "Now, you know," he says, "whatever happens, you can- 
 not desert this post. You have to see it through." 
 
 "Tonnerre de Dieu! If the whole army comes, what 
 then? Tu es trap malin pour moi!"X exclaims "La-Ter- 
 reur" under his breath. "Do you think I would stay?" 
 
 ♦Firing platform. 
 
 fTrench. 
 
 JYou are too smart for me I 
 
i62 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "The whole army will not come." 
 
 "But the whole navy may !" 
 
 This exclamation is called forth by the density of the 
 rain just at that moment. It comes down in slithering 
 sheets, whacking at our kepis with a sound like hail. The 
 paste d'ecoute, being a trifle lower than any of the land sur- 
 rounding, is the recipient of gallons of water coasting in 
 from the furrows in the ground in back. 
 
 Cristi! — will we have to swim it? 
 
 Higher and higher mounts the water. We are measur- 
 ing the tide with the proportion of time yet remaining be- 
 fore dawn. If day breaks early, we have beaten the rag- 
 ing flood, but if the rain persists, swelling the brooks 
 surrounding and overcasting the dawn, it will be a mean 
 wager to land, unless we challenge court-martial for deser- 
 tion by quitting before the hour. 
 
 My frcmgin is better off than I — ^he is taller ; yet he stoops 
 down and commences to bail for my sake. He keeps at this 
 for some time without comment, scooping it up with his 
 kepi, and the water rising all the time coincidentalLy he 
 throws it out. 
 
 Suddenly I hear an indiscreet exclamation. There is a 
 scramble ... a splash ... he is lashing out in all direc- 
 tions ! 
 
 "What is the matter — do you drown!*" 
 
 "Diable — ^no ! It is some animal !" 
 
 "What?" 
 
 "I am bitten!" 
 
 "You dream!" 
 
 "Sacre bleu, I do not dream 1 I am bitten I tell you, 
 and my neck is full of blood !" 
 
 A shudder passes through me that ends up in a panic 
 at my heart! Bitten — animal? What deadly thing is in- 
 habiting that well with us? God in Heaven! Snakes — 
 lizards — a cobra! I dare say I am hysterical from the 
 niglit. 
 
 "Stoop down and I will bathe it." 
 
 I am anxious to occupy my mind in some immediate way 
 
THE CHAMPXGNE 163 
 
 — to avert fear— to allay panic. But my frantic heart beats 
 a regular tattoo. I wash his wound and I bind it there in 
 the hole. The gushing streams give way to a steady drip — 
 drip. The cloud-burst eases off. Before dawn we emerge, 
 clayey, stinking and wet. The water splashes suggestively. 
 We shiver. 
 
 In the morning the watch is taken in rotation. I stand 
 at the creneau, lance pierre in hand. A stealthy burrow- 
 ing strikes my ear. It gnaws . . . scratches and scrambles. 
 ... I commence to tremble because it is different from any 
 sound I have yet heard at the front. I look through. The 
 creneau is pitch-black! Something is in there — oosh! I 
 prod through with the bayonet and out comes a rat — a grey- 
 ish, sickish rat as big as a cat, and spitted clean ! 
 
 Good fathers ! 
 
 September 3rd floods the terrain with sun and hurtles us 
 into an artillery duel. Bombardment commences with re- 
 verberation from the neighbouring hills. Our 7Ss are 
 speaking with hoarse throats. Several of the company go 
 down. A singing column of rifle-grenades comes over. 
 
 "Dehine toi!"* 
 
 A gentle prod from a bayonet behind. . . . 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Way for the telephonist!" 
 
 A slender youth with a coil of wire shoves through. 
 
 You- You — ou — u ! Whroarr ! 
 
 A queue de rat.'f exploding at his left, hurls him flat on 
 his face! I approach gingerly and turn him over. For 
 a moment there is nothing visible — ^but he is stone-dead. 
 Then I observe it : one of the little squares has penetrated 
 at his ear, passed into his brain and paralysed that organ for 
 good. Poor son ! Well, at least he holds together in death 
 where few do. 
 
 The relief comes in at eleven o'clock in the night. We 
 retire to the Borne Seize. The Borne is on the road from 
 Vouziers to St. Menehould, and represents a large stone 
 
 ♦Move. 
 
 t Literally, rat-tail; another name for "You- You." 
 
i64 THE "CHARMED" AMERICAN" 
 
 marked "N: i6," which means "i6th Kilometre in the De- 
 partment of the Mame," counting from the Department 
 of the Meuse. Every kilometre has its marking — every De- 
 partment these separations from its neighbour, proceeding 
 in regular order all over France. 
 
 Our highway on one side is the hill, cutting off the actual 
 front of battle and containing on its slope a reserve camp 
 of troops, the headquarters "of the brigade, the kitchens and 
 ambulances. Most of the communicating trenches initiate 
 at this point. On the opposite side is a valley — the Ravin 
 de Marsan. Artillery-caissons, mules, lorries and ammu- 
 nition are stacked here; and a well-spring at the bottom, 
 exhaling cool, fresh water, supplies our whole corps. 
 
 We lodge in several of the guitounes at the bottom of 
 the hill, the "Villa des Rats," "Villa des Totos," "Villa des 
 Quatre Vents" — which is "Four Winds," because it is so 
 draughty down there — and the "Hotel Sans Meubles." * 
 The wind moans through the valley like a crazed thing, rat- 
 tling the wooden crosses in the military cemetery not many 
 paces distant and churning up a blanket of white dust. 
 
 In the evening we start work with the picks and shovels. 
 It is to widen the Boyau d' Evacuation, which is the usual 
 ninety centimetres and must be broadened to a possible 
 metre and twenty centimetres. Prelude of future big hap- 
 penings ! 
 
 The caporal lights a seche. 
 
 "Bad business to-morrow/' he says. 
 
 "Attack?" 
 
 "Non — funerals. A big one caught the 'ist,' and has 
 bouzillef them all. We have to do the pra)ring to-mor- 
 row." 
 
 He makes a wry face. 
 
 "What sector was it in, cabotf" 
 
 "Ours. Fritz shot one day late — as usual !" 
 
 How quickly these depot boys learn to joke and to mock 
 at death! 
 
 ♦Without Furnishings. 
 tKJUed. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 165 
 
 The funeral schedule is brief. It is not as bad as cabot 
 has made it — ^but it is bad enough. Five are dead. We hear 
 the service read — every man strictly at attention — and with- 
 out further ceremony lower away to the sod. The corpses 
 are wrapped in tent-cloth — simple scarf for a hero-son^ 
 lain side by side in a single excavation. The chaplain blesses 
 their dust; the soil is heaped in. Our colonel, our Papa 
 Niclausse, our .roM^-lieutenant, and various of the staff are 
 present. We cast down our eyes in profound silence, a few 
 words additional are murmured, and a fusee whistles sud- 
 denly on the right. Nobody takes any especial interest in 
 the fusee, but it severs a grave-cross at the stem ! 
 
 Bombardment commences lustily on the 6th of Septem- 
 ber. Fritz takes it into his head to annihilate us all with 
 the least delay possible. Our boyau has progressed fairly 
 far. We sit in the doorway of the "Villa des Totos," smok- 
 ing leisurely and taking in the view. An enemy plane is 
 marking for batteries above. He spots our artillery and 
 a holocaust lets loose. By the time our pursuits are in 
 the air, he is winging away to the rear with his soot- 
 streaks merging, and our boys at the rolling kitchens are 
 hors de combat. Not a single battery is touched — the fire 
 went short ; but a couple of guitounes and fourteen men are 
 laid out. 
 
 By noon we are digging as far as the Borne Seize, and the 
 trains de plaisir* shriek over and explode below in the 
 Ravin de Marsan. 
 
 "La-Terreur" seats himself on the top of the boyau for a 
 rest and a seche. A steady hum comes up the road from 
 the direction of Vouziers. I take a place beside him. 
 
 "What is it— aero?" 
 
 "Non. Cycle-rider." 
 
 The hum increases, breaking into the popping explo- 
 sions of a motorist. The shells are at this time raining 
 frightfully into the valley. 
 
 Boom — boom — crrrackk ! 
 
 Will he get over the road? He comes — he ducks. ... A 
 
 ♦Excursion trains— a nickname for shells. 
 
i66 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 streaking shell clips over his head — dives into the Ravin! 
 He lays low, like a plainsman over his mustang's neck . . . 
 thtonders through — and past, and up on the hill-slope toward 
 the headquarters camp ! 
 
 "Hola!" 
 
 A cheer breaks out among our men who have been 
 watching this fascinating game with death. We go back to 
 the digging. 
 
 Half an hour later the dispatch-rider returns, starting 
 down the hill, across to the highway and swerving up. 
 Marmites explode to both sides. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 "Planquez-vous! Voila la fusee!"* 
 
 Somebody sees the shell-top coming and we all flop to 
 avoid it . . . but a fat "Mulhouse," too awkward and 
 heavy ... It catches him in the leg, embedding in his ten- 
 der flesh, sticking out at both ends at once! A spray of 
 blood goes out. . . . He screams, throwing up both hands 
 and spinning around and around. . . . 
 
 "Diable! Get him to the ambulance," shouts the caporal. 
 This is easier said than done. Our cyclist speeds up with 
 the roar of a fiend. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching 
 
 This marmite flies so close, he swerves to avoid the pieces 
 and leaps the road. His cycle ditches. He goes ov«r the 
 handle-bars . . . thuds headforemost into the dirt! A 
 groan goes up from the company. Shells splitting on all 
 sides of him, he tries to arise — moans and sinks. . . . 
 
 "That is bad business. We have to get him in," says 
 the caporal, but he does not volunteer to do it. 
 
 "A-u secours!" f 
 
 "Le-Terreur" leaps the parapet, crawling toward his man. 
 He packs him silently on his back — ^but the going is too bad. 
 He lies flat, lets the shells scream over, and drops him off ; 
 then wriggles toward our boyau and flattens again. Arm's 
 length away, he stretches out — drags the unfortunate cyclist 
 
 ♦Duck! There comes a shell! 
 tHelp— Help! 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 167 
 
 by the heels . . . crawls, flattens — drags him again . . . 
 under this slow progress they make the trench, "La-Ter- 
 reur" rolls in ; after him the unconscious rider. 
 
 He lies face down. The capord turns him — I am 
 stunned ! 
 
 The cycle-rider is Felize — and the shock of the discovery 
 almost throws me off my feet. 
 
 _ "Felize !" I cry, getting out my hidon* and forcing a little 
 pifiard^ between his lips. 
 
 He recovers slowly, having been badly shaken up, and 
 opens his eyes with a shuddering sigh. 
 
 "You know me ?" 
 
 "Americain," he says. 
 
 "You had a narrow escape. But for Jandray you might 
 have been killed.'' Jandray is the tall Parisian. 
 
 They face one another silently. The marmites are rat- 
 tling overhead. 
 
 Boom — boom — whisssst ! , 
 
 Both right hands come out simultaneously and they clasp 
 in friendship. Eye to eye, the poilus are reconciled. Felize 
 is a caporal now. He has won his stripes and a "Croix de 
 Guerre" for bravery in riding. What has "La-Terreur" ? 
 Only the knowledge of having saved a copain — and an 
 estranged one, at that ! 
 
 Such is warfare. 
 
 "I will name you to the lieutenant," says the sergeant. 
 
 "No need," he retorts. 
 
 Lying at the bottom of the boyau, wallowed in his own 
 blood, the Mulhouse is dead. 
 
 "Felize," I address my friend suddenly, "you know that 
 Parisot was killed in Arras?" 
 
 "Oui, copain. My sister wrote they received the Ucense 
 de chien.% She will take vows in October and commence 
 a novitiate." 
 
 ♦Canteen. 
 
 tWine. 
 
 iDog-license : the name given by the French soldiers to the 
 tin tag worn about the wrist and throat, numbered and removed 
 at death. 
 
i58 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 "Yes, and his mother is dead of grief in Epinal." 
 
 "What — of grief ? Then I am sorry 1 sent the news." 
 
 "Not at all. It was the only thing to do. Besides, all 
 mothers are like that — they die sooner or later of grief." 
 
 "It is terrible !" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 At day-dawn of the 9th of September we depart from 
 the Borne Seize. We are advancing to Somme Bionne. 
 The village is quartered full, so we lodge in a small pine 
 forest. These forests are the sweetest-smelling things in all 
 France. They stream with sunlight and twitter with bird- 
 cadenzas. Our tents are the roosting-places for thousands 
 of visitors, all begging la croute.* Two kilometres off is 
 Valmy — historic Valmy of ninety-two, where France's Sons 
 crushed the Prussians and survived their own early republic 
 under Kellermann. His heart lies buried here. Under the 
 stones of the giant plateau, crested with the statue of a 
 colossus in bronze, lies the organ of a million throbs and 
 that one battle the greatest of them all ! 
 
 A little tailor is mending the JOMJ-Iieutenant's coat. He 
 is a poilu like us all, but of a calibre equally deft with the 
 needle or the fusil.f He hums beneath a tree, with his 
 back against the trunk and his knees propped up, holding 
 the piece of work — taking stitch after stitch in the most 
 cheerful manner. 
 
 "Farceur!" $ shouts a voice, gruff, rasping, — "How long 
 must I wait while you sing in your sleeve ?" 
 
 He turns about but discovers no one. 
 
 "Well, now," he says, "that must be 'Grandes-Oreilles.' "§ 
 
 "Grandes- Oreilles !" 
 
 A bawl of rage goes up, and the little tailor springs to his 
 feet, white of face and trembling all over. The sous-M&x- 
 tenant is one of those few officers that creep into any army 
 
 *Food. 
 
 t Rifle. 
 
 t Clown. 
 
 §"Big Ears," the nickname of the JOMJ-Iieutenant. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 169 
 
 — arrogant, autocratic, brutal and unloved. Those of the 
 men who are not openly hostile to him, are in fear of their 
 lives. He is ever in the vicinity, yet skulking — seeming, 
 in his cattish, antipathetical way, to inspire fear and invite 
 awe with oily complacence. 
 
 He turns up now, glaring at his unlucky victim. His ears 
 stand out straight from his head, immense and red. His 
 mouth is a livid line. 
 
 "Vermin! Ferme ta boite!* And take your greasy 
 hands from off my clothing !" 
 
 He snatches the coat away — ^looks over the tailor's work. 
 
 "Abominable f You cannot sew as good as any ordinary 
 shoemaker 1" 
 
 To have struck the other across the mouth would not 
 have insulted him worse than this utterance. He turns a 
 scarlet red. His mouth puckers and his eye-balls pop. . . . 
 He controls himself with an effort. 
 
 "My lieutenant, I am sure you jest! The coat has been 
 done as well as any fashionable tailor." 
 
 "You dare to tell me ? Who are you ?" 
 
 "I have been with Callot Sceurs," he protests. 
 
 "Callot Sosurs — ^pah! Vos maitresses, I presume!" 
 
 Again the tailor turns a violent red. He tries to speak, 
 sputters, and is still. No man outside of the army would 
 stand for this abuse. We have been moving closer — "La- 
 Terreur," the caporal and myself. Now the 50M.r-lieutenant 
 observes us. 
 
 "Move on ! Does this concern you ? One has only to talk 
 to gather a crowd." 
 
 "Mon lieutenant, Catelain's trade is well known," ven- 
 tures the caporal, who evidently knew him before the 
 war. 
 
 "I suppose you will be telling me he fits the Premier 
 next," sneers the officer. 
 
 "Non,—hui his wife !" 
 
 "Diable! Must I take all this from you ? Sacre! Since 
 when is the word of a poilu to be law in the army? Espece 
 *CX<fst your trap I 
 
170 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 d'abruti!" and he lets out a volley of oaths that can be heard 
 outside twenty metres. 
 
 We withdraw to a discreet distance. 
 
 "You know," says Catelain, "there is something strange 
 about that man. I have seen him somewhere else." 
 
 "Well, he surely does not remember you with pleasure," 
 "La-Terreur" grins. 
 
 "Non — ^but he will before we are through." 
 
 Catelain has fire in his eye. 
 
 Our merry lieutenant — he of the "Bois de la Folie" and 
 the beer-keg — advances at this instance. 
 
 "You have been cited for the stripes," he says, address- 
 ing me. 
 
 "What— mot.?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Now, that is unusual. A man usually knows what he is 
 promoted for," he laughs. 
 
 "But I have done noth Give it to the younger boys !" 
 
 I point to a lad of the Classe 15 — "he will make a good 
 caporal." 
 
 "No doubt about it ! But you, Americain ?" 
 
 "Oh, no — no. The war will soon be over and I go back 
 to America. S.ome of these young boys have to remain in 
 the army. Give them the stripes." 
 
 "Have it your own way," he replies, shrug^ng. "This 
 is the second time you have refused, is it not?" 
 
 "Oui. Once at Neuville." 
 
 "See. You would be sergeant now." 
 
 It is my turn to shrug. 
 
 "Un moment, mon lieutenant," intercepts Catelain. He 
 has been very thoughtful. He goes off now side by side 
 with the lieutenant, conversing in a low tone. 
 
 We work with the genie * on some dug-outs. Into this 
 we load ammunition for the batteries for the great offensive 
 that is scheduled in the Champagne. 
 
 "Aah, Fritz will dance !" says the genie. 
 ♦Engineers. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 171 
 
 A new steel helmet replaces the soft kepi of old in the 
 trenches. It is weighty and adds a material touch of dis- 
 comfort to the otherwise blameless life in the little pine 
 forest. But we know better, this time, than to throw them 
 away! 
 
 "Order in to depart for the front at 23 o'clock!" sings 
 out "La-Terreur," approaching from the captain's tent. 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "Twenty-three o'clock I" 
 
 "You are crazy!" 
 
 "I am not. You are stupid !" he retorts. "See my new 
 watch?" 
 
 I examine it with interest. It has twenty-four hours 
 marked out — the new army regulations calling for the is- 
 suance of orders from one o'clock in the morning straight 
 around to the midnight following without repetition of the 
 count. Thirteen o'clock is therefore 1.00 P. M., 3.20 P. M., 
 twenty minutes past fifteen ! 
 
 It is the 17th of September. We pack our belongings, 
 rolling and strapping the blanket outside the sac, and part 
 by dead of night from the pregnant pine wood. 
 
 Rip — rip — ^boom — roarr ! 
 
 Boom — boom ! 
 
 The cannons commence to belch echoes and the shadows 
 to quake. The company approaches the Borne Seize by five 
 in the morning, and remarks a change in the whole sur- 
 rounding. Nine days have moved troops in from every 
 available source. The Ravin de Marsan is one solid pack 
 — the hill-slope above jammed with them. The interim has 
 seen a tako * constructed alongside the highway and now 
 the ammunition commences to pour in for the batteries. A 
 bombardment of furious intensity starts hurtling from the 
 German lines. The enemy evidently knows we are up to 
 something and is thundering on his own hook. The terrain 
 jars. The whole, humming air is fraught with missiles, 
 and we advance double-quick and teeth on edge to inhabit 
 our trenches. 
 ♦Temporary railroad. 
 
172 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 No doubt about it the sector is agitated. The troops 
 going out tell with serious faces of calamities all along 
 the line. 
 
 "Mines," is the general warning. 
 
 We are hungry and tired. 
 
 "Go on the ravitaillementj* Americain." 
 
 "Why— I ? It is not ray turn." 
 
 "So I told the lieutenant. He says, 'Never mind. The 
 Americain is the only one can get through in this bombard- 
 ment !' So it will have to be you !" 
 
 "Well, all right. But notify Fritz, so I can keep the re- 
 gard of the lieutenant. I would not lose my life for any- 
 thing!" 
 
 This sets them all laughing. 
 
 I go out bravely, but my heart is not £J light. 
 
 A barrage of fire comes over on the return trip, and, 
 loaded with food-stuffs, I have to flatten — crouch in a 
 guitoune until the worst is over, and struggle past wounded 
 men and under dizzy marmites. There are four others with 
 me. We bring back sufficient food for the whole sector, 
 besides pinard and gnole. Not one is struck. Not one has 
 spilled a drop in the whole adventure. 
 
 The lieutenant laughs. 
 
 "America is a wonderful country !" 
 
 I commence to think I am leading a bomb-proof life. 
 
 "Don't be so smart," says "La-Terreur," — "you will be 
 killed!" 
 
 He takes the watch with me at 22.00 o'clock. The night 
 is clear and a soft wind blows over from the southward. 
 Moon-rays rest on the trenches — glitter the landscape. 
 Bombardment ceases. Those that are not on watch, sleep. 
 The occasional burst of a rocket serves to accentuate the 
 silence. Above, sparkling stars are bursting from the 
 heavens, winking rakishly and trembling, it seems, with 
 excitement. There is a sudden hum — a thrum — a motor 
 churning through the air; and agitation in our lines! A 
 light blazes into the sky, blindingly intense I Another ! — a 
 ♦Food-carrier service. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 173 
 
 third! — fourth! They meet, intersect, part, and comb the 
 empyrean, scouting for the monster. 
 
 He eludes them. They swipe back and forth — cutting at 
 random. Still no outline, though the roaring of the exhaust 
 becomes more insistent. They proceed very systematically, 
 then, washing the whole vast expanse with slowness and 
 precision. 
 
 All at once he leaps into view ... as suddenly disap- 
 pears ! Frantic, the lights take up his track again — he lumi- 
 nates, slips oif on the wing, hovers in sight. . . . The anti- 
 aircrafts come into action. 
 
 Bang — wang — whrroarr ! 
 
 Directly over our lines, it is possible to see his faint 
 shape racing in the glow of the moon. The searchlights 
 nag him relentlessly. They anticipate him — sense each 
 move before he makes it . . . glare at him — expose him — 
 sneer at him ! Our guns thunder up. . . . 
 
 A rain of shrapnel plunk-plunks before the parapet! 
 Dirt chums up — floats over. Something flashes, contacts 
 my helmet with a chink and jars all through my neck! It 
 ricochets, landing squarely in the mouth of the creneau — 
 a slug! 
 
 Our own returning anti-aircraft Hre! 
 
 Cristi! How am I going to get out from under 
 the 
 
 The answer comes with a wrench and a crashing explo- 
 sion ! Everything leaps up from underfoot to dash in my 
 face! All becomes oblivion ... a volcano spouting — 
 spouting — spouting, the lava running down its sides like 
 water, tearing — rushing — ^beating in my ear-drums, draw- 
 ing up ever closer — threatening to submerge me ! I try to 
 rise to run away — walk away — crawl — strain, pulling with 
 all my heart — all my muscle — breath, energy, agony — des- 
 peration — cannot — can't move — can't 
 
 "Turn over ! Ah, you are killed I" 
 
 I am flopped over on my back and "La-Terreur's" face 
 breathes hot into mine. 
 
174 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Nonf Non!" I struggle, and arise, — "I am not 
 touched !" 
 
 "Holy Virgin! Americain, I think you are immune — I 
 was sure you were bousille * that time !" 
 
 "Well, I am not!" 
 
 "Have it your own way," he shrugs. 
 
 I feel around ruefully for my rifle. It is jammed, and the 
 trench is in frightful condition. Earth is cluttered every- 
 where, and a perfect inferno of blazing shells and screaming 
 marmites comes over. Our own y^s are engaging. They 
 play four at a time so the din grows enormous ! 
 
 Tzing — boom — crrashh ! 
 
 "Ah-ching — ching — ching — " respond the marmites. 
 
 Fritz is getting in as good as he can counter. Our side 
 plays up the rifles and a nasty shower of bullets whistles 
 out. Overhead the anti-aircrafts are still blazing away — 
 the searchlights combing, the shrapnel tattooing the 
 ground ! 
 
 We are at the creneaux five paces over and I am shoot- 
 ing with a dead man's rifle. It is fire ! — load ! — "Give it to 
 him good I" — and roll them in again ! 
 
 As quick as the stream exhausts, screams of the wounded 
 urge it fuller and louder. No one takes arjy note of the 
 trench or debris — ^nobody tends the wounded. Four metres 
 from where we stood the mine was exploded. It churned 
 up the sector — mashed in the guitounes — smashed up the 
 men — splintered the firearms ! 
 
 Slowly, like thunder regretting its passage, the fire draws 
 off — quiets down. A single' shell explodes — ^then two mar- 
 mites — then a crashing, ear-splitting explosion! 
 
 It is Fritz's line this time — not ours. Our genie has 
 underground his works, and the whole thing goes up with a 
 jangle of arms and legs and fractured, groaning earth ! 
 
 Bengal rockets show him in confusion. His line is broken 
 as bad, or worse, than ours. The conflagration starts over 
 again. The injured scream; the fusies shrill; the terrain 
 rocks like a gigantic boat upon a gigantic sea. Every one is 
 
 ♦Killed. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 175 
 
 shooting away like mad ! No quarter — ^no time for breath 
 — no bending to the amoche* We load — ^fire — "give it to 
 him good !" — and roll them in again. 
 
 We are sending up a confusion of lights : fusee blanche f 
 fdr the observation ; a single big red light for the 75s ; after 
 this, green "pour rallonger le ti/r," which is "ranging the 
 fire" ; and then a gerhe $ for a general barrage. Two seconds 
 after each signal, our batteries respond — a whistling 
 thunder goes over that sends up more men than can be 
 created in God's own time ! and the foe is dwindled, and we 
 are all murderers — ^but especially the bureaucrats in Berlin 1 
 
 By dawn we are out of that orgy, resting in the guitounes, 
 our places taken by some fresher ranks from the Borne 
 Seize. Wounded are passing in morbid procession through- 
 out the boyaux. Sobbing, babbling wrecks of men that 
 are a burden to themselves and a reproach to every living 
 God-whole other. By the light of a candle planted in the 
 bayonet-handle of one of my copams, we have a chance to 
 pass stories. A survivor of the trench-mine farther doAvn 
 explains his adventure. 
 
 "I am in the middle of a pinch of snuff when ,the d 
 
 Fritzies explode us ! How is that for brass nerve ? — cannot 
 take a sniff but I must be disturbed !" 
 
 He is from the South of France, where they snufi to- 
 bacco. 
 
 "Have a seche," offers "La-Terreur." 
 
 "Sec he? Pah! who wants to eat smoke? We have the 
 boches for that. They send you the smoke all right — ^hah !" 
 
 "They send you — ^yes! You will be killed!" retorts the 
 Parisian, with his usual mal-prophetic manner. 
 
 They go down after the ravitaillement. Two hours later 
 the Gascon § staggers back. He has a bucket of soup, and 
 his face is begrimed with smoke. He is the only one of 
 the ravitaillement to return. 
 
 ♦Wounded. 
 
 fOrdinary colourless rockets. 
 
 tBouquet. 
 
 §Gascony was formerly a province in the Southwest of France. 
 
176 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "They sent you smoke !" says the caporal rather lightly. 
 
 "The big one too. He is amoche, my brothers !" 
 
 "What— 'La-Terreur' ?" I exclaim. 
 
 "Terreur nothing! He was frightened like the rest of 
 us. He lost his jaw." 
 
 "You don't mean it!" 
 
 "I do. We were caught in a barrage. Not a mother's 
 son escaped beside myself. I was laying in my snuff at the 
 time^ I told you, snuif is the best life-preserver in the 
 world. Learn to use it, my friends, learn to use it !" 
 
 "But 'La-Terreur'?" I persist. 
 
 "He was standing with the rest by the cook, lighting his 
 plagued seche. Along comes a gros noir,* blows up the 
 rolling kitchen, butchers the cook, Baroux, Weill, Meyer 
 and Du Roy, and steals your friend Jandray's jaw. Can I 
 help it? Did I not tell him to snuff? He must smoke! 
 Well, now he can't do it!" 
 
 The soup is distributed. 
 
 Poor Jandray! Under the circumstances it would cer- 
 tainly have paid him to learn to snuff ! Fritz, as he would 
 himself have said, was as unaccommodating as usual — steal- 
 ing his jaw in place of his nose, and no more will I hear his 
 cheery: "You will be killed!" 
 
 Vraiment, c'est terrible I 
 
 The repairs to our sector commence at night-fall. The 
 parapet has been levelled. Under a clear moon with the 
 shot and shell flying gaily, four men go out. One is torn in 
 the side and his lungs and his ribs are exposed. My Heaven, 
 what a spectacle! And what cries! The poor wounded 
 boy at my left has two fingers off, and the blood flows redly. 
 
 "Go down," I advise, "to the paste de secours right away. 
 And if you see Jandray, convey my earnest congratulations 
 . . . Tell him I am still in a position to get killed. I hope 
 he goes home and learns to use snuffing tobacco !" 
 
 The boy goes away, and he is smiling and sobbing to- 
 gether. 
 
 Momentarily the shrapnel rains harder. 
 
 *Big Black, name for a heavy shell. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 177 
 
 "Tell them, cabot, to let it off— or let us off," Catelain 
 pokes at the caporal. 
 
 "I wish I could. Well, it will have to be us off. Plan- 
 quez-vous, my friends!" He exclaims, as the order comes 
 to abandon work. 
 
 We lie low for a half-hour. Then, rising to the pa/rapet, 
 Fritz bristles up like a shrew with his mitrailleuses ! A sec- 
 ond time we are forced to duck below. The slugs hum 
 recklessly overhead, plunk-plunking into the parados — a 
 veritable sheet of steel ! In the midst of this — on our knees, 
 we are forced to repair the wreckage: we pack in sand to 
 the sacks and get ready for daybreak. When the moon sets 
 we finish our labour in the opaque peace before dawn. 
 
 It is up to the i6oth to prepare the Parallele du Depart* 
 Quiet reigning from noon on, by night of the 20th they 
 undertake the work, and myself and Catelain are desig- 
 nated for the paste d'ecoute. Monotonously hour for hour 
 in that shell-hole, it is only the intermittent jarring of our 
 picks and a low guttural sound at times from the enemy's 
 line that fractures the silence. It has clouded over and 
 the moon is no longer distinct. On his stomach the sergeant 
 wriggles over at i :oo A. M., to give us the hour. Coin- 
 cidentally a rafde of shrapnel breaks viciously, coming 
 over beneath a fusee eclairante f from Fritz, and the i6oth 
 is forced to scatter. Off they go for their lives, diving into 
 the boyaux beneath the wire-entanglements. 
 
 We hold on 'til dawn, relieve, and take the watch at 
 night. The work on the parallele continues. Again relief 
 — bombardment — ravitaillement. The 753 are answering 
 shot for shot. 
 
 "Au creneau,X Americain, 11:00 to 13:00 o'clock," an- 
 nounces the sergeant. 
 
 I go up to the shooting-hole. My predecessor stands in 
 the most rakish attitude against the pa/rapet with his feet 
 crossed, holding a half-consumed cigarette in one hax\,^, 
 
 "Trench dug before the first lines for an attack. 
 
 t Flare shell. 
 
 J To the shooting-hole— that is, on watch. 
 
1^8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 and headless! No spectre from Hades could have caused 
 my heart to bound more wildly! Such nonchalance — and 
 such horror! — such diablerie! 
 
 The din of bombardment is intensified every moment. 
 Crapouillets, marmites, torpedoes seek out with fiendish ac- 
 curacy my position — chum up the broken parapet, where it 
 is split into a furrow. I am nonplussed that each moment 
 is not my last! 
 
 This deluge finally ceases at dark, but the din persists. 
 Now it is all from our side, and the whistling Jeans go 
 overhead with abandon. 
 
 A misty morning is challenged on the 23rd. The i6oth 
 Regiment comes up and relieves for the attack. 
 
 "Mon Dieu! It is a good thing we can quit the trenches," 
 almost sobs the little caporal. "My ears are broken." 
 
 I think his nerves are going. We have had so many of 
 these nervewrecks of late — shell-shock, they call it. Nobody 
 is immune. It is the most pathetic disaster of all. 
 
 We go out — to the Borne 16. 
 
 The Borne is dug with new stacked boyaux, bisecting the 
 Ravin de Marsan, which chokes with the vari-calibred mon- 
 sters-of-war, oscillating and resounding with each discharge. 
 A perfect hell-siege is going on! 
 
 Boom— whrroar ! Boom — ^boom — whrroarrr ! Crrr-ackk 
 — ^boom ! Boom ! ! 
 
 "God preserve us!" 
 
 The little caporal's lips are moving. 
 
 "Come on, caiot, this has nothing to do with us," I shout 
 in his ear. We go on to Wargemoulin — twisting, winding 
 in the boyau. From Wargemoulin to Hans. A temporary 
 barracks is raised outside the village. We lodge in this, 
 and everything unnecessary for actual attack is taken from 
 us. 
 
 Cabot groans, giving away his blanket. His face shows 
 drawn and the hair 'round his temples white. He is only 
 twenty-two. He trembles, and when you speak to him leaps 
 as if the very devil were at his flank. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 179 
 
 He asks the sergeant : "Do you think we are going to at- 
 tack?" 
 
 "Of course we attack!" returns the other, brutally. 
 
 The caporal sways. His lips twitch beyond control. 
 He tries to hold himself together and issues his usual com- 
 mands with high, shrill voice. 
 
 "That fellow is going under from shell-shock," some- 
 body tells me, seeing him quiver, — ^"or is he sick, or has 
 pneumonia ?" 
 
 "No pneumonia," retorts an old-timer. "Trench-Ufe 
 never breeds pneumonia. Go into the 'Hotel le Crillon' for 
 that." 
 
 It is so. 
 
 Papa Niclausse appears suddenly, calling the whole com- 
 pany together. 
 
 "Mes enfants,"* he says, "I will first show you the new 
 grenade. It is, you see, shaped like a pear and half-covered 
 with aluminum in the shape of a spoon. The spoon is at- 
 tached to the pear with a small wire. Break the wire and 
 the engine is ready for use. As long as you hold it firmly 
 together, it will not explode, but once let tiie spoon separate 
 from the balance, a tiny spring sends it apart and in five 
 seconds it shatters." 
 
 We are given six of these each, which loads the musette 
 very nicely. A poire f weighs half-a-pound. Some of the 
 boys also call them "culUere," which means spoon. 
 
 "Now," Papa Niclausse continues, "I expect every man 
 to do his duty. The 8th Company has established a reputa- 
 tion which must be lived up to. It will never do to lower 
 the standard. For the sake of those brave boys who died 
 fighting up in La Targette, I want every newcomer to 
 pledge himself to go through to the end — to stand against 
 the enemy and exchange blow for blow. Remember France ! 
 Remember the Patrie! Ne Hanchez pas!" J 
 
 ♦My children, a favourite way of an officer addressing soldiers 
 in France. 
 tPear, nickname for this grenade. 
 JNever give up! 
 
i8o THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Silence. 
 
 Then a ringing cheer! The old 8th is doing herself 
 proud ! 
 
 But outside the circle is a small, shivering form that shud- 
 ders, twitches and ashens clear to the lips. 
 
 Poor little caporal. 
 
 "Now, what shall we have — wine or beer ?" 
 
 "Pinard!"* Unanimous. 
 
 "Then a corv&e go up to Valmy this afternoon and buy 
 a litre for each man in the company. Eh hien, mes en- 
 fants." 
 
 Assignments are given out — each man entrusted with 
 some special duty. 
 
 "I," says Catelain, "am a trench-cleaner." 
 
 "So am I. And cabot." 
 
 A trench-cleaner is an after-comer, as it were. He passes 
 over the ground after the first wave has swept on, negating 
 any attempt of the enemy to revivify — to strike the at- 
 tackers in the back. In Arras there was too much of this 
 'possom-playing by the wily Teutons. Our boys fell, 
 stricken in the rear, and the second wave had as much to-do 
 going over as if there had been no first. 
 
 In this instance it is the i6oth will attack, and pass on, 
 and we — the "coup de graced' company — will finish up the 
 work so nobly initiated. Fritz will either go to the rear a 
 prisoner — if he has had the good sense to throw his Mauser 
 aside before we reach him — or he will blaze away and go 
 blazing into h ! There is to be no alternative. He can- 
 not lie low like a mummy, and then, when the offensive has 
 gone over, leap up for a salvo! That does not work — ^a 
 second time. 
 
 Our copain from the South of France assures us, with 
 much snuff-tobacco, that he is a signaller. He carries flags 
 to speak the artillery ; and another boy has rockets, in case 
 night overtakes us before victory. We all have gas-masks, 
 fresh ones with lunettes; f likewise 250 cartridges, a boite 
 
 *Wme. 
 
 tEye protectors. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE i8i 
 
 de singe* half-a-pound of chocolate, coffee, sugar, and 
 condensed soups as a reserve ration. 
 
 The evening moves under the stimulus of wine— that ex- 
 tra litre. By 19:00 o'clock we bid farewell to Hans. One 
 o'clock finds us passing through Massiges — in ruins! — ^and 
 approaching the Borne 16. We go right on. The boyaux 
 behind the first-line trenches become our sleeping quarters, 
 and we rest on the tough, wet soil until morning — Saturday, 
 the 2Sth day of September. 
 
 The Battle of Beausejour 
 
 I am awake by seven o'clock. A fine rain is falling. My 
 bones ache and a chill has penetrated deep. "Wake up, 
 cabot!" I scream very loud, — "and give me my gnole." 
 
 The bombardment is at this time very heavy. The 
 caporal carries a reserve stock of brandy for each man. 
 Poor cahot rouses with a start and is immediately twitch- 
 ing. 
 
 "What is the matter — ^have you got a chill ?" 
 
 "I — I g-guess s-so!" 
 
 Can't hear him. His lips are moving. He acts rather 
 da2ed, and I doubt if he is in his right mind. The 
 cannonading has put him all to the bad. 
 
 "Well, drink some liquor ; probably that will revive you." 
 
 Mechanically he goes at getting some out but his hand 
 shakes so he spills half over the quart's side. 
 
 "Here, let me." 
 
 I take some out and pour it down his lips. He blubbers 
 inanely. A large shell whistles over and he jumps sud- 
 denly, shrieking. I see the sous-lieutenant coming; I ad- 
 dress him. 
 
 "Mon lieutenant, this man is not fit to go on." 
 
 "What ails him?" 
 
 "Stricken." 
 
 "Bah — drunk!" he rejoins. "Tell him to go on!" 
 
 I could strike him, I am so furious. Poor cabot goes 
 ♦Tin of beef. 
 
i82 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 shaking on, whining at intervals, and sinking down in a 
 heap. His squat figure is in the JOMJ-Iieutenant's way com- 
 ing back and he orders him out with no gentle voice. 
 
 "Never mind," says Catelain, looking at me with a black 
 brow, and getting his voice in between the reverberations, 
 "that scurvy trick will cost him. You will see." 
 
 I am nonplussed. 
 
 At 9:00 o'clock we are moved to the first-line trenches. 
 The i6oth is in the ParaMele du Depart. Thirty minutes 
 later they go over! We are still in the first lines, gwi-z/jz/ed 
 and throbbing with emotion. A tremendous spectacle 
 arises! It is one of these few wonderful effects of a by- 
 gone warfare: a charge de cavalerie!* 
 
 The 5th Huzzars of Nancy charge right in the face of the 
 foe, running the gauntlet to the trenches, men and horses 
 rising superbly to the effort and clattering with a zip 1 and a 
 roar ! to the crest of Hades ! 
 
 The first squadron passes safely. The second, charging 
 after, is locked in the barrage ! A mad fire comes winging 
 in — Germany wild to stem this rushing tide . . . Riders 
 and mounts go spraying right and left, springing into the 
 air, churning, splattering, tearing, ripping, flying, shrieking, 
 groaning — the demoniac cries of torn life-shreds floating 
 out in an orgy! 
 
 Zipp — zang — crrashh — whrroar ! I 
 
 Dust and particles obscure the scene. When it clears 
 the first wave is engaging on foot with the infantry — 
 mounts struggling in the barbed-wire mesh and tearing 
 off great gobs of flesh. Legs are shattered . . . animals 
 stampeding ... a carnage of garbled gore tells the tale: 
 a second legion that struck after the first, wore its spurs 
 bravely and died, a sacrifice upon the altar of modern 
 civilised warfare — the Fifth Huzzards! f 
 
 We advance into the German first-lines. The definations 
 are shallow. So heavy has been our bombardment, almost 
 no depth remains to the trenches. They are soft, soaky with 
 
 ♦Cavalry charge. 
 fHussars. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 183 
 
 bodies and blood. The soil gives in, crashing us into dug- 
 outs and declivities. I leap in and sink— coming up sharply 
 before a guitoune. My feet strike against timbers. It is 
 undestroyed and hollow. I call down: 
 
 "II y a des Fritz en bos?"* 
 
 No response. 
 
 Down goes a hand-grenade. There is a sudden smothered 
 roar, a scrambled sound — deep cries — moans ! Eleven burly 
 baches, streaked with blood, appear at the opening. 
 
 "Kameraden Franzosen, nicht kaput! Cinq petits!" 
 
 Their hands are upraised. They evidently mean : "Do 
 not kill us, we have five children each!" Photographs of 
 women and children are clutched on high. 
 
 My copain, Catelain, laughs. \ 
 
 "That is a funny thing, they all have five children ! What 
 a strange country is Germany where the children come 
 regulated to order!" 
 
 No doubt some one of their number, understanding 
 French, has warned them to appear family-fathers so they 
 should merit our pity. 
 
 We line them up in a row and Catelain goes through their 
 pockets. After this they offer us cigars and cigarettes, and 
 one of their number a chased gold watch. 
 
 "What is this?" There is the miniature of a beautiful 
 girl on the cover. 
 
 The owner responds in halting French, "She is of the 
 ballet. Tres belle, n'est-ce past" 
 
 We march them off to the rear, Catelain in front. The 
 last man to leave bears a livid scar across his face. He 
 bristles with rage and his teeth bare like fangs. 
 
 "Move on!" I prod him with my bayonet. He flares 
 around and his purple face distorts, so the scar becomes 
 welt-like and horrible. "What is the matter?" 
 
 "Schwein! Ich bin ein oMzier!" f 
 
 I retort: "Je ne fout pas mal ce que tu es.'t You either 
 
 *Any Fritzies down below? 
 
 t Swine! I am an officer! 
 
 jl don't give a d what you are! 
 
i84 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 go ahead or you stay here for good! Is that dear?" I 
 tickle him with the rosalie* and he squirms. The proces- 
 sion proceeds as far as the Parallele du Depart, where the 
 Territorials reUeve us of our catch. 
 
 On the fighting lines there is mad battling in progress, 
 proceeding ever deeper into the bocke front and farther 
 from ours. The Fortin de Beausejour is, the hot-bed at 
 present. This stronghold is fortified like a "Helgoland," 
 and tunnelled, with labyrinthian passageways deploying 
 every which way. They groan like catacombs, hollowly 
 and with dank odours. 
 
 We are estranged from the regiment, and in that morbid 
 channelling lost as completely as in a void. Only the echoing 
 storm and stress of the embittered thousands — explosion 
 after explosion resounding and clutching at the air — serves 
 to stimulate action in that grotto. The boyaux are ravaged 
 beyond any rational description. Slaughter, that phantas- 
 magoria of corrupt human consciousness, stalks with merry 
 maundering through her vales, laughing, mocking, chirrup- 
 ing even at the frightfulness of her devastation — ^human 
 atoms choked so ungrudgingly into the mouth of Hell, that 
 the nether-world disgorges, spreading her haemal breath 
 through the dismal jargon! The wrecks lie about — foe- 
 men locked and interlocked, broken, bent and corrupted — 
 too vile to notice. 
 
 Other trench-cleaners are spurring their noble efforts. 
 The 2nd Company rests after four hours' battle, and the 
 captain is moodily trying to resurrect his hosts. 
 
 "Have you seen the 8th Company, mon capitaine?" tn' 
 quires Catelain, a dandy in crimson and clay. 
 
 He returns to him : "It is better you shall remain here. 
 I don't know where your company is." 
 
 A counter-attack is launched by Fritz. We storm ahead. 
 Moving like a mass of demons, gritting our teeth, prodding 
 where human flesh can contact our rosalies, we drive the 
 baches into two files — and into confusion. We break 
 through! We stab to left and right. We fire point-blank, 
 
 *Bayonet. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 185 
 
 with the lance pierre* at a man's temple! We beat and 
 jab and thunder and roar — and annihilate. We break up 
 as much Kaiser-power as possible. We plough through into 
 his territory. We force the boches to their knees, stealing 
 their trenches and soddening their soil — ^which is ours! 
 
 "On les aura! On les OMra!" f 
 
 A hundred throats roar this in concert. We beat the 
 German heavy counter-attack and stack the prisoners, with 
 their weapons thrown aside, into a subdued lot. 
 
 "Kamerad Franzos!" 
 
 Each pair of hands goes into the air, beseeching. The 
 fierce-faced Teutons become an humble choir. They are 
 "marched by one" to the rear. 
 
 We are now fifteen trench-cleaners from the 8th, as- 
 sembled through the various hoyaux. 
 
 The captain addresses us. 
 
 "Stay here. It is too much of a rake-hell to go out. 
 Find yourselves a guitoune, but take good care it is not 
 inhabited already. The bombardment is going to increase. 
 The night will pass here, patching up the parapet. We have 
 to repair it. They will launch another counter-attack very 
 likely." 
 
 We act on his advice and uncover four gukounes. Cate- 
 lain propel^ a grenade down the first. It explodes loudly, 
 churning up dust. We gingerly step in. Dead men — mac- 
 cabes, four — five — eight of them — frightfully disfigured! 
 
 "Pas pour moi!"X I back out, shuddering. 
 
 The second is as bad — or nearly so — as the first. With 
 the addition that a trench-rat is parading over the ground. 
 
 The third has its centre split out through the bombard- 
 ment. A shell seems to have ricochetted into the midst of 
 a dozen men, rendering them food for the crows. 
 
 "Pitch Fritz out and let us settle down here!" exclaims 
 one of the men, discouraged. 
 
 "Not here. The port is too badly exploded. Try one 
 
 *Rifle. 
 
 tWe get them! We get them! 
 
 tNot for mine. 
 
i86 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 more," rejoins a copain. Catelain has already done this. 
 He has great initiative. He ventures in without the pre- 
 caution of a shell, and the grocery-stock of goods he un- 
 covers sends up a shout of joy from the assemblage. 
 
 "Well, Fritz is good! This is a canteen worth a ran- 
 som!" 
 
 We dive in headlong and distribute a quantity of stuff: 
 chocolate, condensed milk and jams, apple-sauce, canned 
 fruits and beans, peas, asparagus, smoked ham, sausages, 
 bacon and biscuits; and cigars and tobacco, matches; and 
 small mustard-pots, sealed and bearing labels stamped with 
 Hindenburg's picture, or Bismarck's. A barrel is almost 
 brimming with beer, and a dozen bottles of wine, flattened 
 on the floor, are a cheery sight. Further discovery an- 
 nounces five litres of gnole.* 
 
 Beneath this retreat of provender is a further one con- 
 taining beds and some clothing. The evacuation must have 
 been in the nature of rout, since intimate garments and 
 souvenirs are abundant. The officers, inhabiting here, 
 were also gentlemen of some quality, as the crested pipes 
 and monogrammed stationery attest. 
 
 We seek immediate intercourse with the beer-barrel. 
 This travels through three rounds, and then, the news hav- 
 ing gone abroad of a tremendous discovery, troops from 
 the neighbouring companies clutter in, and the stores go out 
 like a candle I Every mother's son of them annexes some- 
 thing. It is laughable to see them go after wine, each man 
 reaching for a bottle, tossing it off with a neighbour and re- 
 placing it in its identical position. Then the next troop, fol- 
 lowing after and acclaiming their "find" with shouts of glee, 
 raises the bottles — empty ! and replaces them in disgust. Up 
 they go again. Down they go again. Up they go — down — 
 up — and so forth, until every man within a kilometre's 
 radius has stolen over and lifted up the fakes ! Chagrin sits 
 on each face. 
 
 "Never mind, boys," says the captain. "There will be 
 ♦Brandy. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 187 
 
 others. Mind you fix^the parapet and all will be forth- 
 coming." 
 
 He coaxes them into obedience and very soon the trench is 
 once more reinforced. The rain slings down. In great 
 slithering gobs it commences to play a tattoo on our helmets. 
 We groan in the face of night. 
 
 "Well, let me sleep," grumbles Catelain, — "I don't care." 
 
 "All right, my friend, but just harken — here comes the 
 music !" 
 
 A cannonading loudens out above the chorus of our own, 
 and marmttes sing overhead with dismal intent from the 
 Germans. The counter-attacks are launched in the dead of 
 night, shells screaming murderously and smashing on the 
 parapet in deadly earnest. We are kept awake and on the 
 defensive the whole night. Soaked to the skin, begrimed, 
 laden with filth — the dawn finds us still fusil* in hand and 
 blood-shot, straining eyes watering over the parapet. 
 
 The heavy shelling withdraws along with liie rain. We 
 breathe and relax from the vigil. The aspect is a fright! 
 Jargoggled forms lie beaten half into the earth. The 
 tranchee'f is a dismay. 
 
 "Come, copain, let us withdraw to the abode of peace — 
 our cachihi." Catelain drops with a weary groan into his 
 shelter, and I follow closely. Our few cans of asparagus 
 and beans are cold but inviting. We make a good meal. 
 No wine is there, and no water in our hidon,% but we lap 
 up the juice of the vegetables like nectar. 
 
 The 26th of September is sunny but knowing no rest. 
 The company is moved, filing through a long line of boyaux, 
 horrible with sights and slushy from clay and water. At 
 13:00 o'clock we issue into a valley. It is the "Ravin du 
 Fer de Lance" which means "The Valley of the Iron 
 Lance." The 4th Regiment of Zouaves is deployed on the 
 slope. It is khakied and efficient-looking, and awaiting 
 marching orders. We are joined with this horde and imme- 
 
 *Gun. 
 fTrench. 
 $ Canteen. 
 
i88 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 diately ordered to scoop out small dug-outs as a temporary 
 protection against the shelling that increases as the day 
 wears on and is expected to be frightful by nightfall. 
 
 I suggest to two dusky huskies — my comrades in the 
 dug-out — that we proceed down the valley for water. They 
 look rather dubious. 
 
 "Go along," says Catelain, who is in on my reputation 
 with the 8th Company. "When he is with you, you cannot 
 be killed!" 
 
 "Well, that will be miraculous," asserts the fellow, "since 
 the gas-shells are coming over there in torrents." 
 
 "Never mind. Take your mask." I lead the way. The 
 French batteries have been advanced, according with the in- 
 fantry offensive, and posted along the valley bottom like 
 sentinels. They are firing heavily and quaking the earth. A 
 deep roar and reverberation breaks out with each small 
 flame from the cannon-mouths. Horses in frantic gallops 
 are parading the slope. 
 
 "Look out — here is a terror !" 
 
 What the Zouave refers to is a mad animal charging in 
 our direction. 
 
 "Never mind — ^he will veer!" I retort. 
 
 But he does not. He is crazed. He leaps and grunts and 
 flies over the ground with hrs eyes boiling from his head 
 like pop-balls. He lunges directly at me . . . my Zouave 
 friends pull me to one side — we roll in the meadow. The 
 horse passes by us, heat from his body mingling with the 
 wind. He is wild with fear — panic! How many times 
 have I not felt the same apparition of terror?— of blind- 
 ing, bursting. . . . 
 
 Well, then there are many wrecks of horses and men in 
 the valley. Broken caissons and steel bits scatter over the 
 terrain, morbid in their suggestion. The stinking corpses 
 of horse-flesh are a nesting-place for< flies that clutter and 
 feed. Those wounded quadrupeds that are able to lick 
 themselves, do so ; others cavort with bleeding wounds, roll 
 in the dirt, or squeal like whistling-bombs. 
 
 Now the gas-shells come over. We are in direct line. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 189 
 
 Our masks prove effective and we leap, and then, crawl 
 through. The batteries roar and bombard. The wounded 
 writhe in agony. The horses run. We look like great- 
 headed ogres, stalking through Hades. 
 
 In the evening, when we have returned safely and been 
 accordingly congratulated, a great surprise looms up. Cate- 
 lain shouts: "Hola! See, who is this coming toward us 
 like a spectre!" 
 
 But a very welcome "spectre" it is — Papa Niclausse! 
 He, with the balance of our company, has been in line 
 not very far removed, and is proceeding now toward head- 
 quarters. 
 
 "Well, boys, we gave you up for lost! How many are 
 here ?" he exclaims. We tell him twelve. "That is good be- 
 cause we have lost just twelve. You can fill up the ranks." 
 
 We hasten over to our old companions. More of them 
 are gone, though, than Papa Niclausse inferred, for twenty 
 are amoche.* Poor cabot is gone, and the tyrant — "Gran- 
 des-Ordlles." 
 
 Catelain shows immediate interest, interrupting our friend 
 from the South of France in the middle of a pinch of snuff 
 to enquire: "The .rowj-lieutenant — ^tell me, was he shot?" 
 
 The Gascon eyes him coldly, proceeding with his nip in 
 the most orderly fashion. After this he sneezes, his eyes 
 water and he says, "But, yes. A neater job I have not seen. 
 He des " 
 
 Catelain interrupts : "He was shot by the hochesf Why 
 the man was German !" 
 
 "What is that you say?" 
 
 "He was " lowering his voice, looking around, "how 
 
 do you know he was shot?" 
 
 Several voices join in now — of the poilus. 
 
 "Why, we saw him fall. It was a disgrace — cabot shot 
 him !" 
 
 "What— poor cabot!" I exclaim. 
 
 "He went crazy. But what is this you say about Ger- 
 man? The JOMJ-lieutenant was a Fritz ? You are crazy?" 
 
 ♦Wounded. ^ 
 
190 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "No," explains the ci-devant fashion-creator, "I am not. 
 I have a good memory and very little escapes me. Do you 
 remember that day in the Boisf Well, he ordered me about 
 with an arrogance that can only be accounted for in a 
 Prussian." 
 
 "Pah!" 
 
 "No, not pah ! I remember him farther back : it was at 
 
 the Maison of the C S , my shop in Paris. I was 
 
 called in to make a measurement, and there stands the 
 
 R , you know of the 'Chatelef — she wears the finest on 
 
 the French stage ... I make them for her," — with a touch 
 of pride— "and this man and another with a blond beard." 
 
 "'Excellenz!' says my joMj-lieutenant deferentially to 
 the blond beard. And 'Excellenz!' says Mademoiselle 
 
 R , addressing him in turn. And 'Herr Excellent 
 
 speaks in a thick tone, markedly German, and pays the 
 lady compliments." 
 
 "Maybe he also pays her bills !" spits out the Gascon ven- 
 omously. "But how does that prove the jowj-lieutenant 
 a German spy ?" 
 
 "It doesn't. But I just thought — ^here he is with an 
 
 'Excellenz' and with a woman of R 's reputation, whose 
 
 mother was a 'Frau,' and " 
 
 "You think too damn much, and anyway we are glad he's 
 dead!" 
 
 "Yes, we are!" 
 
 "He was a pest !" 
 
 "A million devils get him!" 
 
 And so on, the company expresses its regret ( ?) at the 
 passing of the ^owj-lieutenant. But one of the old boys, 
 who was a "valet de chambre" before the war in Stras- 
 bourg, nods his head, and addresses Catelain in a low tone. 
 
 "What would the Bureau have given to know all that? 
 He was hated like poison here, and that is a sure thing." 
 
 "Oui, my friend; the Bureau knows — I think. The lieu- 
 tenant was watching him." 
 
 "Ah! Then it is too bad that cabot interfered." 
 
 "How did it happen?" 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 191 
 
 "We passed over the first lines, and then, you see, 
 'Grandes-Oreille^ was standing up before the second-line 
 of Germans, and cahot right behind him at his heels. Well, 
 then, he had the lance-pierre* so. We were yelling . . . 
 a shell exploded right before us . . . the JOMj-lieutenant 
 hesitated — I don't know what was in his head — and looked 
 around, and that look inflamed the caporal, who was right 
 behind as I have said. He started to prance up and down, 
 screaming infernally . . . went insane, and jabbed at the 
 JOMJ-Iieutenant ! The officer had a right — he saw he was 
 crazy ... he raised his revolver . . . they both shot at 
 the same time, and we went right over into the trenches. 
 We came back from Fortin Becmsejour another way." 
 
 "I see. The two of them are missing." 
 
 Catelain remains thoughtful until one o'clock when we 
 are ordered up and on the move. 
 
 "So, Americain, I see you are still with us," smiles the 
 lieutenant, as we land on the other side of the Fer de Lance 
 in a blaze of rockets. 
 
 "Yes. But it may not last long. I have had some pretty 
 close calls." 
 
 "You will have plenty yet 1" 
 
 We are at the foot of the Fortin de Beausejour by this 
 time, on the ground that was fought over and conquered by 
 our forces the day previous. The rain energetically plies 
 the soil with its lasheS. Dull night lowers. Within an hour 
 the "Terribles Taureaux," which is our way of twisting 
 "Territorials," arrive on the scene laden with bread — a loaf 
 for each five men-^and pinard and gnole. The day dawns 
 slowly on a shivering miserable crew. We are out in the 
 open, unsheltered, unkempt, saturated without, and equally, 
 it is true, within! A morbid aspect stretches before our 
 eyes : a field of the slain. Perished human and perished ani- 
 mal are likewise putrefying for the carrion-crew. A hor- 
 rible racket is summoning up all these released souls — 
 blaring in the silence. It is the artillery at the bottom of 
 
 Rifle. 
 
192 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 the valley — two batteries strong. Constant, insistent, rock- 
 ing, flaring — the shots fire out. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching - 
 
 Marmites again! German devils' eulogium! 
 
 It is now the 27th of September in 191 5 and the hour is 
 six. We are ordered to the boyaux of the Fortin, to pass 
 through these and follow up the former battle with a sec- 
 ond. By nine the rain leaves off ; we await orders. 
 
 "Attack at fifteen o'clock, mes braves!" our sergeant 
 says. Shelling follows these ominous words with redoubled 
 vigour, hewing a path for the human hordes to penetrate. 
 The hoches answer with a formidable barrage. 
 
 The Battle of the Maison de Champagne 
 
 We throw ourselves flat into trenches of water and clay 
 to obviate loss of life. The barrage fire is a curtain of 
 the most virulent order. It comes out of the throats of 
 small and large batteries simultaneously, being launched 
 with the precise view of forestalling an attack. The light 
 calibres take the front lines, the heavy the reserve. In this 
 way reinforcement is choked off and the initial offensive 
 destroyed. 
 
 We are deployed directly in the centre of the attacking 
 columns, with the 2nd Battalion of Chasseurs from Lune- 
 ville, the nth Division from Nancy, and the Moroccan 
 Division — which has previously been attached to our corps — 
 on the left; and on the right the Colonial Army from the 
 "Main de Massiges." The trenches are badly wrecked — 
 consequently easy to evacuate. Half-level to the surface 
 terrain, it needs only a signal to depart to place us in the 
 running against Fritz. 
 
 Papa Niclausse holds watch in hand. Fifteen o'clock — 
 he must be exact! The roaring atmosphere thuds. The 
 moments spin around. He gives the order — he leads the 
 way — ^he leaps the parapet — ^he draws breath for the ad- 
 vance. . . . 
 
 He cries. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 193 
 
 "Eighth Company, en avant!"* 
 
 And — Papa Niclausse is no more ! 
 
 Holy Mother! One has got him through the brain! 
 Eighth Company, en avant! EIGHTH COMPANY, EN 
 AVANT! We widen our eyes, distend our nostrils. We 
 press our lips firmly together — and go ! 
 
 A deluge of mitrailleuse fire and shrapnel comes over. 
 The ground tears and explodes — ^the stones ricochet in the 
 air — the black smoke rolls. Heavy cannonading bears its 
 fruit and bodies fly in fifteen directions ! 
 
 We drive forward, ploughing through the hail. So many 
 men have fallen our lines are straggly. The boches then 
 are driven in the open. Like rats emanating from cess- 
 pools, they come out of their last holes. They fall back — 
 battling in the fields. Since the pregnable yester-eve there 
 was no time to throw up a fresh earthworks for our van- 
 quishing foes and they fall to their knees, coming rifle-to- 
 rifle with our lines. A fat, rather squatty hoche opposes 
 me. His rifle belches. I duck. Mine is levelled. He awaits 
 annihilation. It jams. ... I cannot fire — it is clogged with 
 clay from the trenches. He raises again. Again that un- 
 comfortable draught of air beside the ear! I crouch dizzily 
 and my hand touches something — another fusil! ■f I raise 
 it in triumph — fire ! He ducks. He rises. I leap forward 
 — we contact with bayonets! Now there is a duel, heavy 
 saw-edge Mauser against stiletto Lebel. I have my hands 
 full — he is powerful. . . . 
 
 "Cristi !" 
 
 A crash of a rifle beside me, and he goes over! It is 
 Catelain! We press on after the lieutenant together. He 
 is leading the company. 1 
 
 "A droite! The right is retreating!" 
 
 We go right, following the order without questioning it. 
 It has been issued by a sergeant, carrying on from the com- 
 mandant, and we lose the lieutenant. In that inferno it is 
 a marvel any order prevails. 
 
 ♦Forward. 
 fGun. 
 
194 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Which way, Catelain?" We hesitate, nonplussed. The 
 sergeant is on his knees, firing at the enemy; he shouts: 
 "Are you coining, Americain ?" 
 
 I respond : "Lead on — I will follow !" 
 
 I mean Catelain and myself. We start after him. He 
 takes only four steps and reels like a tipsy roisterer. I 
 hear Catelain commence to laugh, 
 
 "Courvoisier, what is the matter with you ?" 
 
 He makes no reply. He swings about on one foot, rock- 
 ing to and fro, a froth of blood forming on his lips — and 
 over-balances. The thud of his body contacting the earth is 
 like a log, and he bounces slightly. 
 
 Catelain looks dazed. His mouth twitches. "Stone dead," 
 he mumbles, and hesitates on that borderland. I have my 
 senses clearly and they tell me to move on. Which way? 
 Behind the commandant? He drops wounded ... he 
 clutches his side. . . . Now the battalion is without com- 
 mand. 
 
 "A droite!" commands my silent voice. I move right. 
 I go up a sharp hill. Malevolent thunder rocks the slope 
 underneath. Rifle bullets churn the air overhead. 
 
 Boom — ^boom — tzing ! Whrroar — cthung ! 
 
 Boom ! Crrashh ! Whrroarr ! 
 
 Boom ! Boom ! ! 
 
 Is there no path out of this — no opening? Are we in a 
 blind alley. A cul-de-sac — being led into the slaughter-pen ? 
 Can no man escape ? Must all living be churned and burned 
 alive ? What volcanoes ! What monstrous demon's blare ! 
 What up-heavings on earth! What man-made corruption 
 — bloodshed — insanity ! 
 
 Half-way up the whole hill-face becomes a blaze — it 
 dies again! A shriek and agitation in the air is followed 
 by draughts. Puffs of wind steal by — tickle my ears! 
 Noise looms up again. Long waving grasses go over under- 
 neath the scythe — men! Cries, like deep-wounded animals 
 at bay, wring from agonised throats of — men! Crushed 
 and bleeding husks lie trampled, vomiting bowels of what 
 were once — men ! And foremost, and fairest, and number- 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 19S 
 
 inff their survivors by not a single, solitary soul, are the 
 officers! The oificers! The clan of the noblest and most 
 heroic of French families — wiped out — shorn to a man — 
 officers ! 
 
 Tie melee is so enormous we go up jargoggled with 
 Chasjseurs, Zouaves. Tirailleurs, Colonials, Soudanese and 
 Senegalese, Parisians, Alsatians — in the face of the most 
 withering death-volley that ever spat from German guns in 
 a land of peace and plenty ! 
 
 There is a moment of hesitation — of consternation. When 
 panic rides easy and hysteria sits on the wind ! Every pair 
 of eyeg rolls dazedly — every soul revolts — every stomach 
 nauseates — every tongue licks. Breaths are bated — the 
 demon death cavorts! Fall back? Shall — shall— sh-al-1— 
 we-e? 
 
 Ooo — lorla — 000 — la-la — 000 — la-la — ohh ! 
 A blaring blast rings to the cerulean sky, blanketed by 
 char and smoke. A cheer goes up — voluminous — mighty! 
 The Zouave clarion ! It is the first time we have heard it at 
 the front. Melodious — irresistible! It drives us at the 
 enemy ! It is an electric bolt, flaring up the back, stinging 
 into the very vitals of each poilu — hurling him in the face 
 of his foes ! 
 
 We go over that hill like tigers — wild leopards! Shell 
 and thunder cannot daunt us — flame not break us! We 
 dare to assail — assault the impregnable! Our Arabs are 
 bellowing demons ; our negroes, pagans — ^barbarians — ^brutes, 
 hissing, crying to their heathen gods — ^beseeching their 
 idols ! Screams and shouts and holas announce the cyclone. 
 It advances — it is undeniable — it overwhelms the Teutons 
 . , . they cast about, fear rides them — they run! 
 
 We are after, and now the retreat is turned into a rout. 
 They abandon mitrailleuses, rifles and grenades, ammuni- 
 tion, coats and helmts. Everything is cast aside in the mad 
 panic of the moment. 
 
 And then — we pursue them too far. In our glee — ^in our 
 brutish, savage exuberance, we sweep all before us — but 
 ■what of that behind? Our own artillery sweeps us now 
 
196 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 cutting off our retreat in the face of fire ! We are caught 
 between opposing walls of explosives. The ordnance bel- 
 lows — it deluges us — it casts about raining particles, and 
 black men fall like charred limbs! The German batteries 
 lie before us, dead in their deadness — deserted. A great 
 Zouave leaps on a cannon-mouth, waving his little red flag 
 gloatingly to the atmosphere. The winds take it — spread 
 it ; the sanguine messenger reads true : our artillery curtain 
 ceases. 
 
 We look at one another. Our faces are black — our 
 capotes bloody. The hill and the Ferme Champagne are 
 ours! 
 
 Slowly the shadows of night encircle the scene. Our 
 order is to remain. But who sent the order? Nobody! 
 We have given ourselves the respite. We sit in a shell- 
 hole. . . . 
 
 "Nothing to do but smoke," says Catelain, rolling a 
 seche. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 He looks at me : "Is this a life, my copain?" 
 
 Boom ! Cthung — whrroarr ! 
 
 Like a pelt of hail rattling down, huge particles as big as 
 nuts bombard us! As big as nu — Why — they are nuts! 
 To be sure, a walnut tree spreads its lusty branches over our 
 retreat and a good-sized shell, singing its way over, sends 
 enough of the fruit into our laps to charm an Eden ! The 
 green outer-shells fall off easily as it is nutting-time. We 
 play the role of chipmunks. 
 
 Very soon a straggling volley, breaking over, announces 
 Fritz's resumption of hostilities. The enemy is counter- 
 attacking from the boyaux. We leap into a nearby trench, 
 half-completed and partially-protective, and return the fire. 
 Fortunately some of the Chasseurs have rockets left. These 
 go up in a blaze of signals for our barrage. 
 
 "Draw a bead on that miserable there," directs Catelain, 
 his own ammunition out — ^pointing to a helmet. I do so 
 and fire, but the culasse * jams. The barrel is scorching 
 
 *Breech-block. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 197 
 
 hot I toss it aside in favour of a Mauser — a big German 
 bedsuty, as weighty as it is efficient. It is clumsy, with the 
 regtilar bache rough-finish, but clip-loads, and the barrel is 
 half^covered with wood. There is plenty of ammunition in 
 the ti-ench to fit this monster. I go at it hammer-and-tongs, 
 and have the satisfaction of doubling the output of ray 
 copaiks each. The Mauser system can then fire two-to- 
 one on the Lehel! This is an interesting experiment ; while 
 they are rolling them into the magazine, I simply slip in 
 the chargeur — a brace of five cartridges on a brass cW$ — 
 and am ready-loaded for a volley. The hoche bullets are 
 lead, steel-coated and sharp ; ours, also pointed but of solid 
 copper. 
 
 After twenty minutes the counter-attack simmers, down 
 and the enemy has once more "tomber sur un bee," that is 
 — stubbed his toe. We deepen our works, pile up the 
 parapet; fresh troops come in to reinforce us. My record 
 for escapes under difficulties begins to be a slogan in the 
 regiment. It is "Send the Americain !" "Certainement, the 
 Americain can get through !" Therefore an officer from the 
 reinforcements, looking about for a possible messenger, 
 pounces on me. 
 
 "Do you know where is the brigade, man bravef" 
 
 "Oui. A la Borne Seise."* 
 
 "Take this message. There is no answer." 
 
 I take along my friend Catelain as well. 
 
 "We may find our company on the trip. I would rather 
 fight under De Courcy than any other." 
 
 "So would I !" 
 
 He is the commander now of the 8th. Since Papa 
 Niclausse went out — which is a heart-tragedy to us all — 
 De Courcy, gallant and sympathetic, commands most of our 
 sentiment. He is admirable 1 He is in every way a first- 
 rate officer, and a friend to all. 
 
 We pass out of the boyau and over the open field — the 
 battle-ground of the past hours. It is night. The moon is 
 streaming. Pale, opalescent beams cast over the whole 
 
 *Yes, at the Borne 16. 
 
igS THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 morbidia, lighting into occasional prominence some wan face 
 up-turned to the stars. There is a general moan from the 
 wounded. The throats cry for relief from their parch- 
 ment. 
 
 "Water! Water!" 
 
 Groans rumble, solemn and chilled. 
 
 "Oh, cafharade — oh, camarade, I suffer! Kill! Tue 
 moi!" 
 
 Another cry, high, piercing. "Oh, Mother of Mercy !" 
 
 t^nd others — from young boys — a single word, 
 
 "M-o-t-h-e-r!" 
 
 My eyes choke with tears. Terrible sight! Boche and 
 poilu alike — humped on that meadow of carnage, indis- 
 tinct clothes-heaps, armless, limbless, headless — soulless ! A 
 fit circling-ground for vulturous desire. 
 
 A half-raised figure clutches at my capote* It has hands 
 like any mortal, and arms, and a face — ^but no nose! And 
 one of the ears is missing. And it is sniffling — choking 
 
 "Kamarad — ^kama " 
 
 A boche! 
 
 "Dieu! — ^let us get out of this or I go mad!" Catelain ex- 
 claims, shoving at me from behind. I have the most mor- 
 bid sensation. I am wandering in a section of the under- 
 world. Hades stretches before me and all the souls of 
 Pluto's realm doing penance. For what ? For king's greed 
 or nation's lust, or the unholy sepulchre of hate? I am in 
 no hurry. I don't know fear — and panic is a negligible 
 quantity. Here, in this un-human surroundry, my better 
 self closes in and the outer shell callouses. What if men 
 die — from ferocious motives? What if they stab and lust 
 and slaughter and turn beasts ? Is that any reason to sym- 
 pathise? If one condone the motive, why question the re-' 
 suit? Why crow first and sob after? Why not sob first 
 and crow after ! That is what I am doing. No more mor- 
 bid thoughts. Men shall be things, living by the sword — 
 dying by the sword; a great pawn for a monstrous stake. 
 What is that stake ? Why it is — yes, what is it ? No matter • 
 
 *Coat. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 199 
 
 that either. One always gets along into the same circle 
 arguing nations. War is war ! It is a snake with its tail in 
 its mouth. 
 
 So, go on and cry "Mother!" — ^vapid faces with hidden 
 horns ! I shall step over and upon you with no more com- 
 punction than a snail. I shall see dead men, smell dead men, 
 eat beside them, drink over them, breathe them, hear them 
 beating their way into another soil — and, promptly forget 
 them ! I am hardened. I am through. . . . 
 
 Right there and then I know I am metamorphosed — 
 become a thing God never wanted me to be — insensible to 
 humane feelings. I shall know hysteria no more. 
 
 We enter into the horrible boyau leading to the Borne 
 16. It is slumped with dead men. We slip through, 
 shadowy, under the subtle guardianship of the moon, and 
 I laugh as Catelain slides over a maccdbe^ skinned on one 
 side. 
 
 He looks at me. 
 
 "A good ecorche, n'est-ce pas, mon copainf" I smirk. 
 I mean by this that the dead man would make a good 
 anatomical model for a clinic on the muscular system, since 
 he is deprived of his skin. 
 
 "Americain," says Catelain, "I believe you are going 
 crazy." 
 
 "Oh, no, Catelain," I reply, "I am just getting sane 1" 
 
 We follow to the Borne Seize. It is now seven o'clock 
 and it is the 28th of September. The battles of the Cham- 
 pagne have been fought through two chapters: Beausejour 
 and Maison de Champagne. I deliver my message, which 
 is not complex, and advance to the Territorials. These 
 boys, — ^they are more than that: from forty upwards! — 
 always have a good soup and bricheton * and wine. Every 
 sort of soldier swamps this Borne. The jumble is extraor- 
 dinary and dense. We fill our bidons f with water and light 
 a seche. Ah! boys from the 8th are down for the same 
 purpose and together we start for the Per de Lance to re- 
 
 ♦Bread. 
 tCanteens. 
 
200 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 join the old company. Directly before us three heads pro- 
 trude from a shell-hole cautiously to scout, bearing pointed 
 helmets! We see them — ^they see us, it is simultaneous! 
 They are inside our new lines. Up go our rifles — up go 
 their hands! We advance and investigate. It is a trium- 
 virate of German unter-oMziere,* a little gaunt, a little wan, 
 and thoroughly cowed. They have been in this shell-hole 
 for three days. So, at least, says one, fraternally, and in 
 French. Various wounds are now exhibited. One open- 
 ing in the calf of the leg; the second in the belly; the third 
 in the upper arm. They are all quite faint. Just at this 
 time the marmites of their compatriots commence a lively 
 tune. Shells hum over. Promptly we disgorge the con- 
 tents of an as de carreau f on the back of a maccabe J hum- 
 pled nearby. It vomits a boite de singe § and biscuits. This 
 ghoulish food is pounced upon by the ravenous amoche, and, 
 besides a drink from our canteens, constitutes all we can do 
 for them. We pass on. 
 
 We lose ourselves in the labyrinth of boyaux. The shell- 
 ing increases and draws unbecomingly close. 
 
 "He! Un train de plaisir!"^ shouts the caporal of the 
 corvee. We duck into a dug-out, pitchy-dark and dank. 
 I light a candle and here is an erubescent sight. The floor 
 is paved with blood. It has partially dried in, so a deep, 
 rich tone of pompaic flamboyance is imparted to every- 
 thing; and this flares before the rays of the candle a cruel 
 sight. Two men are poised against a wall of the guitoune. 
 One wears the Colonial khaki of a Zouave; the other the 
 greenish-grey of Father William. Through the belly of one 
 is the bayonet of the other; through the belly of the other 
 the bayonet of the one. Now, that serves as a brace. Both 
 are leering. Both seem determined to hold vigilance until 
 the crack of doom! 
 
 *Under-oiBcers. 
 
 ■f-Knapsack. 
 
 JDead man. 
 
 §Can of beef. 
 
 jfPleasure train, i.e., whistling shell. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 201 
 
 "Nom d'un diable! Have you ever seen anything just 
 like that ?" the caporal enunciates, tremulous. 
 
 Drip ! Drip — drip ! Drip ! 
 
 The crimson stream is flowing. The stench is slowly 
 rising. The faces of all are blanched. The sauce-pans 
 ring overhead. Hand-to-hand encounter must have been 
 the rule all through these boyaux, since similar sights are 
 to be found along the line at frequent intervals. Corpses 
 of Zouaves, shredded into minutest particles, mingle their 
 ash with boche-dead, equally minced. -The whole putrid 
 crew is spread through the trench almost level to the land, 
 and, agitating there with each fresh burst of artillery, what 
 is left is ground, what is ground is churned. Then the 
 whole process commences over again — a sullen determina- 
 tion on the part of the batteries to fertilise as excellently as 
 possible this part of the Champagne ! Grenades must have 
 their way, and generations their wine. 
 
 We start out with the first lull. There is no choice — ' 
 over we must go. The caporal starts through the sickening 
 pile on hands and knees, in hopes not to sink too infernally 
 deep. It sough-soughs — ogives gently beneath him — sucks 
 him down. He crawls on — we follow. We wallow — we 
 wade on. We nauseate and our stomachs vomit. We 
 choke, slimily crawling — through that dense human-flesh; 
 our hands slide over the slipperiness, clutch, expel ! Thus 
 along for a hundred and twenty metres. No opening in 
 the boyau to let us through ? We crawl back again. Back 
 and forth — ever back and forth — the caporal leads us, look- 
 ing for a break in the trench-wall . . . the slime-dance 
 
 continues At last we face the portal, we exit — green, 
 
 streaked with red. Is that the colour of a hedge-row — of 
 a heath, or fern-bog ? No — our faces ! We look like butch- 
 ers' whelps. Up to our knees and our elbows in cochineal — 
 the pigment of France's age-old slaughter! 
 
 An officer comes eye-to-eye with us just around the turn 
 of the trench. His look freezes — ^the pupils of his eyes 
 dilate with horror. He is too stunned to speak even after 
 we address him. Finally, 
 
202 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "The 8th Company is on the left," he gasps in reply to 
 the enquiry. "Remain, until after the barrage, in some 
 abri." 
 
 We do this. We smoke and dream and sleep, and after 
 the dark we start out again toward the lines. It is not 
 far. In half an hour we face the lieutenant, De Courcy. 
 
 "You, ' Americain ? I see we cannot lose you. Take a 
 position to the left — it is the hottest there." He waves me 
 away. I can hear him chuckle to the sergeant. 
 
 But how woefully small has become that ardent com- 
 pany! Before twenty metres I am at the end. A small 
 Parisian is here, winking and trying to keep awake. I 
 am reminded of "La-Terreur" and we speak together. 
 
 "Well, I see you are sleepy; supposing you sleep?" I 
 say at length because the poor little fellow has no more 
 backbone. 
 
 "Merci. But call me early if Fritz wakes up." 
 
 I promise this. He grunts and rolls up in a guitoune 
 and many hours pass. Toward morning the 2nd Battalion 
 of Chasseurs comes over to relieve us. 
 
 "Wake up, Velvelong!" I prod my small Parisian with 
 the lance-pierre. 
 
 He springs to his feet, 
 
 "What is it— Fritz?" 
 
 "We relieve." I roll a firm seche with my left hand. One 
 gets to be expert at this. We start for the Borne Seize, 
 and daylight and rain simultaneously find us at the mouth 
 of the boyau. Worse predica:ment than ever! The Ravin 
 is so jammed it is necessary to be at the lieutenant's heels 
 continuously to keep from losing him. 
 
 "Find shelter where you can," is his order. We scram- 
 ble for guitounes. They are already so full they project 
 poilus at every entrance. Then we make for an empty 
 ammunition wagon— Catelain, the petit Velvelong and my- 
 self, draw up our legs, open our bidons — comfort! Be- 
 tween us is a spread of German ham, French bread and 
 apple-sauce. We make short shrift. Drip — drip — drip go 
 our capotes. We are soaked clear through. But there is 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 203 
 
 one comfort : it has washed off the blood-lust — ^the hideous 
 nightmare of corpse-scaling. 
 
 We light a seche. 
 
 At ten we are ordered to the lines once more with the 
 battalion, to reserve near the Fer de Lance. The par- 
 ticular boyau is close to the Fortin de Beausejour. Again 
 the rain ceases and the sun supersedes and we dry our 
 clothing and rejoice at the wash. In fact, it is good to 
 rejoice — are we not behind De Courcy? Does he not know 
 the way 
 
 Cristi 1 He has lost himself ! 
 
 Again we are ploughing through horrors and again com- 
 ing out all blushing-red like brick-sweeps ! A steady stream 
 of marmites cuts through the palpitant air. The clay-dust 
 spumes up, opaquing everything, vanishing cadavers — 
 headless-trunks and trunkless-heads — ^veiling morbid wreck- 
 age. It blows aside and I contact a form in the boyau; it 
 lies crosswise, propped up, its skull crushed awry and brains 
 hanging over the telephone-wires by the side of the parapet. 
 Arms assail us — without further attachment ; legs trip from 
 underneath like police-sticks between a thief's legs. Rifles, 
 bayonets, helmets, knapsacks — ^an endless confusion of in- 
 extricable debris. The trench is full — sanguinary with pools 
 of man-wine, draining, dripping. 
 
 It is all of fourteen o'clock before we find the battalion. 
 We are as demonish as before! Stained and soiled and 
 stinking wet, without guitounes, meanly protected, target 
 for a hail of lead-^entrenched soldiers of France ! We dig 
 each a little hole to safeguard what is left whole — our 
 brains and bodies. We creep into these. We sleep. The 
 wife is just putting a steaming dish upon the table ; or the 
 sweetheart a steaming kiss upon the mouth; or the chil- 
 dren a rollicking game upon the knee — when nightfall brings 
 the company to its feet ... the lieutenant is speaking, 
 
 " ^be not surprised, boys — we have to attack in the 
 
 morning! I know it is bad. We are only sixty men left, 
 but that means we must fight all the harder and I know you 
 will do it." 
 
204 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Another battle, Americain?" Little Velvelong appears, 
 wiping his eyes. 
 
 "At three o'clock." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Ouvrage de la Defaite," supplies the sergeant, "and it 
 will be a hell-slaughter you may be sure." 
 
 This is not encouraging. 
 
 "I cannot stand much more of this," mumbles Velve- 
 long. 
 
 The sergeant rumbles in his throat : "Who can ?" 
 
 "Well, he can," says Catelain, designating me. "He 
 comes out of everything." 
 
 "I know. America is a marvellous country." 
 
 He has evidently heard the lieutenant say this. The 
 ravitaillement comes in at 21.00 o'clock. This is the first 
 time since Valmy and that was the 24th of September. • 
 
 "Good thing Fritz is generous," Catelain mutters. We 
 have been eating at his expense for five days. We take hot 
 jus* seething gnole,-f light up the ever-present seche. 
 
 The sergeant, puffing moodily, sighs several times. "I 
 feel, Americain, as if this were the last," he remarks 
 slowly. 
 
 "Last what?" 
 
 "The last seche." 
 
 "I have plenty more." 
 
 "No — that is not what I mean. I think it will be my 
 last." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "I have a feeling — I will be killed." 
 
 "Nonsense." 
 
 He shrugs. 
 
 "You have a chance like everybody else in the game." 
 
 "The game lasts too long. You see, Americain, I do not 
 bear a charmed life like you." He smiles a little, "I am 
 only — ^human." 
 
 "Pah !" This "charmed" business is getting on my nerves. 
 
 *Coffee. 
 t Brandy. 
 
( THE CHAMPAGNE 205 
 
 "You will survive. We will smoke together many more." 
 
 "In Paradise?" 
 
 He makes me very uncomfortable. Catelain comes over, 
 
 "What is the matter with the sergeant ?" 
 
 "// a le cafard,"* I say. "He thinks he will eat the salad 
 by the roots to-morrow." 
 
 "He needs what we all need — a decent bachot!" f 
 
 We have no notion of sleep. The little Velvelong has two 
 letters from Versailles, which he reads with renewed vigour 
 every ten or fifteen minutes. 
 
 "You would think he is going to die, the way he keeps 
 on mousing over the grisette," complains my copam, sniff- 
 ing contemptuously. 
 
 "She is no grisette !" exclaims the boy. 
 
 "Well, gomesse, then." 
 
 "Gonzesse neither. I am going to marry her!" 
 
 "I hope so," intones the sergeant rather solemnly, so 
 that we goose-flesh all over. 
 
 I fill my bidon with what is left of the coffee and brandy 
 — a weird mixture. At two in the morning we start forth. 
 
 The Battle of the Ouvrage de la Defaite 
 
 "Sac au dos et en avant!"X 
 
 Silently, like wraiths in dismal darkness, De Courcy 
 leads through the boyau. We are on the front within the 
 hour. "Silence!" is the order of the commandant. The 
 surprise attack is launched ten minutes later. We crawl 
 from the parapet as noiselessly as a petrified forest of trees 
 gathering momentum. It is darker than Erebus, and equally 
 uncanny. The slightest shower of rain commences to 
 trickle. It makes a gentle patter-patter over the ground. 
 We advance, breathing scarcely, and holding the grenades 
 poised. Shoulder-to-shoulder, shoulder-to-shoulder — eerie- 
 ness, emptiness speaks almost in the vast solitude. Not a 
 
 *He has the blues. 
 
 tBed. 
 
 {Shoulder knapsacks and forward. 
 
2o6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 rocket flares — not a shot from the lines, not a murmur from 
 the twin multitudes — not a suspicion of the creeping 
 death. . . . 
 
 We are on Fritz ! 
 
 The first warning — our own exploding hand-grenades 
 hurled with the accuracy of fiends into the narrow defile! 
 A succession of flame driving up at various points — a thun- 
 derous detonation, more, more — greater All at once 
 
 a piercing shriek slices the night, hideously — then rabble, 
 melee — turmoil! The nestling boches leap to the creneaux 
 like magic — all those that are not hors de combat — and a 
 mighty struggle breaks out along the line. 
 
 Rifles are discharged; mitrailleuses pour their leaden 
 spume into our ranks; rockets arise and illumine; batteries 
 break into belching, snorting cataclysm with the fierceness 
 and disregard of pagans! The elements, jealous of this 
 usurpation of their barbaric splendours, rave into ferocity, 
 casting lightning in dazzling processions through the sky. 
 Now the whole terrain is rocking like an inferno. The 
 rain falls in torrents, the thunder reverberates — leaps off 
 into the distance! Peal after peal reduces the man-made 
 cannonade to dwarfishness in comparison. 
 
 Through this dense, vibrating curtain we fare — ^battling 
 hand to hand. The boches give back, the line bends — 
 breaks! We pour into the earthworks, massacring with 
 ruthless energy. Not a stick or stone is left whole; not a 
 single German taken alive! Those still with two good 
 legs retreat, bringing up far in the rear to the strongly for- 
 tified position known as the "Defcdte." It is a hill. Bat- 
 teries blare before it — spit venom. We cannot proceed too 
 far. But we do ! We go up — and on, staggering with the 
 blood-lust now compelling. 
 
 The sinister night-elements persist. They are with us, 
 blanketing our constant gains with the torrential downpour. 
 It serves as a veil — disguises ! 
 
 I have Catelain on one side and the sergeant on the other. 
 They go with me halfway up the hill. A single shell 
 breaking the ground before us hurls me flat on my face! 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 207 
 
 I lie stunned — still — the surge goes over ... I rise and 
 totter — I am alone — upright. On one side, prone, is the 
 sergeant, face up, glaring, his body severed in the middle 
 by a scrap of the explosion. Catelain on the other side is 
 moaning. I go to him and one wrist shows up — a. stump ! 
 An explosive bullet has done that. 
 
 Shall I go on? Behind, is our own reserve force com- 
 ing up with flashing guns ; before 
 
 Suddenly the whole line doubles Tjack and comes down 
 headlong! They have ventured too far. The gun-fire is ir- 
 resistible. We fall to the reserves and respite there, gath- 
 ering new energy for the assault. Six minutes later we try a 
 second time. 
 
 The lieutenant precedes me. De Courcy says, 
 
 "Americain, if you stay with me, you get the 'Croix de 
 Guerre'!" 
 
 "My lieutenant, I am with you wherever you go ! Lead 
 on !" I reply. 
 
 He starts up. He is two leaps ahead, and the company 
 behind us. I see- now the attempt is suicidal. A single line 
 of fire bursts out above — it withers down on us. De Courcy 
 hesitates, sways, crumples into my arms ! He is dead with 
 six bullets through his breast! A concerted groan goes 
 up from all behind us. They are dropping like leaves. 
 They see their beloved officer fall. I am dismayed ! But all 
 at once comes the knowledge we are without a commander 
 and riot sets in. The slow day dawns. It finds us thinning 
 in ranks like a forest of trees in winter. Not many men 
 are left. 
 
 "For the third assault !" 
 
 It is the prder coming up from below. The reinforce- 
 ments are behind. We must go on ... it is in the 
 scheme of things, it cannot fail ! 
 
 We go mad ! We are half-crazed ! I poise on a rise of 
 earth above a deep shell-hole, silhouette against the blaze 
 and cry with all my strength : 
 
 "En avant, mes copains — on les aura!"* 
 ♦Forward, my friends — we will get them! 
 
2o8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 A white-hot flash paralyses my eye-muscles for an in- 
 stant ... all goes black ! ^ 
 
 On the 30th of September in bright daylight, I come to. 
 It is in the bottom of a trench, swimming to and fro in 
 the most insecure manner. I blinlc once or twice — recog- 
 nise Velvelong. The little Parisian has a red gash across 
 his cheek. He is trying to get the jam out of his rifle. 
 
 "Why does this trench rock?" I murmur. 
 
 He springs up and comes over to me. 
 
 "How do you feel?" 
 
 "I don't know. What time is it? Where are we?" 
 
 "Two o'clock, and this is a German trench." 
 
 "Over the Defaite?" 
 
 "No. Below. We broke in the assault ; we were too few. 
 Here, drink this." 
 
 He puts brandy and coffee to my teeth. 
 
 "You have been robbing my sac, you beggar!" I look 
 at him in admiration. My colour floods back. 
 
 Velvelong says impressively : "You tried your best to go 
 out this morning, but you see it is not so easy. You 
 fell into the shell-hole, hollering like a demon, and instead 
 of remaining there, you rose out, screaming like an idiot. 
 You are a fool ! The shells coming over like a blanket, I 
 got you by the capote"^ and pulled you down. Luckily, you 
 stayed there! Americain, you have the devil's own talis- 
 man — ^you struck your head. Well, that was enough to 
 lay you out. By all the Saints in the Calender, if you had 
 risen a third time, I should have let you die! We were 
 ordered back here — into the first German trench we took in 
 the beginning of the offensive. A Zouave and myself 
 brought you down. We cannot lose the mascot of the 
 regiment," he smiles timidly as if in explanation. 
 
 This is unusual consideration ! 
 
 I think a while . . . 
 
 "De Courcy is dead, is he not?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "And the sergeant?" 
 
 *Coat. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 209 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "And Catelain?" 
 
 "I believe so. Amoche* anyway." 
 
 "Then who is left?" 
 
 "Only you and I in our half-section. Americain. The 
 long line thins." 
 
 I settle back with a head that beats like hammers. Hot 
 fever burns. I shut my eyes and think. To Velvelong I 
 owe — ^life itself! This child — this mere youth of stripling 
 teens, to him I owe — what he deserves ! What can a man 
 wish another in this mad rhapsody ? Only that he come out 
 of it alive. I wish him that. And that he marry his — ^his 
 poule.'f 
 
 "See my sac — it has been pierced in two places." He 
 shows it to me with pride. "But I am not touched. Per- 
 haps I shall become as immune as you!" 
 
 Of course he is a comparative new-comer in the com- 
 pany, or this would be funny. He thinks what the others 
 believed — I bear a charmed life. Sd! — perhaps I do! 
 My patte d'epaule t is shot clean off the shoulder ! 
 
 We are ordered back to the Borne 16. By October ist, 
 in the morning, we arrive. New guitounes have been built 
 and we lodge quite finely — especially so as "the long 
 line" has thinned indeed ! The appel § shows twenty-seven 
 men remaining from a company of two hundred and forty- 
 five! At Valmy on September 24th — six days before — 
 were two hundred and eighteen souls that will awake to 
 battle no more. We are two sergeants, three caporals, 
 twenty men, and Velvelong and I — the Eighth Company! 
 It is amazing. 
 
 Reinforcements arrive with the next day-dawn from the 
 depot. In command is a first-lieutenant — the former sous- 
 lieutenant of our company in Arras. He went down with a 
 
 ♦Wounded. 
 
 t Chicken — ^pet name for sweetheart. 
 
 i Padded gun-rest fastened to both shoulders. 
 
 §RoU-calL 
 
2IO THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 bullet-wound in his thigh — grilled in the orchard near La 
 Targette. 
 
 "Well, Americain," he says, "where are all the boys that 
 were with us in Belgium?" 
 
 I respond : "That is oroblematical — either in Heaven or 
 Hell." 
 
 "Dieu! And your stripes?" 
 
 I shrug. He takes it I want them, I presume, for two 
 days later I am transferred. - It is to the liaison de com- 
 mandant, to handle messages between the commandant and 
 the captain, and the post carries "sardines."* I reject 
 these — the earlier reason still holding good for my mod- 
 esty ! — and proceed with the boys ahead of the battalion into 
 the trenches. This is the 5th of October. It is again weep- 
 ing rain, gentle sadness floating down from the heavens— 
 in pity, perhaps. . . . We cross the Fer de LanCe. Inter- 
 minable boyaux intersect here. It is pitch black. Who 
 knows the way ? Nobody. 
 
 "Voila, we are lost ! Let us rest in a guitoune till morn- 
 ing." This suggestion of one in the company meets with 
 general approval. We search out a place. We are without 
 matches or candle. We shrug and pass in. Evil-smelling 
 is the soil — stenchy, mouldy. A peculiar noise startles. It 
 scratches — scrambles. It is running — jumping. Just a 
 small noise, but unwholesome — scranching now, and 
 craunching — rushing around in squeaky, jerky persistence! 
 
 "What is this?" somebody mutters, husky-toned. 
 
 We listen again — we feel out. We lie down and try to 
 fall asleep. Nobody sleeps, however. Toward morning 
 the light filters in very leaden. Small forms are crawling 
 over us, picking with their feet at our bandes mdletiires,\ 
 marching upon our bellies, investigating with their noses. A 
 hairy something tickles my cheek, sniffs and withdraws. I 
 shudder all over. The fumes from this little something are 
 enormous. 
 
 *Slang for stripes, 
 t Leggings. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 21 1 
 
 Growing dajr discovers a loathesome aspect — maccabes* 
 lying in congested heaps in the corners, gnawed over by 
 rats as big as cats, scuffling over the human food. There 
 is a grand circuit race. Papa Rodent out-distances his 
 younger but less athletic son, Mamma hanging off in the 
 distance. She is a voracious creature. She gnaws and 
 slobbers an ear hanging by a slender thread from its cor- 
 respondent head. The auricle is in a grisly condition. 
 
 Eh Hen, there is good in all things. With so much tooth- 
 some putridity, the live genus homo is at least undis- 
 turbed ! 
 
 I rise with much celerity from my bachot'f beside a 
 maccabe, breathe deeply with relief — a mouthful of germ- 
 laden air ! — and join the hosts who are fighting totos. The 
 whole front of my liquetteX is a nesting harvest. They 
 are in quantities so supreme that the multiplication-table 
 goes out of business completely! What is there to do — ■ 
 but to light up a seche and play optimist ? We all go out- 
 side. We start after the battalion, which has forged ahead 
 and is already in formation for an immediate offensive. 
 The nine o'clock attacking order is, however, counter- 
 manded, and the weather turns cold and cloudy. We stand, 
 resting on either foot in turn, in a clayey hoyau half-filled 
 with rain. There has been no drainage. 
 
 "Step on, Americain. See if you cannot move farther 
 up," nudges a Savoyard,% who is smoking. He is deep 
 in a puddle of water with one foot. I move to accommodate 
 him, rolling a seche on my own account. 
 
 "Donne moi du riMe!" 1 
 
 He gives me his butt. 
 
 Wheeee — crraa-whrroarr 1 
 
 Tremendous explosion shatters the parapet — rocks the 
 boyau! I am enveloped in blinding smoke. Dirt flies into 
 
 *Dead men. 
 
 tBed. 
 
 tShirt. 
 
 § Native from the province of Savoie. 
 
 fCive me a light! 
 
212 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 every pore — congests the throat. Eyes cloud, backs wrench 
 — a heavy, stunning sensation strikes me behind one ear and 
 I lose breath . . . 
 
 "Cristi!" I choke, when everything settles. "le suis 
 touche!"* 
 
 The boys, huddled in wide-eyed dismay, shout: 
 
 "What is it, Americain — are you amiochef" 
 
 "Jesu! He is touched in the legs!" 
 
 "Voyez — the Americain is really done this time! Mille 
 tonnerre!" 
 
 They presume, of course, now the whole regiment will 
 get it. The blood runs down my cheek, mingling with a 
 crimson stream lower down at the knees. I am soaked, 
 rifle and all. I respond: "Nothing the matter with the 
 legs. I can walk. It is the head." 
 
 One of them examines, exclaiming: "La-la, it is noth- 
 ing — a mere scratch! A little fragment scraped him in 
 passing." 
 
 But my bloody knees ? 
 
 The poor Savoyard is accountable for this — ^he is sliced in 
 two 1 He was upright ; he is now disassociated parts — head, 
 and torse in one, thighs and ankles in another. Horrified 
 I ejaculate: "Ah — \h.t Savoyard !" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "I was there ! He — I He told me to move . . ." 
 
 We start from the spot, marching silently through the 
 boyau until sixteen o'clock. Then we are on the other side 
 of the Ferme Champagne and assigned to a sector of the 
 front. The liaison holds forth directly behind the first lines. 
 Composed of one man from each company of the battalion, 
 a messenger is therefore constantly at hand to communicate 
 the commandants orders to the captains. 
 
 Our nearest guitoune is a former boche-depot one hun- 
 dred metres removed. It is well-demolished, badly stocked 
 and gruesomely inhabited — a charming combination! We 
 drag the maccabes out. We ransack the stores and find 
 sewing-machines, looking-glasses and rocking-chairs. Fritz 
 
 *I am touched! 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 213 
 
 has piled in the whole village! News-sheets and letters 
 are also here aplenty; and church-books and rosaries. 
 Nothing of use. Not a litre of beer. 
 
 "I prefer the lines and ravitaillement," says my closest 
 neighbour, a caporal. "Let us go back." 
 
 Behind us is the cemetery — a newly-dug and generously- 
 inhabited nest of crosses. The Territorials have been in- 
 terring all night. They shoulder their shovels — ^parade 
 away. The air is still. The corpses sleep. 
 
 Then vibrant, like a hundred humming-bees, a slow tingle 
 awakes. It seems we are getting attuned. We learn to 
 know in advance the suggestion of bombardment. The 
 caporal signals me to hurry. I stumble along in his wake, 
 skipping shell-holes. The slow tingle crystallizes — it flares 
 up — it blows over — it whistles by — it jars and strikes! A 
 roar — another — ^third 
 
 Boom! Whizz — roarr! Boom! Boom! 
 
 In the thick of it, there is no way out but to flatten. The 
 marmites beat over, gaining momentarily more ferocity. 
 They clatter — they scream and break. They send up 
 whirlpools of clayey dust. Smoke grimes — clouding, cir- 
 cling. We breathe in snatches. A great, gashing curtain 
 of fire rains overhead into the cemetery. It falls on the 
 crosses, demolishing them. It reattacks in rage, churning 
 up bodies. Flesh-pots go bursting — legs — arms 
 
 For a Hades this cannot be matched ! 
 
 Enchanted, we watch the demolition. Whole half-rotted 
 bodies are cast up in all their filthy nakedness — fearful 
 stench! Clothing, ripped, is tossed to the winds. The 
 whole thing gone over, rebroken, rescrambled — ^assorted, 
 flung wide again — descended 
 
 Rrrip! Smashh!' Whrroar! 
 
 We make our way to the guitoune with the first lull at 
 night. The Territorials file over — ^the whole graveyard is 
 re-dug — repaired. 
 
 The rats and totos keep us on feverish edge the remaining 
 hours. It is one thing to fight — another to feast rodents. 
 Not a morsel of bread remains in the sacs by morning. We 
 
214 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 are relieved at dawn. We withdraw to Minaucourt — a de- 
 stroyed village on a destroyed highway. A destroyed cel- 
 lar serves as a shelter to us through the following nights; 
 our only consolation is in destroying our hunger! 
 
 We go next to Gizaucourt. It is warm Autumn. It is a 
 quiet town. It must have been a noisy one. Fighting has 
 carried on here. Boche graves litter the countryside ; poilu 
 crosses, the village cemetery. The Champagne in this 
 vicinity is a sterile waste — it registers no red or white rich 
 wine. "Champagne PouUleuse"* thte natives call it. Troops 
 cram in from the trenches. It-is this way they rest, obtain- 
 ing a few days of respite in snatches from the racking shell- 
 fire. 
 
 Little hero Velvelong seeks me out with a wish that we 
 might both be transferred. "I am tired of this monotonous 
 grind." i 
 
 "Where do you wish to go ? It is the same everywhere." 
 
 "I know. ButV change of scene — anywhere — Paris " 
 
 I laugh. \ 
 
 "That reminds me;^ I have a letter from a Parisian — it 
 is the 'Terreur' from the Villette I told you of. He is in a 
 hospital in Neuilly." 
 
 "No place for a Parisian!" 
 
 "I know it. But he says: (I read) 'It is the worst of 
 luck. One has to drink milk just like a baby. No pinardf 
 — ^no snuffing tobacco. Diable for the hospitals!' He is 
 quite emphatic." 
 
 We have a good laugh over "La-Terreur's" letter. The 
 balance of it has to do with crutches and a dentist ; and he 
 ends up with the inevitable: 
 
 "Take it in the abatis,t Americain, or you will be killed 
 sure!" 
 
 "He wishes you all kinds of luck," says Velvelong, as I 
 fold the letter. "Let us go to a bistro."^ 
 
 ♦Lousy Champagne. 
 
 •fWJne. 
 
 JLegs. 
 
 §Drinking-house. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 215 
 
 It is now October 15th. Fresh reinforcements are 
 heralded in. Some of the Arras boys are back. We de- 
 part Gizaucourt three days later, are packed in auto-busses 
 as far as Wargemoulin, and tramped from there to the 
 lines. The 418th Regiment hails us with various demonstra- 
 tions of joy. They file out and we scramble for locations. 
 We are in a small side trench, communicating between the 
 initial and the reserve lines, and in every way comfortable 
 and solid. Teutons have done this. They have con- 
 structed the guitoune as a commanding post where a colonel 
 of artillery possibly held forth before our gains. It has 
 two floors and house-keeping privileges, containing stove, 
 bunks, card-table and chairs ; telephone booth is adjoining, 
 and all other pre-requisites. 
 
 Jean Raas, messenger of the 2nd Company, stretches him- 
 self immediately on a bunk. "Leave word — I am not at 
 home," he says, yawning; and amid the laughter of the 
 liaison, falls into a deep and noiseless sleep. 
 
 This "Villa Potsdam," then, becomes our residence for 
 the present. It is so habitable, it is a shame to ever evacu- 
 ate it. Great iron girders span overhead, padded in with 
 sacks, wooden beams, stones and earth. No 155 mil- 
 limetre shell could budge it. We are safe ! 
 
 Our duties are far too light. Which shows that the 
 genus homo is never satisfied. We are djfing of ennui. 
 Overhead rumbles a terror, smashes and breaks with 
 beautiful results, and we are — far below. It is discourag- 
 ing. 
 
 "Perhaps we can get some action at the Per de Lance." 
 
 The caporal saying this starts out for the ravitaillement* 
 located there. He brings me a letter — from Catelain. 
 
 "Well, did you get some action ?" 
 
 "Non. A few You-Yous; that is, six men of the lOth 
 went out — they blew up with their own grenades." 
 
 "How was that?" 
 
 "A new man held on too long. It smashed the parapet. 
 Well, what does he say ?" He refers to the letter. 
 
 ♦Food service.** 
 
2i6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "You know Catelain?" 
 
 "Very well." 
 
 "He is in a hospital in Orleans. His right hand is blown 
 off." 
 
 "He is through then." 
 
 He sighs. 
 
 In Gizaucourt five days later a new mitrailleuse com- 
 pany is formed. Pierre Rass, the brother of Jean — the 
 
 messenger of the 2nd , is a member here. He asks me 
 
 "Why don't you volunteer, Americain? We have plenty 
 of good times and no packs on the back." 
 
 Now this is true. The wagons of the machine-gun com- 
 panies carry the personal effects of the crews as well. I 
 hasten to prefer my request. It is accepted, and with it 
 I obtain a permission for seven days' respite. These per- 
 missions are granted every six months if a man has been 
 fighting at the front, and I have been on duty for thirty-four 
 consecutive weeks already! 
 
 "When will I get my furlough ?" 
 
 The sergeant-major replies: "In two or three days — 
 wait." 
 
 That night we cook with the new scientific preparation — 
 solidified alcohol. It tests out and is attached to the equip- 
 ment in Gizaucourt. I take an extra one to the "Villa Pots- 
 dam" from Pierre Raas. 
 
 "Here, Jean; your brother sent you this from the vil- 
 lage," I say to him. 
 
 He handles it very gingerly, sniffing the alcohol, afraid 
 of a joke. 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "Try." I strike a match, applying it to the tin-can. It 
 flares up. "Don't be scared — it will not explode. It is to 
 cook your frichti.* Now you can eat warm all Winter." 
 
 "Sacre diable!" He sets his jus^ to boil. "That is a 
 great scheme." 
 
 We take ou*- turns at the relief. Some of us go down, 
 
 *Food. 
 t Coffee. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 217 
 
 some come up, but always along the worn road from Gizau- 
 court to the "Villa Potsdam." A violent explosion catches 
 us one night — one of the 105s thundering onto the guitoune. 
 It swings aloft a girder, solid steel with the ease of a 
 tooth-pick ! — thuds it down into the boyau. Vague cries and 
 scrambling of bodies accompany this. There is a jargon 
 of stone and bone. The next day six men, united in ef- 
 fort, are required to put the steel-piece back. They 
 uncover four bodies. 
 
 The liaison, having very light duties, super-imposes a few. 
 We make finger-rings of aluminum shell-tops. The German 
 77s have these bands about them, and when any fall near 
 they are immediately pounced upon. A sculptor of the 
 Montmartre in Paris erects a clay ,replica of Papa Niclausse. 
 This calls forth a good deal of lanientation and pathos from 
 the 8th, a company sorrowful to the core. Our late captain 
 is much regretted. We loved him well ! 
 
 We have a visit from the chaplain who comes to say 
 mass for the departed. 
 
 "Inform Lieutenant Lacaverne we should like two rep- 
 resentatives from his company," says the commandant to 
 me. 
 
 I salute and carry word to the 8th. 
 
 "Select whom you please," is the reply. 
 
 "I should like Velvelong." 
 
 "Well, that is impossible," says a sergeant. "He is dead." 
 
 "How? Velvelong— the little Parisian?"' 
 
 "Killed on poste d'ecoute."* 
 
 That is sad news for me. I turn away with a tremor. 
 Young Velvelong — with his scarce-formed moustache — ^his 
 amiable smile and still trebling laughter? Impossible — 
 dead! 
 
 "Are you sure?" 
 
 "You go, Moliere; and take somebody else," says the 
 lieutenant to the sergeant. 
 
 We start back together — to mass. Before the ceremony 
 is over a furious barrage-fire bursts all along the line. Sud- 
 
 *Out-post duty. 
 
2l8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 denly instituted, it is vigorously pursued. The Teutons 
 have been massing for this semi-of3Eensive since our earlier 
 gains. We are sent out by the commandant to reconnoitre. 
 
 My former company, the 8th, is lined behind the parapet 
 for action. Every man is an image — graven. Not a tense 
 muscle moves. Not an eye glances as a marmite swings 
 overhead, breaks, ching-chings, into the parados.' Not a 
 rifle responds, not a mitrailleuse fires. Unflinchingly the 
 silent army watches. The shelling keeps up from the Ger- 
 man side. Twenty minutes later Fritz comes over ! 
 
 Immediately a huge red rocket buds up for the 75s. Our 
 batteries break forth — launch a deadly curtain behind the 
 advancing troops, cutting oflf their reinforcements. They 
 cannot retreat. They are doomed! They stagger — hesi- 
 tate — persist. . . . 
 
 Still no fire from the watching silent line of French. 
 They hold their position, taciturn lance-pierres* poised, 
 brows darker than thunder-clouds in August. The Ger- 
 mans come on. They cross the valley — ^they approach the 
 entanglements — touch the wire 
 
 C-c-cras-s-sh-h ! ! 
 
 One whole line of fire goes smoking upward! One 
 whole contingent falls! The "gully of sighs" becomes a 
 reeking inferno. The Lehels blaze and blaze and the mitrail- 
 leuses hum ! A corn-field waving in brisk Summer style col- 
 lapses under the scythe. So is this ! Not a stalk remains — 
 not an upright man in the whole field of slain ! 
 
 When the havoc concludes, twelve minutes have been 
 consumed and four German companies wiped clean! All 
 remains quiet along the sector after this period. I make 
 my report to the commandant. I go down to the ravitaille- 
 ment. The kitchens are deserted, and all along the Fer de 
 Lance traces of shell-fire. 
 
 Jean Raa,s says, seeing the bread- and brandy-wagons 
 intact: "It is just as well; let us help ourselves, my 
 frangin." 
 
 We dig in with a will. The You-Yous sing their peculiar 
 
 ♦Rifles. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 219 
 
 dirge over-head, and in every guitoune curious faces 
 are wondering how we will fare in the open. These cooks 
 are the most craven ever! 
 
 "Poltrons!* We will rob the entire wagon 1" shouts Jean. 
 
 "Espece d'andouille! You will see what you get from 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 All heads go in. We duck and escape annihilation. 
 
 "Come, that is enough; let us go back." I start up the 
 hoyau. He follows, reeling from his gnole;^ and after him 
 the entire corvee. 
 
 "See here," says one of them, "Jean is drunk !" 
 
 "Just let your mother see you, Jean !" shouts another. 
 
 "Ah-ha. Pierre will tell her." 
 
 "Leave it to him!" 
 
 "For shame! For shame!" 
 
 They are all guying the poor, ungainly fellow, who 
 blushes rosy red. 
 
 "He is one of twins and they come from the Sus St. 
 Leger. Their mother raises them like infants. I know 
 her," volunteers a member of the corvee in my ear. No- 
 body minds the marmites — nobody, the passing telegraph 
 units. 
 
 Sus St. Leger! Pierre and Jean! That sounds familiar. 
 When he has slept off his drunk I question him further. 
 
 "Mais, mille tonnerre! It was your mother served us 
 pinard in Arras!" I exclaim. "This is truly marvellous! 
 She told us — we were three then, a tall Parisian from the 
 VUlette, a boy from Epinal, and myself — that her two were 
 in the Champagne. And tell me, Jean," I say, laughing, 
 "do you wash your ears now? You have no fresh linen 
 in a long time. Shame ! Shame !" 
 
 The poor boy is covered with the greatest embarrass- 
 ment. He asks me then about his mother, from whom he 
 has been separated for nine months — the longest period in 
 his life. "Tell Pierre ; he will be astounded !" 
 
 ♦Cowards I 
 t Brandy. 
 
220 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 I promise to do this. 
 
 The 5th of November in Gizaucourt a great piece of 
 news comes in : our pay is raised from the munificent sum of 
 one cent a day to the unbehevable fortune of five ! Tasting 
 prosperity, then, an expedition puts out over the parapet 
 in a snow-blown, misty dawn to reclaim ordnance. There 
 are twelve of us, myself included. We crawl entre les 
 lignes, gather together as many rifles and bayonets as pos- 
 sible, bunch them, drag them in — and without a fatality! 
 We sell them back to the commandant at one franc each 
 per rifle and ten sous for the rosalies.* 
 
 I have thirteen francs and fifty centimes. Extrava- 
 gant wealth! And all this by daring Fritz's fire for only 
 twenty minutes and climbing a mountain of rat-eaten mac- 
 cabes!'\ Surely every hire is not worth its labour! 
 
 On the 29th of November in rain and slushing mud I de- 
 part for Gizaucourt from the "Villa Potsdam" for the last 
 time. I am appointed to the machine-gun company — ^the 
 2nd Mitrailleuse of the 78th Brigade. This is composed of 
 volunteers from the is6th and i6oth Infantry ; and, strangely 
 enough, the four surviving members of the original Ypres 
 company of 258 men — all that is left of our valiant 8th in its 
 true and unalloyed form — are included in its roster ! There 
 is myself, Meroit, the Gascon, who uses snuffing tobacco, 
 Perclun and a caporcd. 
 
 We face each other over a reminiscence. 
 
 "Let us see who will be the last to go," says the caporal. 
 
 "It will be the Americain," says Perclun, quietly. 
 
 "If I am the last there will be nobody to see me," I com- 
 plain. 
 
 Meroit takes a pinch of snuff. 
 
 "Ah, that is bad. Nobody to see him. How do we know 
 he is the last if we cannot see him ? No, my copains, some- 
 body has to watch Frangois." 
 
 "Then," says the caporal, "somebody has to watch the 
 man who is watching him !" 
 
 ♦Bayonets. 
 tDead Men. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 221 
 
 "True." 
 
 "And a fourth man, him !" 
 
 "Oui!" 
 
 "We better all live!" we shout, going off into peals of 
 hilarity and shaking hands all around. 
 
 The mitrailleuse company has, besides us, 121 men, di- 
 vided into four sections of two machines each. Now in this 
 way each rapid-firer is operated by a pourvoyeur, who sup- 
 plies the ammunition, a chargeur, who loads it into the gun, 
 and a tireur, who pulls the trigger, and a reserve crew is 
 ever in the background. A caporal is in charge of each 
 outfit, a sergeant each two, a lieutenant commands the 
 sections, and the captain oversees all. Eight echelons* 
 mule-drawn, carry the guns, and eight the munitions, and 
 four caissons^ the reserve ammunition and sacs of the men. 
 The mitrailleuses are the model "St. Etienne — 190^," fed 
 by metallic bands containing each twenty-five cartouches,^ 
 and gas-cooled. 
 
 At this same period the Teutons are using Maxim Rapid- 
 Firers, water-cooled, and fed by cloth bands of metallic 
 clips containing each 250 shots. 
 
 We form in Voilement, two miles removed from Gizau- 
 court, and here we line up for permissions. Mine, how- 
 ever, comes only two nights later, when, in the midst of a 
 sound sleep, the sergeant-major brings me to my feet. 
 
 "Come, Americain, there is no time to lose ! Get your 
 train!" 
 
 "Pourquoi?" I am dazed. 
 
 "Permission." 
 
 "Ou — la — la!" I jump and spring like a boy. I race 
 away for the train. Dirty and unkempt like any tramp, 
 from Valmy to Chalons-sur-Marne, and to Paris, seems like 
 a dream. I am on my way to peace — civilisation — ^happi- 
 ness! What if it be but seven days of sanity? What if I 
 am stubble-bearded? Sour-uniformed— toto-ridden ? Am 
 
 ♦Small wagons, 
 t Large wagons. 
 jCartridges. 
 
222 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 I not free — and away from war — and my own "boss"? 
 
 I sweep into Paris like a conquering master — and how 
 that seven days passes over, I have no recollection! It is 
 one great orgy of forget fulness. Not wine — not women — 
 God no ! Not one would have cast on me an eye — ^but pity, 
 for the rank, dank, brutish thing I have become. But ob- 
 literation of shelling and shell-horrors, mangled corpses, 
 rat-eaten dugouts and slimy boyaux — all those innumerable 
 things that go to make up the most glorious war of history ! 
 — this I have undertaken and I endeavour to forget, forget 
 — always to forget! And then — just on the borderland 
 of' absolute forgetfulness, strolling down the Avenue 
 de I'Opera, I come face to face with a man without a jaw! 
 
 Jandray ! 
 
 And he recognises me and brings me back and loads me 
 down with queries about war — always and always the same 
 ■ — about war; and I answer him in a distracted sort of way; 
 and he invites me to a picture. Then we sit and we see — 
 all about war, and I go out and we talk war, sitting in a 
 cafe. Then he laughs at me — the best way he can without 
 a jaw! — and he mouths: "When do you go back?" And I 
 say "Demain."* And he says : "Too bad, Americain, you 
 will be killed !" And I bid good-bye to "La-Terreur," and 
 now I am back at the front — that is to say, Voilemont, look- 
 ing for my company, and seeing instead an emplacement of 
 artillery and the busy batteries lying idle and still, breathing 
 perhaps just a little. 
 
 I sleep in a hay-stack like a boy — ^and break bread with 
 the artilleurs. They point me out Gizaucourt, where the 2nd 
 Mitrailleuse, 78th Brigade, is in quarter, and thither I go. 
 
 We depart for the trenches. No frichti,'\ no rifle, no 
 blanket for me — I am too late for all that ; so as I am, I go, 
 and with small life or spirit. 
 
 "What makes you so sad, Americain?" says a cheerful 
 fellow named Constant. He was a barber by trade in 
 Paris. "Why don't you laugh?" 
 
 *To-morrow. 
 tFood. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 223 
 
 L-a-u-g-h! 
 
 "I am sad, Constant, because — well, because I am not 
 merry. There is a saying in America that the earlier the 
 bird, the more worms are after him ! And I am afraid we 
 are going to be left !" 
 
 "I see," he says, but he does not see at all, and it is night- 
 fall before we reach the Borne Seize. By this time we are 
 great friends, though he doubts my sanity at times. 
 
 "He is a peculiar — this Americain," I hear him confide to 
 Meroit, the snuff-taker. 
 
 "He bears a charmed life," says the other. 
 
 Thus I am established. Now the Gods-of-War are sup- 
 posed to unbend for us at every opportunity. The way 
 grows lighter as the packs grow heavier. Every one is 
 laughing at the Borne. We unload the echelon^;* we 
 shoulder the mitrailleuses, one gun to three men and the 
 balance packing ammunition. A heavy, poisonous odour 
 attacks our nostrils at the reserve line. It comes in over the 
 left and the 2nd Bataillon de Chasseurs we are relieving say 
 it is from a gas attack on the 156th. 
 
 "Dieu! I hope it is not that !" mutters Pierre Raas. He 
 is always concerned about his brother, who is as frightfully 
 concerned about him. 
 
 I assure him : "He is quite safe in the 'Villa Potsdam.' 
 It is amazingly well-built." 
 
 "Yes ; but this gas — you can never tell." 
 
 "See here, I saw your mother in Sus St. Leger." 
 
 "You don't say! How is that?" 
 
 So I have to recount the whole story again. We be- 
 come good friends. I have more copains here than in any 
 other company. Perhaps it will be gay! Who can tell; 
 especially if we are moved. There is a rumour so. I light 
 a seche. Ah! That will be fine — to see some other soil. 
 In the guitoune is a snug, warm blanket and a sac. 
 
 "This is luck! Who has passed these things to me?" 
 
 Constant laughs and shrugs, "Perhaps it is the early bird 
 you came after!" Now this is pretty sly. We wrap up, 
 
 ♦Small wagons. 
 
224 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 draw off our shoes and sleep in earnest. The home-fires 
 burn right ruddy; our wives bring in the usual steaming 
 dishes — Constant is married too! — and the children play 
 around. Then we wake to a trembling dawn and the Ger- 
 mans are shelling. The long boom — ^boom ! and the high ca- 
 thunk ! rattle the rafters in the abri. Where are our shoes ? 
 This is a new one — shoes disappearing in the night. The 
 rats are playing ecarte in the boyau. Is it possible — they 
 could 
 
 Over the parapet, four metres back, where marmites fall 
 and arrivSes* shriek like drunken libertines, I recognise my 
 footgear! But to get it I am obliged to wait until night 
 when a let-up in the shelling procures a release. 
 
 The 88 Austrian cannons are the he-devils! They let 
 loose in the afternoon and a number of fatalities result 
 They are as accurate as the Germans are faulty. They 
 keep the range where Krupp deviates and blaze after the 
 manner of our own 75s. 
 
 We are relieved on the 23rd of December. Passing 
 through a heavy rain, both of shrapnel and water, aild in 
 bitter cold, barrage-fire breaks viciously in the boyau and 
 we flatten to catch our breath. Fatal to move either way! 
 Meroit, the snuif-taker, goes out here. He is wounded in 
 the hip. We drag him to a guitoune, half-demolished and 
 stinking badly. 
 
 "Oh — oh, I suffer ! What a misery — misery !" 
 
 The marmites rattle outside an anvil's chorus. Inside is 
 the remnant of — yes, of what once was a man — a German. 
 He is devoured by rats. His head, arms, legs, part of the 
 torso and neck expose the skeleton. Ravage, disfigurement, 
 diablerie! We shrink from the disgusting spectacle. Still 
 remains a very fair sample of uniform of Teuton green- 
 grey, filth-streaked, and the distinguishment of an officer. 
 
 "Hauptmann," says Constant, — "the same rank as our 
 capitaine. Is that a death?" He stabs at the rats as they 
 slobber, but gives up in repugnance — nausea. 
 
 Night falls before we are altogether out of the boyau and 
 
 "^Also German shells, 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 225 
 
 at the Borne Seize. The conductors of the echelon here 
 have unanimous news. 
 
 "We are going to leave the Champagne — for good !" 
 
 "Huzzah!" 
 
 "Hurrah!" 
 
 You would think we are going to a ball ! We start off for 
 Hans. The deepest, fullest gloom surrounds us — it is the 
 hour before dawn and all the eerie huskiness of night 
 seems to be concentrated in this one gaunt hour. Our 
 cantonment is a barn with rotten straw and the usual lack 
 of ventilation, unless we leave the door open, when a wild, 
 bluing wind blows in. 
 
 The auto-busses pass us on from Hans to Outre Fonts 
 in the real Champagne. This village is not large but it is 
 hospitable. Swept by wine-breezes and ensconced in wine- 
 surroundry, there is no end to the rich vintage. The 
 weather lightens. A peasant of eighty-two years lodges 
 four of us. He chatters like thirty. He says: "Mes en- 
 fants, it is the feast de Noel."* He brings in several bottles 
 of the ordinary Champagne — white and still, but with an 
 exquisite flavour and pale golden streaks like an oriole when 
 the sun shines through. The opalescent liquid flows into 
 our glasses and from there down our throats. 
 
 "There is something — hef Old stuff ! Diahle, the boches 
 took my best !" The old man mourns meditatively, "It was 
 a rich harvest, I tell you." 
 
 "How is it the village stands ?" 
 
 "Why not? — ^you think they should burn it too! Now, 
 sacre nam d'un nom, that would be too much ! They stole 
 three hundred of my bottles — blankets, pillows, silverware 
 — one whole chest, my mattresses! Dirty desperadoes! — 
 but burn the village, why? I am a poor man. We gave 
 them everything — they took the rest !" 
 
 This denunciation, delivered in the rapidest flow of lan- 
 guage, sends us off into peals of laughter. 
 
 "That is it— you laugh ! Well, come, drink up ! Rather 
 you drink it as the boches." 
 
 ♦Christmas Eve. 
 
226 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 We laugh again and drink. 
 
 "Take it all — take it all! When those dirty beggars 
 come Hack it is all up anyhow!" 
 
 "When they come back? What do you think," Con- 
 stant shouts, "that we cannot hold them?" 
 
 "Certainement. But in the next war " 
 
 "Cristi ! He is thinking already of the next war !" 
 
 The old fellow chuckles, showing his yellow teeth, 
 
 "Why sure. I have already lived through two. They 
 want to shoot me, those Prussians, that time and this. But, 
 what's the use? I am always saved for another. A good 
 thing — who supplies the wine when I am gone — hef" He 
 winks. "They know it too !" 
 
 We make Vitry-le-Frangois in the Marne on the morning 
 of the 27th. Not much damage here — only a few blown 
 houses, souvenir of that early invasion. Cattle-trains pre- 
 cede us as far as Vezelises, and now we are in the Vosges. 
 Hammeville is a small township not many kilometres far- 
 ther off. Here we ensconce for the bright New Year. 
 
 January passes over in a blithe and care-free manner. 
 The Army Corps is spruced up, rested, regenerated, made 
 into a new, fresh unit of fighting men with irrepressible 
 spirits. The 2nd Mitrailleuse is sent over to Charmes, also 
 in the Vosges, and eventually lodged in a brewery there. 
 We have only one other soldiery in town — a battalion of the 
 9th Zouaves. Thus it comes we are popular in Charmes, 
 and especially among the fair inhabitants of the five thou- 
 sand population. We are heartily welcomed. Breweries, 
 cotton-mills and glass-factories blow a blatant salute. Every 
 poilu has his mome* Never did Pashas have a more regal 
 time ! The banks of the Moselle are lined with energetically- 
 protesting swains and young damsels all promising the most 
 extravagant oaths and not one in a position to fill them. 
 
 We forget all about the war. A theatre is established 
 with /lOj'/M-actors and a few village-Bernhardts. Perclun, a 
 former flutist in the Variete, takes over the musical pro- 
 gramme. A concert is given, and, following this, a pro- 
 
 *Lady-love. 
 
THE CHAMPAGNE 227 
 
 duction of "Sinlad, le Matelot."* We act up the roles 
 with the greatest fervor, and never was a claque more dem- 
 onstrative than here. 
 
 "Who is that poule?"-\ I ask Perclun, referring to a 
 beauty on the caporal's arm. 
 
 "Tres epatante, n'est-ce pasfX She is the daughter of 
 the mayor." 
 
 "How I Why does she not get an officer ?" 
 
 He shrugs, 
 
 "It is the preference, I suppose. They Hke a poilu bet- 
 ter." 
 
 Now, that is strange. Our two officers are standing be- 
 fore a shop-window. 
 
 "See — ^you will see now — what I told you is true." Per- 
 clun points over to a group approaching. They are the 
 caporal, the mayor's daughter, and two other misses of 
 variable ages. They are all chattering in the most non- 
 chalant manner. "I bet you we could get the two of them, 
 and that is a sure thing !" 
 
 They pass the officers by in dead silence, the caporal 
 blushing a trifle and trying to look unconcerned. Both 
 lieutenants follow the quartette with eager eyes. 
 
 "Now, there is a sample. Come around here before the 
 others, and I wager you " 
 
 His voice trails off as he darts post-haste about a corner, 
 heading off the group. 
 
 "Eh Men, mademoiselle, will you walk with me ?" 
 
 She giggles, blushes, laughs outright, and puts her arm 
 through his. 
 
 "You are a forward fellow." 
 
 "Not so forward as to pass you by !" 
 
 They are on good terms already. 
 
 "It is the leader of the orchestra," say the two others in 
 chorus. The caporal assures them he is a good friend and 
 accommodatingly introduces me also. We pair off in threes, 
 
 *Sinbad, the Sailor. 
 
 t Chicken — girl. 
 
 tVery pretty, is she not? 
 
228 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 and then that "Hell's pigeon" Perclun deliberately leads us 
 past the officers again. 
 
 "Let them have a good look. I don't grudge it!" he 
 says airily. "They have a lonesome life !" And right there 
 and then I vow never to become an officer at any cost! 
 Rather the "poules" than the "sardines," because "sardines" 
 naturally lead to a commission sooner or later. I pity the 
 caporal! 
 
 We bid farewell to our charming hostesses at the door 
 of the executive mansion, promising to call for them "pour 
 la representation."* But there is no "representation." Like 
 a thunder-clap comes the blow — we are ordered out of 
 Charmes for an unknown destination! We close up the 
 theatre, send out patrols to round up the stragglers, pack 
 our wagons, and are off on the 2ist of February. Most 
 of the inhabitants of the town are on hand. Oh, how the 
 tears are shed! Whit vows for an interchange of corre- 
 spondence! What pinard — ^what kisses! It is heart- 
 wrenching to see those fair young creatures cry. The 
 voitures a hestioMX^ rock and smoke out of the station — 
 handkerchiefs flutter . . . Charmes becomes a blot and theft 
 a memory. 
 
 ♦Theatre. 
 
 tCattle-wagohs, i.e., railroad-cars. 
 
VI 
 
 VERDUN 
 
 LOW clouds hang in a pallid, frigid sky. 
 "Where do we go?" says Perclun. 
 "Belgium!" 
 "Argonne !" 
 
 "Back to the Champagne !" 
 
 Everybody hazards a guess. 
 
 "One thing sure — we go to 'La Villette'!" the caporal 
 cries. He refers to the front, which is christened with the 
 appellation of the slaughter-house district of Paris. To 
 this We all agree. We put in at Revigny in the Department 
 of the Meuse on the 22nd of February, 1916, the whole 
 countryside glistening with snow and an icy wind cutting 
 our lips into tortures. The terrain is hilly. The day break- 
 ing. In steaming files the mules demount from the cars and 
 start toward Loupy-le-Chateau. The going is very bad. 
 Slipping and sliding in the flaked roadway, it is a miracle 
 we keep them on their feet. By eight o'clock we arrive, 
 but the lodgings are not ready. 
 
 "Americain, why do you stay out there in the wet ? Come 
 in here!" The caporal has already found a demolished 
 church to shelter us, and I ask him if I shall bring the 
 mules in also. "Certainement! There is no one here to 
 stop it!" 
 
 But the leader balks at the door. 
 
 "Espece d'ahruti, get in there !" Constant hollers, slapping 
 him on the loins. The only answer is a generous kick. The 
 whole echelon is on the verge of stampede. 
 
 "Hola! What do you think — he can make his devotions ? 
 Sacre bleu! It is a horse, not a man, you are leading!" 
 the conductors shout. But Constant replies, 
 
 329 
 
230 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "It is an ass, not a horse, my friends, make no mis- 
 take!" 
 
 With that we go inside. But within an hour the lodging 
 is established on a farm not many kilometres from Brabant 
 le Roi. A buxom country-woman bids us welcome. 
 
 "You are too late, soldat, for a good sight," she says 
 to the caporal, her eyes squinting. "A Zeppelin came in the 
 night and they shot him down over Brabant. Was there a 
 bombing and a booming ! My head rocks like a boat. Well, 
 it is done now, but the ferme * one kilo oyer is in flames." 
 
 We try to see the monster, but orders at the cantonment 
 are decidedly strict — no man allowed out of camp ! Shortly 
 we move to Evres sur Meuse. Cannons roar deep-throatedly 
 in the distance. Tangy smoke blows over from the lines. 
 We are close to the front. 
 
 "Verdun !" the inhabitants all say, — "you are going to save 
 Verdun!" 
 
 We rest toward evening, but at 22.00 o'clock comes the 
 call: 
 
 "Tout le monde dehout!"^ 
 
 The 2nd Mitrailleuse is on its feet, packs packed, mules 
 hitched. We start on the road from Evres. Shivering 
 blasts of wet wind sweep the snow in our faces. Leaden is 
 the aspect — clammy cold our clothing, flesh and bones. The 
 damp crawls down the collar — invades the shoes. The mer- 
 cury is falling — falling! 
 
 "This promises to be a bad march," Constant murmurs 
 gloomily. Most of the men are too cold to talk. They 
 shudder down into their capotes,% breathing heavily and 
 expelling the vapor in long steaming jets from their nostrils. 
 The mules strain with the loads. They slide and fall, so 
 the conductors lash them up and curse like fiends, 
 
 "Hola! Hola! Come on, espece d'andouille!" 
 
 A scramble of hoofs — scream — whinny . . . the caisson 
 moves on once more. Daybreak discovers us ploughing 
 
 *Farm. 
 
 fEverybody up. 
 t Coats. 
 
VERDUN 231 
 
 through a forest. Thick branches obstruct the view, their 
 bare, gaunt sides hanging with icicles and bending beneath 
 the burden of snow and alternate wind. Through that deso- 
 late, overhanging, sentinelled brood we pursue the path, 
 widening out and assuming the proportions of a highway. 
 Jetties of wind throw in our faces. Frozen particles nip 
 at our fingers. Trudge — tramp — ^tramp! Slow filters the 
 dawn. Dusky — hazy — waxen — settling, then, into a dank, 
 omnipresent gloom. Voices speak ahead of us — small child- 
 prattle intermixed with soothing tones of a woman. A 
 moaning, heart-breaking cry comes out of the aspect. 
 
 What group of melancholy omitted from the Louvre is 
 this? 
 
 A caravan of isolated rustics, country-folk of the poorest 
 classes in their holiday habiliments, approaches. The 
 mother bears up her child — a mere babe in the arms. It 
 sobs and chatters with the cold. So does she. She makes 
 futile and pathetic attempts to warm it — to encourage the 
 weeping great boy at her skirts; the small, insignificant 
 girl-child at her right. Behind is a cart, piled high with 
 miscellaneous possessions, evidently garnered in haste, 
 drawn by an emaciated cow. She tracks in the heel-marks 
 of a limping peasant, stoic in the face of so much misery 
 and bearing up without a quiver to his face. 
 
 "Hola! What is this — ^you cry?" The conductor of our 
 echelon draws up his mule. 
 
 "Ooooh!" the sobbing great boy sinks down on his 
 knees. 
 
 "Shame — get up!" mumbles the father. "Verdun est 
 perdu," he says emphatically, — "the Prussians are coming 
 there now." 
 
 "What do you say ?— Verdun is lost !" 
 
 "Oui! Oui!" shivers the woman, "It is terrible — ^the 
 boches are in !" 
 
 Our captain steps to the fore, 
 
 "Of a truth, it is not as bad as that?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, m'sieu' — they are over everything. The bom- 
 bardment is a fright ; useless to go farther— quite useless." 
 
232 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 We whip up our echelon and proceed. The peasants stare 
 after us, muttering on their way. Long caravans come 
 after them — women and babes mostly, ploughing through 
 the snow, illy resisting — poorly nurtured, whimpering, often 
 with the nurslings at their breasts. Seam-faced, white- 
 haired superannuated villagers, murmuring imprecations, 
 hustle after. Oxen come, slowly steaming up the high- 
 way, drawing carts and whole families perched up high 
 like a wedding party in old Normandy, but always fright- 
 ened — sad. A man of eighty leads his staggering spouse, 
 heavy-shawled. They lean on each other. They are frail, 
 they are wan, but the invincible spirit still burns within their 
 hearts. 
 
 "Oh, m'ssieu's," croaks the old dame, "can you flay those 
 desperadoes? For four days they shell us. Everything is 
 flames !" 
 
 "Verdun burns?" 
 
 "Oui," a small boy chirps up : "If you stop them you are 
 heroes, my father says !" 
 
 "Here, shavey-head, you want a piece of chocolate ?" 
 
 He nips it from my hand, trudging on, bundle at shoul- 
 der. A shy mouse of a girl approaches. She wants some 
 too. Her tear-stained face shows grimy-white in the sombre 
 air. Blue lips frame a "merci."* We feed many of them. 
 Our own rations are slender — amounting to suplement,'\ 
 that is all. And always it is the same story : 
 
 "Verdun is burning — the lines are lost — tiie Germans pour 
 in over the ridges!" 
 
 "Depechez-vous, mes enfants,"% prays the captain nerv- 
 ously. The situation seems to be bad indeed. But we can 
 trudge only so fast — after that, it is drifts, and stumbling 
 in and delay in getting out — and icy chill eating farther into 
 the marrow — and more pathos in the roadway. Ever the 
 same wan voices : 
 
 *Thank you. 
 t Sweet-meats. 
 tHurry, children. 
 
VERDUN 233 
 
 "All is lost! Verdun est perdu!"* 
 
 Perambulators then cut small traces in the snow. Infants 
 wail and cry, and there are some who are unconscious from 
 cold and they sit slumped over. 
 
 "Maman!" Frantic hands grope out for stiffening skirts. 
 
 "Sus — sus! Maman is with you — courage, petit." 
 
 "I am cold." 
 
 "Courage. You will be warm." 
 
 A sweeping blast churns up clouds of white, whirling 
 flakes. Children scream and stagger! 
 
 "Oooh !" 
 
 "Maman!" 
 
 Long wails break the icy walls of trees into resounding- 
 boards and echo through the woods. I empty my musette 
 of all it has in food, which is meagre. The refugees con- 
 tinue away from the devastated region. Nearer we grow 
 toward the lines. Reverberations burst through at inter- 
 vals, causing more pallid faces and fearsome looks. 
 
 Boom — boom ! 
 
 A narrow-chested, consumptive youth, leading a horse by 
 the bridle, comes up to us. He stares wide-mouthed, 
 
 "Why, they are all coming back !" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "The soldiers — behind us. They are leaving. Are you 
 going in ?" 
 
 "To Verdun." 
 
 He shouts to make himself heard: "The commandant 
 
 ordered all out. Everything is over. Verdun est " 
 
 His voice whirls away on the wind. 
 
 Like an exodus, the procession bunches up, ever-increas- 
 ing. The first platoon of soldiery is the aviation corps — 
 the planes on huge lorries rumbling through the drifts. They 
 are going. We are coming. The staff officers pass from 
 Verdun — also artilleurs on horseback but without any field- 
 pieces. 
 
 "Ho ! Where are your cannons ?" 
 
 "Back there ! Ask Fritz !" 
 ♦Verdun is lost! 
 
234 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "You lost them?" 
 
 "He took them! Sacre! — the bombardment is the worst 
 ever. All the villages are flat — ^nothing stands. Verdun is 
 burning. You have no chance. Stay here." 
 
 "Impossible!" 
 
 '^ell, all right, but you are crazy! It is all ovei- — ^the 
 boches are in." 
 
 "We kick them out !" 
 
 "Good luck to you, andouUles !"* 
 
 They pass off, laughing ; we, grimly sticking to our task. 
 
 "A little faster, mes braves — just a little," urges our cap- 
 tain. We quicken our pace. 
 
 "You cannot save it. C'est perdu .'"'f sings out a passing 
 officer. Behind him comes a straggling lot of soldiers. 
 They are without sacs and some without rifles ; wild of eye, 
 panic-stricken, smoke-blackened. The snow marks furrows 
 down their cheeks. Tramp — tramp! Tramp — tramp! 
 
 I say to one: "What is there? Are the lines down?" 
 
 He shakes his head, motioning he cannot hear. The can- 
 nonading has deafened him. 
 
 We pass along. 
 
 Boom ! Thudd — boom ! 
 
 Put — ^put — ^put — put ! 
 
 The steady throb of a cycle breaks in, thundering up. 
 The rider slips to the snow — ^bellows an order. We change 
 direction, staggering from the forest out into open fields 
 swimming with frozen ponds and bogs. Through the 
 sheaves of flakes falling with monotonous regularity are 
 glimpses of the high road. Auto-busses churn toward Ver- 
 dun, hustling our regiments to the front — racing — ^panting— 
 fighting against time and the Crown Prince's Army. Whole 
 divisions go catapulting onward with the speed of ten devils, 
 throwing up sprays of snow in cloud-heavens! The 20th 
 Army Corps to the rescue — that is it ! We are fighting f or- 
 ^nrard to save Verdun — stronghold of the East. 
 
 "Save Verdun ! Save Verdun !" becomes the cry. 
 
 ♦Fools, 
 tit is lost 
 
VERDUN 23s 
 
 We labour afoot, our helmets and shoulders white like 
 sheeted goblins, biting through the storm. A spectre-house 
 looms up in broken chaos. Out of the storm, into this shel- 
 ter The temptation is great. . . . 
 
 "Onto Verdun!" 
 
 We struggle instead, passing up shelter— with one resolve 
 and one purpose. By eleven o'clock the outlines of Nixe- 
 ville, the first of the ruined villages, wavers in the distance. 
 The strain is enormous. Can we reach it? Legs are fail- 
 ing — breaths beating — godasses* frozen to the feet. It is 
 superhuman — that last kilo, but it must be done. Staggering 
 like drunken men, then, we fall into the cantonment, tears 
 rushing down our purple cheeks ! 
 
 But not much respite is given a weary host here. The 
 2nd Mitrailleuse storms the kitchen — is given soup in small 
 portions ; beats out the cold before a shallow fire; rests, and 
 starts again afoot for the Fort de la Chaume. 
 
 The most enormous debacle is in motion ! Whole streams 
 of troops take their way to the rear. In the white blan- 
 ket ghost-legions are flying — ^flying — flying before the Ger- 
 mans ! Can we stem this ? Is the Iron Division to be placed 
 before such odds — the Crown Prince's Army, to re-succour 
 — redeem the cowardice of its confreres ? It does not seem 
 possible that we can do it alone. But for what has the 
 Iron Division been organised if not to bear the brunt — 
 to form the battering-ram — shock troops, to stave off de- 
 feat in the face of odds? The company goes forward to 
 the slaughter without a question. Not one but has a secret 
 scruple about what we shall find. What morbid discovery? 
 Insane retreat? Every jaw is set and rifle shouldered 
 grimly on that advance to Verdun, fully sensible as we 
 are of an approaching holocaust. It is unavoidable ! 
 
 Aviation contingents continue to plough toward the back. 
 The "sausages,"t packed into automobiles, hastily are driven 
 to the rear. Artillery horses and riders, camions of every 
 description, labour in the drifts with churning wheels, and 
 
 ♦Shoes. 
 fBalloons. 
 
236 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 all turned — in the wrong direction! This is the most dis- 
 heartening sight of all— poUus running from the foemen 1 
 
 The road chokes now with autos stuck fast in the snow. 
 One has stalled and this halts the entire convoy. Fetid mud 
 and snow-water fill the fields on either side. 
 
 "It cannot be helped — strike across the meadows, mes 
 enfants," orders our commanding officer. "We cannot de- 
 lay." 
 
 We go into the bogs knee-deep. Slashing around, stum- 
 bling and falling, the company proceeds. Echelons com- 
 mence to pour back of the other mitrailleuse units. This is 
 too much! 
 
 "Cowards! Poltrons! Go back! What do you mean by 
 retreating? Shame!" We scream at them in demoniac 
 rage, but they only look on us as crazy. More artillery. 
 Is the whole army retiring? Is indeed everything lost? 
 The blood boils ! 
 
 A quiet-voiced officer of a machine-gun company speaks 
 to our captain: 
 
 "It is no use for you to go up there. The boches have 
 everything." 
 
 "Now, see here," replies our own determined officer. "I 
 have heard enough! If the whole world retreats, we still 
 go on — vous savezf 
 
 A cheer breaks out among the company. We press for- 
 ward with renewed energy and resolution. At sixteen 
 o'clock we advance to the Fort de la Chaume. By this time 
 the batteries are breaking closely from the Teuton lines and 
 thundering over the terrain. The blizzard ceases, but, bit- 
 terly cold, our sufferings seem to intensify. There is no re- 
 spite in here — we simply receive word to proceed with all 
 speed to Verdun. 
 
 The commandant of the Fort says: "On the road be- 
 tween Verdun and Bras you will get your orders. In all 
 probability that means taking the lines to-night with your 
 men." 
 
 The captain protests : "How far is that ?" 
 
 "Twenty-five kilometres." 
 
VERDUN 237 
 
 "Nom de Dieu! We are on the road since one o'clock. 
 My men have no reserve food and have had scarcely any- 
 thing. How can we do it?" 
 
 He takes up his weary position at the head of our col- 
 umns. We stagger forth into the chill-laden air. The 
 tramp continues. It grows monotonous. Ever the same re- 
 treat — the same bombardment — the same snow-blenched ter- 
 rain. Not a word passes lip for an hour in the company. 
 At the end of that time we hail Verdun — the city, that is, 
 embedded in a valley of hills and split by the River Meuse 
 from end to end. It rains shrapnel now. The valley we 
 traverse vibrates with shrieking shells, ploughing into the 
 city — exploding sodden dwellings with crashing detonations. 
 The genie * mines the bridge over the Meuse as we cross it. 
 It is to be set off in emergency to stem the Teuton tide. 
 
 "Bad business," muses Constant. "What kind of a hole 
 are they pushing us into ? If the bridge is blown before we 
 reach it " 
 
 Perclun snorts : "You are so smart — we are not going to 
 reach it !" 
 
 "Brava!" says the lieutenant, patting him on the back. 
 "That is right. So you should talk! On les aura — les 
 boches!"1t 
 
 Night ibrings us onto the road from Verdun to Bras and 
 Fleury. Wounded men are hobbling in from the Poste de 
 Secours. Ambulances pass and repass, laden with their 
 grim charges. A jargon of broken metal and ammunition 
 lines the roadside. Artillery-cawjowj, over-turned, are reek- 
 ing with the blood of horses, mules, conductors. Bodies 
 fester in the snow-patches. Wagons spread their invaluable 
 cargoes abroad on the highway. Bread, rice, coiifee, tall 
 stacks of sugar, no less white than the surroundings, grocer- 
 ies and provisions — enough to succour a division! — ^heap 
 up in disconsolate array over the whole vista. Motor-lorries 
 are split into fragments; meat-carts are kindling, the red 
 blood of exploded carcasses tinting the snow-path a bright 
 
 ♦Engineer corps. 
 
 tWe get them — the boches. 
 
238 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 crimson hue. Thousands of pounds of meat are thus dis- 
 integrating, mingling with the wrecks of men and beasts 
 who drew them. Snow and dirt and dung are in places so 
 commingled and block up the passage to such an extent — 
 we are forced to "march by one," stepping over and through 
 them. The odor, as is usual, is nauseating. 
 
 Here we are, then, again, tramping bitter places on earth, 
 among lame, halt and blind, wrecks and wreckage, human 
 jetsom eddied hither and yon. 
 
 We are warned to hurry forward. No time to lose now, 
 no moment ! in consideration of the task before us. Noth- 
 ing but haste — ^haste — haste! Retreating troops in squads 
 of fifteen or twenty crowd past us minus rifles or equip- 
 ment. These despondents have the most woebegone coun- 
 tenances and a haggard, sullen, exhausted, pitiful look. 
 Their clothing is soaked — as is ours; only they have the 
 dash of crimson common to all front-line men, and mud and 
 filth of the trenches embroidered in. 
 
 The heaviest reverberations jar the earth. Great, spouts 
 of flame mark the salutations from our 240s still pounding 
 away at the rear. They are camouflaged in woods. Alone 
 these monsters are standing off the foe, and awaiting our 
 reinforcement to ease up. Marmites sing overhead from 
 the Teuton lines. The straggling French legions, retiring in 
 bad order, flinch and jerk their bodies this way and that 
 from shell-shock and nervousness. 
 
 "My God, they must have been through a siege," my 
 copain mutters. "See how they are affected." 
 
 "Yes, and that one — he is as dazed as if he milked the 
 cows at home." 
 
 Our captain halts such a squad. 
 
 "What's the reason you go back?" he enquires sharply. 
 
 "Everybody is going, mon capitaine. It is useless. The 
 boches will be in before midnight." 
 
 "Cristi! Is that the way they do! Well " he shuts 
 
 his teeth with a snap, and we go on. 
 
 Heavy artillery comes lumbering toward us now. The 
 last of the defenders except the valiant 240s are giving up 
 
VERDUN 239 
 
 in despair. What a shelling it must have been ! What fiend- 
 ish offensive work launched by the Crown Prince ! 
 
 Verdun ! A surge of fire sweeps through me — we must 
 fly— we must advance on the double-quick to defend Ver- 
 dun ! My pace perceptibly increases. I am surprised they 
 do not all hurry up — the rest of the 2nd Mitrailleuse, but 
 we are halted in a field, ignominiously — fatally, it seems to 
 me! — to wait for orders. How long will this be? Must 
 Verdun fall while we hesitate, inactive, motionless — while 
 the enemy sweeps in ? Diable! Diable! Mille diables! 
 
 The field is piled high with munitions. 
 
 Perclun observes this. "If they fire right, we will get a 
 blowing, Americain, that will save us the trouble of going 
 up to the trenches," he says, cheerfully. The sauce-pans 
 come frightfully close. 
 
 Fortunately the blizzard recommences at this stage and 
 the flakes come down again lustily. 
 
 "Good! Blanket the scene and we get no visitors from 
 above!" This observation is directed toward hostile air- 
 craft. Night also closes in while we shiver and shudder be- 
 neath, and an inky blackness envelops us. Not a mouthful 
 of food is in the musette; not a spark of courage or nerve- 
 energy remains. The zealotry stamped out of all — myself 
 included — by this disastrous delay, we sink down, one by 
 one, in miserable, frozen attitudes on the snow. Sleep, sleep 
 and oblivion, sleep and oblivion, sleep — and — oblivion 
 
 "Tout le monde debout!"* 
 
 The old order — crashing in — gets us all on our feet ! We 
 are stiff — like tent-pickets, aching and cold — oh, so frigid! 
 No longer can the teeth be controlled, or the limbs or the 
 senses. We sway like dizzy things, drunken with cold. 
 
 "Eh bien, Americain — are you there? Swallow this." 
 
 Constant puts his flask of alcohol de menthe into my 
 hands. I take a swallow — something bums my throat like 
 red-hot coals! It revivifies while it stifles — rushes the 
 blood through the veins, churning up life — energy — ac- 
 tion. 
 ♦Everybody v.p ! 
 
240 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Aaah !" 
 
 "You feel better, do you? Well, come this way." My 
 copain draws me after him, stumbling over corpses, into 
 shell-holes, and bumping mules and caissons. 
 
 "Holy Mother! What did you put in the alcohol. Con- 
 stant?" 
 
 "It burns your palate? Then " He rolls a snow- 
 ball and hands it to me, — "nibble this." 
 
 I make a wry face but eat it, and the burning sensation 
 secedes. With a few more mouthfuls I will be all right. 
 
 "Sa, eat all you want, it is free — gratis !" 
 
 We laugh, and the company gets to the Fortin de Froide 
 Terre by one A. M. Two officers of the artillery and seven 
 men are alone here in the garrison. Our captain addresses 
 one: 
 
 "Possible to get a little food for the men?" 
 
 "Not a soup'gon.* We are out completely." 
 
 "What a misery! My company has been on the road 
 twenty-four hours and with scarce a mouthful." 
 
 We go on. Our orders are to repair to the lines. Now 
 at last, it is apparent — without food or water, in a fainting 
 condition from fatigue and over-exertion, we are expected 
 to succour the lines ! Bon Dieu, have mercy on us — this 
 will be a task ! The Iron Division moves up with its pulses 
 failing. 
 
 We cross the shell-pocked meadow — struggle on with 
 beasts and packs, swaying, wallowing. A hundred slugs are 
 whistling overhead — arrivees^ bursting. The snow-field 
 spouts in geysers, cataclysmic and fatal. With each crash 
 a fresh shudder blooms among the men. Our nerves are 
 going. The eerie night, so forlorn, so famished — so mor- 
 bid in its hopeless, fearful fight, grips us in our very vitals, 
 quaking and quailing the flesh. 
 
 A shriek bursts across the wild maelstrom ! It resounds, 
 clutching hearts and tingling spines. . 
 
 One of the conductors has gone out — ^blown into frag- 
 
 *Suspicion. 
 fGerman shells. 
 
VERDUN 241 
 
 ments ! His voiturette is standing, but withqut either mule 
 or driver. They have been wiped clean — though not clean ! 
 Somewhere in that ghastly meadow remains are lurking — 
 descended in some sour swamp — foul morass — for crows 
 and vultures ! 
 
 We denude the wagon of its contents — pack these off 
 by arm-loads into the ravin, where all the caissons are un- 
 loaded, to return to Froide Terre to await us — or, at least, 
 the returning contingent — at that point. We shoulder the 
 machines, the munitions, a guide precedes, and the 2nd 
 Mitrailleuse plunges ahead in an eifort to stem the German 
 tide — to resurrect Verdun ! 
 
 Boyaux are there none ! Long before have these crashed 
 under in the fearful cannonade. A broken, bewildering 
 melee succeeds, swimming with snow-water, putrid mud, 
 bodies of victims and slimy, sticky depths. Steel bits and 
 bars and remnants of hordes of fighting units are jangled ; 
 dugouts levelled ; trenches reduced to choppy stone-quarries. 
 Disaster is here complete and overwhelming! The snow 
 has ceased, and we trudge down into the valley. It is "La 
 Vallee de la Mort."* A whole battalion has been swept 
 out here by barrage-fire, plying its demoniac trade over 
 men, horses, mules, wagons and caissons, crumbling steel 
 and stone, blasting blood and bone. The whole swamp is 
 sodden, grisly with relics — savage with brute-lust. Car- 
 nivorous worms and weasels, mousey and gloating, glide 
 through the ruins. 
 
 We cross also that field of horror. We advance to what 
 formerly were trenches, dug-outs and strongholds. The 
 trenches are shell-holes; the dug-outs are shell-pits; the 
 strongholds are — well, shell-holes, too! There is neither 
 semblance nor souvenir of order — no lines — no parapets; 
 everything levelled out that was high, thrown up that was 
 low, mangled, distorted, dishevelled. We plant the machine- 
 guns as firmly as possible in those shell-craters, choosing 
 the deepest and best-protected, but being in reality only 
 make-shifts of the flimsiest order. 
 *Death Valley. 
 
242 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 It is three o'clock now and we have been constantly on 
 the march since one of the previous morning. That is 
 twenty-seven hours! Cristi! — twenty-seven hours afoot in 
 blinding storm and raging blizzard with scarce food or 
 rest or cessation to gain a position from which to counter 
 Fritz. 
 
 The Battle of Douaumont-Hcmtremont 
 
 Patrols sent out by the captain report the is6th en- 
 sconced on our left on the Cote du Poivre; the i6oth in 
 the region around Douaumont on the other hand; so again 
 we are directly between and in a position to bear the severest 
 fighting brunt. 
 
 Not a vestige of resistance would have greeted the Crown 
 Prince had he walked in an hour before ! Right there and 
 then he lost Verdun. Right there and then were the boches 
 cheated of as fine a victory as could be imagined upon the 
 Western Front. It is clear as dew and sparkling as any 
 mid-winter morning that all this great bombardment, this 
 fiendish preparation, this calculation, concentration, exter- 
 mination of the poilu, shall go for nothing in the face of that 
 one gaunt — but gigantic! — hour, from two to three on a 
 February morning of 1916! What was the reason for the 
 delay that cost so dear? Why was it the enemy failed to 
 invest Verdun with the French forces in debacle? — ^to 
 enter "with the rifle on the shoulder," as it were ? History 
 alone — from the hoche standpoint — can account for this. 
 Suffice it, the hour is past, the receding chin of the Hohen- 
 zollem Heir played too great a part — and the failure at 
 Verdun can since be ranked with Waterloo, with the shoe 
 on the other foot ! 
 
 Germany failed to make good ! 
 
 Whether in fear of mines — in fear of a trap — of a 
 strategem 
 
 Germany failed to make good! 
 
 Without a single poilu left to guard what was once a 
 
VERDUN . 243 
 
 works — without a single works left to guard what was once 
 an army 
 
 Germany failed to make good ! 
 
 Miette, our lieutenant, and formerly infantryman from 
 Arras, sets his jaw squarely, feet firmly planted wide apart 
 behind a mitrailleuse. 
 
 "They will continue to fail, mes braves, if you will re- 
 member the words from Froide Terre": he enunciates 
 clearly, 
 
 "Until the last man — not an inch !" 
 
 We repeat : "Not an inch !" meaning it as grimly. 
 
 He refers to the captain's instructions to the company 
 on leaving for the lines: "Do not take the offensive, but 
 remain to the last man with or without mitrailleuse — with 
 or without success ! I expect from the Iron Division, iron 
 resistance !" 
 
 "It will be a tough time, Americain," the lieutenant as- 
 sures me, — "Numeroter les abatis!* I do not think either 
 one of us comes out of this furnace alive !" 
 
 The water stands about our waists. Its icy embrace cur- 
 dles any scruples we have about the character of work 
 undertaken. Before, is an enemy determined to the point 
 of frenzy, hesitant only in order to summon up greater 
 strength for greater fury. Our bleak vigil is, therefore, 
 prelusory of death. No power should stop our rabid 
 tongues from speaking — ^pouring forth leaden hell before 
 this super-confident foe, as he will be when dawn ushers in. 
 We are wilting, we are fatigued, we are weary to the 
 heart's core, but let once the attack be launched 
 
 Thus it is and the first faint ray awakens — first gleam 
 smiles in Verdun. Fritz jerks up his head — like an angry 
 
 cobra, strikes out — hisses We let loose in one titanic 
 
 outburst ! Every machine-gun, every field-piece in the open 
 lands behind, bellows, roars, smashes, crashes, whistles. . . . 
 
 ♦Number your extremities, i.e., a poilu slang way of inferring 
 that much danger is faced; that is, to number the legs and arms 
 so that the parts may be fitted together again after being blown 
 apart. 
 
244 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Line after line comes up in dense formation, mechanical, 
 shoulder-to-shoulder, superb with military exactitude ancj 
 fortitude ; it sweeps on, over the crest, up to our positions — 
 goes down in one scythe-like volley ! We rush the machines, 
 feed — feed — feed, everlastingly fire and feed — and the 
 spouting flame goes forth — the grinding death spurs on, 
 spreading like a cancerous growth in the German morale. 
 The casualty is enormous. Warm bullets draw the air after 
 them over our own heads, shells break in the valley behind 
 — among the battery-crews. No single man of the division 
 falters — no protest among the exhausted, emaciated, semi- 
 delirious defenders can be heard. Many go out, but it is 
 a fatal, or near-fatal wound, that is exacted to still them. 
 
 A seething torment seems to rattle in the brain ! The con- 
 tinuous pfut — pfut — ^pfut — whrroarrr! storms through the 
 head, choking the sensibilities, rendering everything motion 
 without sound — sound without surcease ! 
 
 The sheep continue to come on — lie in rows, sacklike and 
 stuffed with cotton-clay. No end — the heap grows — raises 
 — two — three feet, before our cannon-mouths, gun-muzzles, 
 pouring out its blbod. . . . 
 
 Indescribable — the life snuifed out ! 
 
 Boom — ^boom ! 
 
 Whrroarr 1 Crrackk ! Rattle — crrackk ! 
 
 Boom! 
 
 We feed— they fall! 
 
 Verdun trembles in the balance, but leaning toward our 
 side. The attack eases up and we have all the best of it. 
 
 Before full day a second offensive is launched. These 
 poor, puzzled boches cannot understand the resistance. 
 They thought to have crumpled us pretty badly. So it was ! 
 But the psychological mcwnent having passed over, alas for 
 them! — the battering-ram is in motion, this French legion 
 from the border — and no power on earth can give them 
 Verdun now! 
 
 We — have — them — stopped ! 
 
 The full import of this is demonstrated this second at- 
 tempt. Again they hurl upon our straggly, unbusiness-like 
 
VERDUN 24S 
 
 formation — again are mowed down and cast like false 
 Buddhas into the dust. 
 
 We spare our ammunition with this retirement and leave 
 it to the artillery to ward oflf any false hopes on the enemy's 
 part. What must the reports be that are spreading over the 
 world? — the giant German offensive unsuccessful before 
 Verdun ! The fortified city and its strategical value saved 
 for France? The Nemesis sounding for Teuton arms be- 
 fore the double-quick advance of the 20th Corps? 
 
 Long and laborious eulogies will be sung — symposiums 
 graced with the details of that fray — we are only tired men 
 in icy depths of mud and water behind toy-cannons that cool 
 at last as we sink into slumberland! 
 
 The day passes over. The night ; and the following day ; 
 and by not so much as a hair's breadth is our vigilance re- 
 laxed. By this time it is a little quieter all along the front, 
 but the artillery still breathes defiance. 
 
 Coming over to inspect our machine, the captain tells me 
 Perclun is no more. "Went out with the caporal and 
 Pierre Raas yesterday morning," he says quietly. "And that 
 is not all. We have two machines out of order and four 
 boys wounded." 
 
 Then I am the only man from our Belgian company re- 
 maining ! The knowledge leaves me dumb. 
 
 "You can do us all a great service, Americain." He lays 
 his hand on my shoulder, looking into my face. "Can you 
 go as far as Verdun ? It is a dangerous mission. . . ." 
 
 "I am glad to go." 
 
 "One chance out of ten you arrive ?" 
 
 "I am willing to try." 
 
 "Bien! Find the Hopital MUitaire. The echelon and 
 kitchen are there. Tell them where we are. At the same 
 time, if you can buy any food, in God's name do it! — 
 or I shall have a company of skeletons on my hands." 
 
 He smiles rather wanly. 
 
 "I will do my best, and if I am not back — well, then, I am 
 killed and on some other road!" 
 
 He gives me money and encouragement. When it is 
 
246 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" • 
 
 dark I start. The direction of Froide Terre is torn with 
 shell-fire. I pass through "La Vallee de la Mort," which 
 reminds me of a festering sore. Bodies hurtle through the 
 air with the force of the explosions, bursting right and left 
 and before and behind, but never correct for me. Re- 
 demolition of that already demolished area is making tur- 
 moil out of chaos. Life is instilled suddenly into the most 
 blameless exteriors. Objects rejuvenate, spurred on by a 
 bit of explosive — flung here, jolted there — spun by the force 
 of expanding air high into whirligigs — slashed down with 
 momentous force on the innocent terrain! Spasms pass 
 that shake and tremble everything — a tremor involving 
 tons of dirt and catapulting steel-fragments. Snow is lashed, 
 water sprinkled, corpses disintegrated, helmets bounced 
 hither and thither, . . . 
 
 Boom — ^boom ! 
 
 The bombardment swells ever higher and more insistent. 
 A peculiar shrill scream pierces the din! I come upon it 
 almost rushing — stagger back ! Wild fear clutches, and as 
 suddenly releases, my heart . . . — a mule! It is one of 
 our simple, worthy echelon tribe, stuck in a puddle of 
 mud and unable to extricate himself ! He makes the night 
 hideous, though, with his whines. I free him, lead him 
 through and out of "La Vallee" and clear to Froide 
 Terre. 
 
 It is two A. M. We lodge together in a stable there. 
 Heavy shelling launches in the day — concentrated action 
 against the fort. The 240s and 380s, the large-calibred 
 German-Berthas, rain their dismal enormous messengers 
 about the environs — into the actual premises of the famous 
 stronghold — Verdun's finest. Not a bolt budges-^no rock 
 careens even to the force of the blow. Froide Terre re- 
 sists with all the forces in her — stands up like a general! 
 We quake — we sway like ships over a bar, like crater-tops 
 saluting the blood-red sky of Martinique — but we cast them 
 off as pebbles ricochet from granite ! 
 
 I am hungry as a wolf. Several artilleurs are in as bad 
 a condition. They resolve to go to Verdun. "We must 
 
VERDUN 247 
 
 have food!" is the cry. In a half hour they are back, 
 empty-handed, and with four of their corvee missing. I 
 resolve to hold out until nightfall. 
 
 "If you go before, it is suicidal. The baches are sitting 
 up in 'sausages'* and can see the whole salient," warns the 
 commandant. 
 
 I act on his advice. I set forth on the road when even- 
 ing's shadows have begun to fall, leading my emaciated 
 quadruped, who is about as anxious to expose himself as a 
 ripe snowball before sunlight. The blizzard has commenced 
 to rage again. The night is dark; the road obliterated. I 
 have been fully advised of the direction, but two moments 
 out of the fort obliterates this. I am as astray as a lost 
 cat! Heavy shells crash an interrogation in the solitude. 
 My companion, being supported with less fortitude than 
 his guide, bolts and runs ! 
 
 Now this is a splendid mess ! Slashing mud and water, 
 extreme hunger, some fatigue, onerous duty, omnipresent 
 death, and a crazy mule! The combination threatens to 
 work calamity, but with one accord both master and animal 
 stop! A fusee eclairante^ buds over the landscape — ^wav- 
 ering snow-flakes show opalescent, silently shimmering; the 
 white blanket rips, explodes — an immense cataract de- 
 velops into a furious downpour and we are engulfed! 
 
 My copain struggles with all the panic at his command to 
 come out of the deluge. He shakes himself — his sides heav- 
 ing — and rattling the cart at his back like the tail of a 
 snake ; then bares his fangs and brays in a raucous falsetto ! 
 The sound goes over the prairie like dead souls screaming. 
 I clap hands to ears. . . . 
 
 "Yeeee — hawrrr — rr !" 
 
 Whrroarr ! 
 
 This second tumult effectually blankets the first. The 
 fal-lal cuts short. And now, maybe, as time improves, 
 we will move on. But "Nikko" — I have heard that mules 
 sometimes bear this name! — construes otherwise. He 
 
 ♦Observation banoons. 
 t Flare-shell. 
 
248 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 hastens to differ. He stands. No amount of persuasion or 
 acrimony can budge him from his post. Shrapnel wings 
 in a steady ratio over ; rockets blaze. Slender fillets of lace 
 plant one above the other on our crowns and shoulders — 
 and in "Nikko's" case, flanks. He elects to court annihila- 
 tion — immobile. 
 
 The blizzard improves. I roll and light a seche. 
 
 I say: "Ecoute, Nicodemus. Why shall I not go ahead 
 if it is your preference to remain behind? Stay here — 
 eat snowballs — drink marmites — make food for the ravens, 
 what is that to me? The echelon will do without you. 
 There is a fine one coming from Fritz every minute — ^you 
 have only to remain a few seconds longer and pouf ! it is 
 through. Now, pied de choux,* make a choice !" 
 
 I start out, walking briskly, and my comrade tags at the 
 heels as ready and docile as any dog. He follows closely, 
 his hot, sour breath revolting my stomach as he wheezes it 
 past my neck. His whiskers tickle — ^jar! I have a fleeting 
 reflection that it must be the same to most gentle-bred 
 women when they meet a rough-faced poilu! And then 
 the night closes in double-dark. 
 
 We are confronted with a slushy creek. "Nikko," in his 
 anxiety to conform with my slightest desires, immediately 
 plunges in. I issue first from the other side, he second, 
 and the cart a bad third. It is uncertain on its wheels. 
 Some time is spent bolstering this up. We continue up a 
 slight incline. At the crest of the hill are voices. A light 
 shines out suddenly. Panic-stricken, my faint-hearted fol- 
 lower attempts a second break, but I have him fast by the 
 forelock. 
 
 "Yeeee — hawrrr — rr !" 
 
 His resilient voice is the signal for a volley of rifle-shots 1 
 I fall flat, abandoning my hold, and consigning mules and 
 their accompanying sirens to the dung-heap ; and then, hav- 
 ing allowed a sufficient time to elapse, both for my attackers 
 to desist and my mule to default, rise up to find them both 
 in the close vicinage. Three poilus are examining "Nikko." 
 
 *Foot of a cabbage. 
 
VERDUN 249 
 
 They bray at him and he brays back, and so the matter 
 stands when I approach their guitoune. 
 
 "Hola! Is that friend or foe?" 
 
 " ! ! * ! ?? !* j j 1** j" 
 
 "Sacre! You are choice with your epithets, my frangin!" 
 
 "It is Jean Raas !" 
 
 "Correct ! Well, how is it you are here, Americain ?" 
 
 "I could ask you the same." 
 
 "I am on the liaison as you well know." 
 
 "And I am on the mitrailleuse." 
 
 "To be sure. And how is Pierre ?" 
 
 "He— he " 
 
 "Well? What are you hiding?" 
 
 "Nothing. He is all right." 
 
 "I— think— you— lie." 
 
 "Well, what of it ? One does not go into the war expect- 
 ing to live !" 
 
 "Ah, he is dead — amoche — bouzille!* My brother is dead 
 — do you hear, Durand? I have lost my brother! Oh, 
 misery, misery — he is gone — Pierre. . . ." 
 
 He breaks down completely. 
 
 The man addressed as Durand addresses me : "What is 
 that you say — ^his brother is killed? Sacre nom d'un nom, 
 you do not mean that?" 
 
 "What can one expect ?" 
 
 "That is terrible!" 
 
 "So it is, my good friend — ^but when you have seen your 
 intimates go — one by one — sometimes three together, as in 
 this case, into the abattoir, pulverised before the cannon's 
 mouth — th^n you get hardened. Is that not so ? I am the 
 last of my company." 
 
 "But his brother !" 
 
 "I have lost two." 
 
 "You don't kno*- how this affects him." 
 
 "Oh yes." 
 
 "And his mother ! She wi " 
 
 "Mine did also!" 
 ♦Wounded — killed. 
 
2SO THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Silence. Only the sobbing sounds of the stricken young 
 poilu mingle with the steady drip-drip of the seeping water 
 around. More distant is the rumble of batteries and occa- 
 sional crash of shells. "Nikko," forgotten, leans down, 
 sniffing at Jean Raas' bent-over form. This electrifies him ! 
 He leaps up. 
 
 "Oh, I hate war — I hate war!" he shrieks, waving his 
 arms aloft. "I shall never get over this ! The hoches may 
 live or die, come or go — I " 
 
 The fourth man of our group plucks him at the arm: 
 "Silence, andouille! if 'Cevntre des Pannards'* hears you, it 
 is all up !" 
 
 The sorrowing boy gives him a stupid, rather withering 
 look, drawing deep breath, and takes himself to the 
 guitoune. 
 
 I turn to Durand: "Which is the way to Verdun?" 
 
 "Cross the creek on the level " 
 
 "I have just had one bath in it!" 
 
 "Then follow, without crossing, as far as the railroad. 
 Cross that. One hundred metres further you will come on 
 the highway; it is the Verdun-Bras road and leads you 
 straight. But go rapidly there, because it is always under 
 the hammer of the enemy and comes in for steady bar- 
 rage." 
 
 "Merci, my frangin; and now have you anything to 
 eat?" 
 
 "Do you hunger?" 
 
 "For two days !" 
 
 "In that case here is some bricheton.f But only a small 
 piece as we are without ravitaUlement. Likewise the wine." 
 
 He actually has a small measure of brandy^ and this gives 
 ungrudgingly to me. I swallow — once only, and with glow- 
 ing eyes thank him. 
 
 We are on our way. "Nikko" needs no encouragement 
 
 ♦Crooked Legs, nickname of the lieutenant of the gth Com- 
 pany, who commands the liaison; also, because of his enormous 
 calves that give his legs a misshapen appearance. 
 
 tBread. 
 
VERDUN 251 
 
 now, arid strangely enough tracks my steps as faithful as 
 any cur. He muzzles up, in fact, until by the time we are at 
 the railroad, he is pressing me for the lead. 
 
 "Sd, what is it, old 'Gtandes-Oreille^ ?" I say to his long- 
 ears. "That is a brilliant name for you and quite fitting the 
 successor of the predecessor!" — I refer to the late sous- 
 lieutenant. — "What is the hurry-up ?" I stand and face him, 
 putting the bread into my mouth. But at this he yaps out 
 so lugubrious a wail, I am forced to laugh and choke, and 
 expel the morsel, which he greedily devours from the 
 ground. 
 
 "That is a great scheme! Well — ^here — eat it all if you 
 are that bad. Better you as me — you have to carry me !" 
 
 Negotiating the highway, I leap into the cart, grasp the 
 lines, pushing him along at top-speed. We rumble, sway 
 and bounce. A stray shell arrives on our quarter, and 
 "Nikko" ends up his dizzy flight with a mad gallop into 
 Verdun ! Three o'clock before the echelon is located. Now 
 I fodder his "Big-Ears," water him liberally, and relinquish 
 him to his team-mates and brother-mules. 
 
 In the building the conductors before a large fire are in a 
 fast Nirvana. The air is heated foul, and my clothing, 
 brittle with icy-damp, drip-drips in a tenuous stream on 
 the floor. • The steam rises. I am warm and sleepy . . . 
 my wife is bringing a covered dish of something onto the 
 table — ^both children race up at once to see what it con- 
 tains. — "Don't crowd," I say, — "it is soup." "It is not 
 soup." "What then?" "Now you guess." "Well, then, it 
 is ragout de veau." "It is not ragout de veau." "What is 
 it? . . . 
 
 "Champignon!"* explodes a voice near at hand. 
 
 I rise with a peculiar snap in my head and find the hours 
 very much passed over, a group of the conductors lushing 
 coffee at one end of the apartment, all amazed at the sud- 
 den triumphant return of the "Champignon" — the star- 
 performer of their mulish crew! and 
 
 ♦Mushrooms. 
 
2S2 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "What is that you say? — who is 'Champignon'?" I ad- 
 vance to their sibilant midst. 
 
 "Ah, Araericain, it is you !" 
 
 "I am a mushroom ?" 
 
 "Mon Dieu, non! I mean it is very pleasant to see you." 
 
 "Merci." 
 
 "The mule of the first voiturette — ^he is . . . — now, you 
 do not mean to say it was you brought him back?" He 
 appeals to the others: "Well, see here, the Americain 
 brought him back." 
 
 "It is a good thing you did so — tres bien. France needs 
 him worse — almost so, at least! — as the poilu! He — ^ha — 
 ha ! We knew we would not lose him." 
 
 "Give me jus* at once," I insist, "or you will lose me, 
 and that is a sure thing. I have not eaten for two days and 
 three nights." 
 
 They ply me with food, and ask a detailed account of the 
 whole recovery. They are good fellows — ^they vote me a 
 "Croix de Guerre." After this the sergeant-major ad- 
 vises me to visit a shop in the faubourg Pave to make my 
 purchases for the company. 
 
 The street is ringing with tipsy shouts, and a huge bat- 
 tery of dried onions comes volplaning down with the force 
 of marmites! 
 
 "Hola! Come over, Americain, and celebrate the de- 
 fence of Verdun!" 
 
 I plough from under the sweet-smelling fruit and ap- 
 proach the source of the merriment with much trepidation. 
 
 "Ah-ha ! There is some one in the 20th Army Corps who 
 would pass by red-wine, white-wine or liqueur ! For shame, 
 my copains, my associate-protectors of the honour of the 
 Lily, that this man lives ! Shall he live ? Shall we let him 
 live?" 
 
 I recognise now the swollen features of Ary Bias, a 
 caporal in the i6oth. He is prancing up and down the 
 street under a half-open umbrella, which he minces over- 
 head like a demoiselle at a fashionable watering-place. His 
 
 *Coffee. 
 
VERDUN 253 
 
 head-dress is the most laughable imaginable. It is 
 grotesquely feminine with a long knight's plume of the 
 twelfth century, clustering ribbon-bows and some waxen 
 blossoms on the brim. Where this could have been gar- 
 nered is a mystery. He marches with pockets obtruding 
 each the neck of a bottle duly capped; by his side an ugly 
 Zouave, top-hatted and rakishly hilarious. 
 
 Members of the same company are beating an Indian 
 Dance on dish-pans with wooden mallets and rendering 
 hideous the blameless French air. 
 
 "Shall we let him live?" 
 
 They make a concerted rush for me, clattering and bang- 
 ing their instruments. I dive into an open shop and the 
 whole horde after — out the rear entrance and into a cul-de- 
 sac. . . . 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching — whrroarr ! 
 
 An exploding marmite, crashing before the door I have 
 just vacated, slams it in their faces ! 
 
 Mon Dieu — a respite ! By manipulating against the sides 
 of the houses I am able to try the back doors of each in 
 turn, but with a uniform result — they are all bolted. The 
 inhabitants have flown. Now it gets uncomfortable; the 
 alley becomes a veritable boyau, a death-trap for missiles 
 hurtling over from the front. The horde in the faubourg 
 Pave hesitate before this deluge. They are sobered now. 
 They cluster in the doorway, uncertain how to proceed. I 
 pause at the opposite end of the cul. A tremendous shell 
 scatters debris in a vibrating cloud! With the explosion 
 one-half of a nearby house wrenches aside, opening a pas- 
 sage to the street — I slip through this. The street leads 
 into the Pave, which holds the entrance to the conspirators' 
 stoop, and I am enabled to double back into their nest! 
 There they stand in the back room, facing the other way, 
 and meditating on my fate. I gather they hold designs on 
 rescuing "the body," but. . . . 
 
 "Unnecessary, brothers," I advance. 
 
 A considerable scramble. . . . 
 
 "La, 'tis the Americain !" 
 
254 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "How you make the escape?" 
 
 "The devil himself . . ." 
 
 "Vive I'Amerique!" 
 
 I am rushed into the main-room with cheers and huzzahs, 
 and ordered up to the counter, wine opened — ^healths drunk 
 all around, etc. 
 
 All this horse-play is really only the matter of a mo- 
 ment, and now to the serious business of the day — a full 
 line of necessaries is loaded up by the big-hearted fellows 
 for the 2nd Mitrailleuse. 
 
 "How comes this I pay no money? Here is poignon."* 
 I exhibit the full morlingue.'^ 
 
 "Keep it I The money is no good here. We own all 
 this!" 
 
 "Are you Pashas or just ordinary thieves ?" 
 
 "Defenders of the Lily!" announces the caporal of the 
 l6oth with dramatic force. In peace times he is a poet of 
 the poorest variety; that is to say, his verses are good but 
 his clothes are seedy, which is another way of saying that 
 he lived off his friends in the Montmartre district, nipping 
 as he went and always infernally drunk. 
 
 "At your old tricks, Ary Bias, I see. You cannot earn 
 an honest dollar. Who is the proprietor of this store?" 
 
 "I am not a robber and not a thief. Can I help it the 
 stupid print-slingers do not gobble my stuff? Well, now 
 that you ask it: the proprietor of this store is an uncle of 
 mine !" 
 
 A burst of laughter from the assembled. . . . 
 
 "An aunt then — if you must have it so !" 
 
 Further cries. . . . 
 
 "Canaille !"t He tries to make a superb exit from the 
 shop, strutting, but his unsteady legs double the clamour. 
 
 "Now who does own this store and whom am I to pay?" 
 I finally insist. 
 
 "Yourself — and ^ave it with the 'aunt's' regards!" a 
 
 *Money. 
 
 t Pocket-book. 
 
 tRabble. 
 
VERDUN 255 
 
 chorus screams. Determined to get some satisfaction from 
 some one, I repair to the sergeant-major. 
 
 "Those drunken louts have appropriated the whole 
 stock?" 
 
 "Impossible for you to get enough?" he enquires. 
 
 "Plenty! But who am I " 
 
 "Nothing further to be said," he shrugs. "Retourne 
 vite!"* 
 
 The shelling at the front has eased except in the most 
 vital sectors. Two separate attempts on the positions in 
 my absence — one of which I so narrowly outwitted, though 
 seven kilos distant ! — are without success. The French de- 
 fences are as yet unscathed. 
 
 Constant leaps on me — as do most of the others — with 
 the most wolfish clamours. In a twinkling the ravitaille- 
 ment is all out! Not a crumb — ^not a swallow remains. 
 Our poor boys are in an anguished condition. They have 
 been without food for four days, and the greater part of the 
 time sans water also, for the shell-holes are fetid syrup. 
 "Why did you not return sooner?" 
 
 "Now, Constant, that is a foolish question. The first 
 night I went away arid the second I came back. To have 
 attempted daylight forage was impossible." 
 
 "Of course. Only two days? — it seems an eternity!" 
 It must have. The company is appreciably reduced in 
 ranks with a very low morale. All are gaunt spectres with 
 wan cheeks, pasty, grey lips, and prominent cheek-bones. 
 
 A pallid prospect holds overhead — snow trembling in the 
 balance an^ then falling with its old-time monotony. The 
 2nd Mitrailleuse is in a stone-quarry, offering better pro- 
 tection than the open fields. Fifteen minutes sees the 
 frichtif all devoured and pathetic eyes going out for more. 
 The rattle of machine-gun fire spurs into the steady boom — 
 boom ! of the batteries, and we are at it hammer-and-tongs 
 again with the Germans! They come over with a rush! 
 Our mowing and slaughter of the hordes is appalling ! The 
 
 *Hurry back. 
 tFdta. 
 
2S6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 carmine lips of the dawn part in anguish — ^her gorgeous ban- 
 ner protesting this vile vituperation with scarlet fire ! 
 
 We send the hoches into hell as often as they show cour- 
 age over their entanglements. Great ridges a metre in 
 height develop. Slain men lie crossways, lengthwise, width- 
 wise, up-side-down, jumbled, jangled ; stand upright, sit like 
 gargoyles, grinning ; murmur and mutter and shout out and 
 whimper and pray — a parapet as efficacious and a farrago 
 as complete as mortal or immortal man could ever compre- 
 hend! It is indescribable — ^but it produces no effect upon 
 us at all. Either we are inured, impervious, or soul-satiated. 
 
 I am convinced a beautiful panorama would have been 
 treated by us in exactly the same manner — which is to say, 
 not at all! We would have looked neither with interest 
 nor appreciation, nor any enthusiasm nor any distraction. 
 We are somnolent in brain, dormant in heart, and alert to 
 the point of frenzy physically! We force those mitrail- 
 leuses into a white-hot heat, reeling off death. We choke 
 them and disgorge them with equal fervour — choke them full 
 of lead and disgorge them at the enemy, so he pays the 
 price in good blood-of-the-realm at every salvo ! 
 
 Our JOMJ-Iieutenant goes out and two gun-crews com- 
 plete! Our captain receives a deep shoulder-wound. The 
 fifth consecutive Teuton offensive then crumbles to noth- 
 ing and high noon finds us encamped — in fact, more strongly 
 than ever ! — ^before the "ValUe de la Mort," because heavy 
 reinforcements have come up during the engagement, credit- 
 ing the 20th Corps with a valour divine ! 
 
 Verdun remains in France's hands ! 
 
 It is apparent now, and assured- We are hailed as 
 saviours — chalked up as super-men. The 9th of March, 
 1916, its sole remaining officer, Miette from Arras, leads 
 the 2nd Mitrailleuse out of the "ValUe" and back to 
 Verdun by a circuitous route. We are relieved. Rest and 
 reaction set in. The abandoned aviation-camp here lends 
 us a refuge. But not for long — March the i ith we start out 
 of the township, pack into auto-busses, and proceed to St. 
 Dizier under rain and continuous fog and chill. A bluish 
 
VERDUN 257 
 
 company lodges on a farm one kilometre out of the city. It 
 is midnight and a Sunday and a fine Spring day follow. 
 We do the usual ablutions both to ourselves and our ragged 
 garments, washing in a close-flowing rivulet of the East-of- 
 France type. The totos swim away, trembling and kick- 
 ing. We gloat in ecstasy ! 
 
 It is always a pleasure to wash in France — in war ! 
 
 Constant says, sprucing himself with more than ordinary 
 interest : "Let us go to town. I have heard there are some 
 interesting sights." 
 
 He winks at me, and for a reason which I cannot fathom, 
 the whole company laughs. It is a joke they have put up. 
 By the time we are in St. Dizier all the bells are tolling 
 and the city-girls congregated at the market-square with lit- 
 tle American flags. 
 
 "Pour I'hero Americain! Pour I'Americain!"* they hol- 
 ler, pinning flowers on my coat, throwing wreaths over my 
 head. 
 
 "S acre I What is the meaning of this, Constant?" I 
 ask, annoyed. 
 
 "Sssh! No imprecations, andouille! Can you not see 
 they are saluting you ?" 
 
 And sure enough just at this moment they start in kiss- 
 ing, pecking lightly at my cheek or planting a resounding 
 smack before the ear! It is all very disconcerting, par- 
 ticularly as I cannot make head or tail of the whole 
 demonstration. Finally, having put up with enough, I 
 roughly hold a girl away from me and demand to know by 
 what gauge I have incurred so much bounty. 
 
 "Monsieur I'Americain is a modest man !" she giggles. 
 
 I shake her. 
 
 "Come, tell me!" 
 
 Constant interferes : "Do not pull the demoiselle's arms 
 out!" 
 
 I release her, silently sweating. 
 
 "What is the meaning of this?" 
 
 "Why the boys," says Constant, "have told the towns- 
 
 * For the American hero I For the American ! 
 
258 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 people that you are a son of Theodore Roosevelt and that 
 you have come to save France ! Ah — ^ha — ha !" 
 
 "Ah — ha — ha — ^you !" I let loose with both fists and flat- 
 ten him 1 "You have put them up to this — espece d'ab — ■" 
 
 Cheers and loud shrieks and screams acclaim me further. 
 
 "He is a great fighter !" 
 
 "See how he does it!" 
 
 "He will whip them — the boches!" 
 
 "Sd, Teddy— Teddy!" 
 
 "So is the pere!" 
 
 At the first sign of an opening I bolt ! The 2nd Mitrail- 
 leuse does not see me in two days! In that time I have 
 worn the edge off my mortification and simmered down into 
 a shadow of complacence. But life in St. Dizier from 
 that moment forth stands a misery! 
 
 Happy indeed is one poilu — albeit an American by adop- 
 tion — when the farewells are said to the Department of the 
 Haute Marne, and the lion-hungry townspeople and return- 
 ing troops from Verdun left behind. 
 
 March 21st we pass in Andernay, close to Sermaize-les- 
 Bains. The latter township is a memory only. Retreating 
 boche-ioTces from the Marne debacle have vented their 
 spleen on its blameless exterior. Over this granite ruin a 
 new Sermaize has sprung, a city of barracks, wooden and 
 temporary. Ghastly tales of Teuton barbarism flood the 
 district. Entire households have been strung-up for minor 
 faults, some of the most trivial character — to listen to the 
 village-gabble, that is. For myself, I have great doubts 
 whether enough time was engendered during that closing of 
 the "Siegfried und Wo tan Linie" to permit of any such in- 
 dulgences. They probably burned and ran, and left it to the 
 spectators of the torch to save both their hides and as 
 much of their personal property as possible. 
 
 The "Establishment Thermal," a sort of mineral springs 
 which was immediately associated in my mind with a kind 
 of air-tight container, contains in this instance an English 
 Relief Mission — many young buds from Hanover Square. 
 When they find I can "paries anglais" it is all up with the 
 
VERDUN 259 
 
 balance of the afternoon! A The Dansant is staged, the 
 2nd Mitrailleuse put through its paces on the dance-hall 
 floor — a dining salon of the former hotel — and we come 
 out of it gurgling with tea and a superabundance of broad 
 "As" and narrow hothouse ideas. 
 
 The 24th is whirled in with a figurative blaze of trumpets, 
 summoning the ranks to a review before the Prince of 
 Serbia, who is passing through East France. 
 
 The Prince wears a "shakko" — a semi-Russian affair, 
 fur, tight-fitting the head, with an inverted bristle-brush up- 
 standing before. He sits his horse fifteen metres away. 
 The horse lashes out with his tail — we take broad steps, 
 passing before the royal presence — the Prince touches his 
 gloved hand, protruding out of his fur-cuffed "immensi- 
 koff," to his "shakko" — we stand and "present" — we take 
 broad steps, marching away from the royal presence — the 
 second wave advances — does likewise — so does the third — 
 the fourth — and those following — the review is over — ^pro- 
 nounced a success — and we are disbanded ! 
 
 One week later we are in Tremont. We receive rein- 
 forcements to close up the gaps from Verdun, and our 
 lieutenant becomes a captain and two fresh lieutenants come 
 in. Captain Miette advances the 2nd Mitrailleuse to Bois 
 de St. Pierre. The weather now is in full blooming Spring. 
 
 ArtUleurs, posing about as we are, gathering strength for 
 a new drive against the enemy somewhere, slaughter a wild 
 boar in the jungles of the Argonne. This delicacy of deli- 
 cacies-— fresh hog-meat — tickles the palate with so much 
 zest, it is with regret we hear the order to move and re- 
 sume the usual ragout de hceuf* We march to Dombasle 
 en Argonne. The fields are choked with heavy batteries — 
 ordnance and munition products of "Papa Creusot."t 
 
 Through this and into the city— we are now west of 
 Verdun and almost in a direct line with it. The closest 
 fighting-front is,, however, north, where the emplacements 
 take a wide swing toward Rheims. 
 
 ♦Beef stew. 
 
 ifSchneJder's Munition Works at CreusoJ;. 
 
26o THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Passing through the town, Constant remembers he has 
 lost his pansement. The " pansement" is a first-ai^ kit. 
 
 "Maybe I can get another. Come this way." He leads 
 into a hospital — a large house flying the red-cros;s standard. 
 "The poste de secours seems to have moved!" This last 
 ejaculation is brought forth owing to the stilfness of the 
 place. No breath stirs in its confines. It has the silence of 
 the grave. I 
 
 "Where are the doctors? Nurses? Patients?" He 
 sniffs rapidly. "There is no odour of antiseptic neither." 
 He pushes open the door of the first room. Over his 
 shoulder I see a bed and a form outlined on it. Constant 
 discreetly withdraws, whispering: "Occupieji. Be quiet — 
 he is asleep!" 
 
 We move on then — through the halls, rooms — every- 
 where that utter quiet and desolation. 
 
 "Well, what is to do ? There was some one in the front 
 room I am sure." Constant is puzzled, and we repair 
 back to the chamber. 
 
 "Look again." 
 
 He gingerly turns the knob and peers in ; shakes his head, 
 "What do you make of it — a maccabe maybe ?" 
 
 Truly there is a lump in the middle of the bed and sug- 
 gestive half-drawn blinds — a gruesome enough discovery. 
 He shivers, drawing back. . . . 
 
 "Come, don't be a fool !" I brazen it in, my heart beat- 
 ing trip-hammer blows. Then all at once I laugh — ^laugh — 
 laugh! On the bed is an unexploded 240 — one of Ger- 
 many's finest ! It lies lengthwise, perfectly ensconced, like 
 an amoche* in the throes of perfect sleep. "Panouille, you 
 have the heart of a crab — come here and look at your 
 'maccabe.' " f 
 
 "Million devils! — is it a wonder the poste de secours 
 moved away ! That fellow came through the roof." Above 
 is a great hole torn from the ceiling, going straight through 
 
 *Wounded man. 
 fDead man. 
 
VERDUN 261 
 
 and letting in t^e sunlight. The shell could have exploded 
 itself and the caravansary to powder ! . . . 
 
 We move over hills and valleys to Esnes. We are now 
 two hours from the front. The moon streams down with 
 vacuous sublimity — so light that at one A. M. it is as clear 
 as day! Marvellous this midnight radiance! The 2nd 
 Mitrailleuse proceeds to the lines, arriving on the breast of 
 Hill 304, the most famed position along the whole Western 
 Front — "Le Mart Homme 1'"^ Directly on the hill — cristi! 
 
 "Take good care — this is treacherous," we are warned by 
 the departing troops, "it blazes here like the. devil's own 
 
 This is evident from the condition of the lines — straggly, 
 ill-kept, wrecked, swimming with mud, foul matter, and 
 coagula. Within ten minutes we are ensconced ; within an 
 hour the enemy is launching his ghastly counter-attack. 
 
 The Battle of Hill 304 
 
 A light breeze seems to stir and bears in its wake acid 
 fumes of the most acrid character. We hastily don our 
 masks. The odour increases, blowing over from the 
 right . . . — sacre! — it is the 156th they are gassing! — 
 
 those d fiends from the Rhine! They are choking 
 
 our poilvis in droves! The breaking of 210s and 240s 
 directly in our sector, lashes human-flesh right and left — 
 whirls up dust-clouds and powder-smoke to dizzy heights! 
 
 Our zfis-a-Tns'f are at it full force. Captain Miette, in- 
 specting one after the other mitrailleuse of the section, 
 passes from our crew to the right . . . steps within the 
 radius of an arriveeX like a grotesque spectre, helmet and 
 mask protective enough, God knows! before an ordinary 
 danger, but nothing in the face of the calamity that vomits 
 forth : 
 
 Crra — whrroarr ! 
 
 *Dead Man's Hill. 
 
 IFace to face — the opposers. 
 
 {German shell. 
 
262 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Oceans of fragments, flying, thudding debris, swim over 
 everjrthing! The parapet is hurled in this one place clear 
 against the parados — from front to back ... a sljrieking 
 wail is propelled through the reeking air ! Pandemonium lets 
 loose — shot after shot taking affect down the sectof, ripping 
 it open, demolishing machine-guns and soldier-crews, gush- 
 ing forth blood and agony ! We cannot manage the remain- 
 ing guns — the shrapnel deluge is too heavy. 
 
 "Dieu! they wipe us out at this rate!" the sergeant cries. 
 We crawl over — three of us — to a jangled mass . . . where 
 the captain stood . . . pass over this, over to a crew suffo- 
 cating from gas fumes. The sharp, pungent bite of it wafts 
 over — we discontinue breath — it passes on the wind. Until 
 the next wave , . . 
 
 Feeding, loading and firing, we take possession of the gun. 
 The sergeant propels a rake-hell in the direction of the 
 hoches. It swings back and forth, strewing their lines. 
 Rifle-bullets start a dizzy procession overhead. The third 
 of our crew goes out! A new man is immediately in the 
 breech, taking heart as he sees the gradual cessation of hos- 
 tilities from the other side. Our undamaged guns come into 
 action. The joMj-lieutenant is firing one himself. After fif- 
 teen minutes of demoniac flash and flame, uproar and tu- 
 mult, and another half-hour of melting offensive, the thing 
 eases up. The scarred lines are choked with bodies, floating 
 on syrupy water — glazed features of torso-less heads, 
 mashed fingers, disjointed extremities. 
 
 The dawn of a vicious day speeds into this horror. Snow, 
 sleet and rain commix to harrow us. The bombardment is 
 continuous, though of lesser magnitude. April the loth is 
 entirely spent lying in corrupted water with idiotic grins, 
 trying to ward off death ! 
 
 It is called holding the lines! 
 
 How much rather would I breast an open attack than this 
 stinking, morbid, gruelling watch — ^watch — watch — without 
 quiver or palpable heart-beat . . . this pulseless guard that 
 seems to raise every stifle of insanity in the blood — foment 
 hysteria— incite the wildest imaginings and phantasmagoria 
 
VERDUN 263 
 
 of pitless pits, soulless souls and breathless bodies ! A riot 
 of babbling thoughts oozes through the brain, outrageous, 
 barbaresque . . . things break outside— inside ; the whole 
 network of man's intimate machinery jars into decay. He 
 falls, dissolved internally, as it were— though perfectly 
 sound without; shell-shock scoring where even shell-mate- 
 rial cannot! .... 
 
 Our sergeant has a fragment of shrapnel in his knee. He 
 limps back to a paste de secours, the tortured, straining eyes 
 of those well-in-body, spirit-weary men left behind, follow- 
 ing him. 
 
 Constant murmurs enviously: "How did he get it? A 
 slight wound like that at the proper time is a God's send !" 
 
 On the isth we are fed reinforcements, which swells the 
 company to normal ratio, replaces battered mitrailleuses with 
 sound ones, and gives us back our captain — that is, the one 
 who went down in Verdun with a shoulder-wound. The ar- 
 tillery has done all the engaging in the last two days, which 
 leaves us to stand flat on our feet gazing into space and 
 without the pleasure or relief of a single shot. Like sheep in 
 the abattoir-^ready to fall at the fatal second and without 
 a chance at reprisal ! 
 
 By the 20th we are relieved. The 2nd Mitrailleuse repairs 
 back to Bethelainville, a point between Esnes and Dombasle 
 en Argonne, and enjoys itself disporting among the ruins. A 
 lone representative of civilian life — a crone of seventy-seven 
 years — houses us in her cellar. We pass muster in an open 
 field following this, and the auto-busses swim alongside in a 
 torrent of rain and transport this well-nigh exhausted con- 
 tingent to Mogneville. There it is Easter Sunday — ^just one 
 year since that pathetic fraternization in Belgium ! 
 
VII 
 
 THB SOMME 
 
 THE sun is beating out its heart against a snow- 
 white vista, straining for Spring glory and -Uy suc- 
 ceeding. The 2nd Mitrailleuse goes further — ^to 
 Longeville, and takes the train there on the 24th of 
 April to Breteuil in the Somme. Small relays of travel from 
 Belle Assize to Faloise, to Fleury and to Bettembos deposit 
 us finally in Amiens on the ist of June in near-summer 
 weather. We have been zig-zagging north, but after this it 
 is west along a defined boundary between the English and 
 French sectors. Forward it goes to the battle-front. North 
 are the "Tommies"; south, the poilus! 
 
 "La, Americain, it would certainly be a marvel if we slept 
 twice in the same place !" my copain cries. 
 
 In answer we move on to Hamlet. From here again to 
 Cerisey, to Bray, and then to Suzanne. In Cerisey wooden 
 barracks lodge the troops ; the railroad terminates, and thou- 
 sands upon thousands of heavy shells are unloaded in the 
 fields. Bray teems with English regiments, bantering, swag- 
 gering; and a corps of genie* constructs concrete em- 
 placements for the offensive batteries. Suzanne, on the 
 other hand, is obstructed with vehicles. The roads coming 
 and going choke with lorries, camions, caissons, ambulances. 
 Territorials keep these roads open, repairing hourly, and 
 draining off the water. 
 
 The town is in decay as only a Franco-Anglo-Prussian 
 victim can be ! The usual demoralisation about the church 
 property, half-ravaged houses, and charred debris. The 
 Etat Majorf occupies a feudal ruin, namely the Chateau 
 
 ♦Engineers. 
 tStaff Officers. 
 
 364 
 
THE SOMME 265 
 
 de Suzanne, ultra-aged, ultra-picturesque, ultra-barbaric. In 
 the big surrounding park ,the artillery-horses are stabled, 
 English and French alike, drawing water from the spring 
 in the centre, which is as well the supply of the whole acre- 
 age. 
 
 Our Colonial Army is at Ecluse and Curlu, which is south 
 of our own sector at Maricourt, just below which, and in 
 the valley leading over from Suzanne, are the suggestively- 
 fresh mounds of a military French-British cemetery. 
 
 The offensive campaign is already opened along the whole 
 front; not shelling, that is, but the preparations therefor. 
 The valley jams with ordnance — ^munition of all calibres and 
 kinds. From Maricourt the 2nd Mitrailleuse presses up a 
 twisting boyau to the front lines, hemmed in by woods and 
 solidly built, and passes a quiet initial night in the Somme. 
 
 "Americain," our jowj-lieutenant seeks me out in the 
 morning, "you were formerly with the liaison I am told." 
 
 "Oui, mon lieutenant." 
 
 "Then you will make a good messenger. You know where 
 the sergeant-major is lodged in Suzanne? He has the ef- 
 fective* of the company. Ask him for all the papellards'f 
 for Captain Robilleux." 
 
 I salute and pass up the boyau to Maricourt. Here is a 
 heavy congestion of lorries. The road up to Suzanne is 
 blocked and impassable. 
 
 "Perhaps by evening," a Territorial suggests, seeing my 
 plight. He means things will move. 
 
 Boom — boom ! 
 
 The first artillery from the German lines blazes over for 
 an opening salvo. Immediately pandemonium reigns on the 
 highway. Horses rear, conductors rage out orders and in- 
 structions, not one of which the stampeding brutes will 
 obey. The marmites plunge down in deadly style and I 
 take refuge with the Territorial in a brewery partially-up- 
 standing and partially-demolished by earlier bombardment. 
 Here the shells shriek and play a tattoo until evening, then 
 
 ♦Record*. 
 tOrderi. 
 
266 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 straight through into the night. I can halt no longer. I 
 pursue the way to Suzanne, arriving and receiving the papel- 
 lards from the sergeant-major. 
 
 The fusillade is even heavier on the return. Whole cais- 
 sons have dwindled into kindling on the road, and muleteers 
 reduced to corpses. I decide to make for the brewery de- 
 spite crashing shells, and dive across the road. Here is no 
 brewery. . . . Have I made a miscalculation? Is the 
 broken house to the left, the paste de secours off to the right 
 in the distance, a replica without being the exact spot? 
 . . . no, it is the exact spot! ... it was here stood the 
 brewery . . . yet, where is it? . . . where 
 
 I commence to think I am the victim of some hallucina- 
 tion . . . there was a brewery here . . . there was 
 - — -Crrackk whrroarr ! 
 
 In that spreacfing death I walk as one in a dream — search- 
 ing a brewery — half-demolished, half-upstanding brewery 
 
 . . . Could they have moved it in the night? 
 
 ridiculous! . . . we are the only ones that move, we 
 2nd Mitrailleuse — move — move, — constantly. That is it! — 
 I have confused the place — No ! — I have not ! — there is the 
 up-ended lorrie, exploded in the morning. . . . Well — now 
 the thing gets siqkish — I am dizzy. I imagine I cannot see, 
 
 — The sauce-pans sing ... I have to find shelter — that 
 brewery — where is . . . 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching — 
 
 Whrroarrr ! 
 
 The thing breaks feverishly near, splitting the air in two 
 pieces, hurling it either way, and directly in my face ! Small, 
 moist drops squeeze out of the sky above and fall with a 
 sprinkling drip — drip. It rains then in earnest, — lead, water 
 I cut across a large space packed with jumbled con- 
 crete and mortar . . . boards hurled this way and that, — 
 glass in shivered bits, and a humped, indefinable object ly- 
 ing in the dirt, head driven in. I pry it out ... the 
 Territorialt 
 
 Ah, cristiJ — ^riow I have it, this is the brewery of the 
 
THE SOMME ' 267 
 
 morning's adventure, this crumpled mass of levelled lime- 
 stone! . . . 
 
 Tramping across and over those shell-pitted fields, I ar- 
 rive at a boyau. Which, does not matter. It leads some- 
 where and is free of the fire. It swims with corrupted 
 water. Guitounes spring up at various intervals. Into one 
 of these at haphazard I dive) The name posted on the out- 
 side is "La Villa des Louftingues," which means "Hotel of 
 the Crazy Nuts." Not five metres away are the first of the 
 75 s, barking like madmen, sucking in the shells from the 
 hands of the feeders, who slam shut the culasses,* pull the 
 little cords as swiftly as eye can follow, and send the mis- 
 siles winging on their way. A thousand shots are ejected 
 without deflection of a millimetre from the true aim. The 
 75 is called the most accurate piece of artillery on any front. 
 Perhaps the Austrian 88 comes next. I see now they are 
 fed alternately yellow shells and orange, yellow for the 
 shrapnel and orange for the explosive or contact. These are 
 called percutants. Sometimes green are loaded in for a gas 
 rafale and sometimes red, meaning incendiary. The whole 
 demoniac night quivers with repeated thunder ! 
 
 I sleep like a baby. . . . 
 
 A peculiar prodding sensation at the pit of the stomach 
 wakes me at dawn ... a grimy figure stands before me 
 of generous proportions. He wears poilu-capotef and hel- 
 met. His long, grey-white moustache is powder-blackened 
 and earth-stained like the rest of his face, neck, ears. . . . 
 In one hand is a cane which contacts my middle lingeringly ; 
 in the other a half-burned stump of a smoking cigarette. . . , 
 In his eyes is an enquiry, deep and expansive, 
 
 "What are you doing here?" 
 
 I scramble up and answer brusquely : "Sleeping, if it in- 
 terests you, espece d'ahruti! " 
 
 "You will have to move." 
 
 "Pout le camp au diableTt 
 
 ♦Breech-blocks. 
 ♦ Soldier overcoat 
 jGo to the deviL 
 
268 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Nevertheless you will have to move, mon enfant. Ten 
 o'clock must find this vacant." 
 
 "Bah! — a Territorial cannot make a poUu obey. You 
 think you have authority . . . who told you so? — ^you are 
 nothing !" snapping my fingers in his face, he reddens and 
 turns away. 
 
 I reach for my rifle. ... A captain of infantry pops his 
 head in. 
 
 "You have orders to leave this dbri?" 
 
 "Oui," saluting the three gold stripes on his coat, "but I 
 will not move on the word of that Territorial — " 
 
 "I would advise you to ... " 
 
 "Why, mon capitaine?" 
 
 "Because it is General Marie, commanding the nth Di- 
 vision of Nancy!" 
 
 "Nom de Dieu!" 
 
 "This sector belongs to the 69th Regiment of Nancy, and 
 in four hours they will move in." 
 
 "Merci, I go at once !" And I move to the right where an 
 English battery is firing repeatedly. I am about to enquire 
 my route' ... a tremendous jar and resounding crash 
 all at once awaken and the echoes in four directions rever- 
 berate, roll and roll ! — choking gas fumes ride on the wind- 
 swept air — a belch of smoke rises on the left, sliding like 
 liquid into the sky . . . thick dust rises; moans, and a 
 sodden scream float over . . . with one accord six of us 
 investigate the ruin. It is a French 240 — our largest cali- 
 bre on the field! Jammed through some faulty weakness 
 in the mechanism or adjustment, three men have been blown 
 apart and the whole massive engine withered into frag- 
 ments I 
 
 What awful horror is this, then? — we face each other 
 silently in our gas-masks, the second-crew "Tommies" and 
 myself, with th^ fumes streaming around and the quivering 
 air settling down. . . . 
 
 Oh, metier de metier, — vraiment, pourquoif* ' 
 
 *Such business — ^why? 
 
THE SOMME 269 
 
 A shrug, a sigh : Cest la guerre!* 
 
 Two hours later, after fording raging rivers, swollen 
 from continued rain, and breasting further shelling safely, 
 I deliver my papellards into the proper hands. Captain 
 Robilleux knows now : his company is to attack on the 4th of 
 July, 1916. 
 
 The Battle of Hardecourt 
 
 With the concentration of artillery now rushing to the 
 Somme, already 2700 pieces are massed — ^French and Eng- 
 lish batteries, 75mm. to 90, 105, 120, and 155 long, and 
 210, 240, and 380 short; — all provided with four to five 
 thousand rounds of ammunition. The cropouillots and 
 serial torpedoes are in the front lines, charged with 150 
 to 200 kilograms of explosives, intending to slice through 
 the enemy's wire entanglements and crumble his abris. 
 There is a change in the system: we will not mass for a 
 general single objective, but each regiment or battalion will 
 follow its individual own. This, I am informed by Con- 
 stant, is due to the miscalculation of our artillery during 
 the Champagne battles. 
 
 "Do you remember the trouble in Artois and La Maison 
 de Champagne f We went too far and the batteries cut us 
 off; well, and so that is all regulated now. We go only as 
 far as Hardecourt, — not an inch beyond." 
 
 "I comprehend." I light a seche. We go down to the 753 
 that are spitting jets of condensed venom on the Teuton foe ; 
 and overhead is a stream of heavy shells rising — ^visible for 
 several seconds — and tearing on toward the east, — the 210s. 
 
 Boom — thud — whrroarrr ! 
 
 T-zing — whroarr ! 
 
 Boom — boom ! ! 
 
 It is the 27th of June and the offensive in the Somme is 
 launched. The detonations are deafening. Spouting craters 
 of flame belch from the Valley of Suzanne, tongues of fire 
 leaping from the soil hour after hour. The whole terrain is 
 
 ♦It is the war. 
 
270 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 a kaleidoscopic patterning of intricate magnitude and terror. 
 It flashes through the night ; it blares and barks, quivers and 
 reverberates with demoniac splendour! Sheets of red and 
 yellow appear simultaneously, wave like a bizarre flag and 
 instantly disappear, to resume in some farther quarter as 
 violent and passionate as an East-Indian love, and equally 
 transient! This brilliancy and its consequent uproar 
 gushes forth and forth and forth — continuous, irrevocable, 
 monstrous ! 
 
 The trenches rock and sway. The myriad lights 
 ricochet. The twilight shimmers and shrieks; the dawn 
 trembles and groans, crashing with the unending tirade of 
 shells overhead and din from the valley below. A tre- 
 mendous and cyclonic upheaval continues through the day. 
 No voice is able to be heard. Every poilu has cotton in 
 the ears, — a squinting bleariness in the eyes — about the 
 face. We salute a second twilight and a second dawn with 
 the fanfare, — a third, — a fourth! Ah, God, such a 
 maniacal, frenzied avalanche, streaming — streaming east- 
 ward! Bursting, tearing, storming, defying! 
 
 The first attack is prepared for the ist of July. The 
 iS6th Regiment has the front from Maricourt to the right, 
 extending as far as the nth Division and the Colonials, 
 and is, on the left, in liaison with English troops from 
 Fricourt. 
 
 This gives a continuous advancing front ; and we are on 
 reserve with the brigade some metres back. 
 
 Boom-tzing ! 
 
 Whrroarr ! 
 
 The curtain lifts! A wave of horizon blue rises before 
 the first lines and swells into a torrent ! It sweeps forward, 
 sinks, sweeps onward, sinks, — ^like the breast of a storm- 
 tossed ocean — ^advancing, pouring up to the Teuton quay! 
 
 At seven o'clock, and with the red sun staring from 
 
 space, a wild flame withers onto the attackers — boche-can- 
 nons flaring into the fray! They foam over to the Valley 
 of Suzanne in a triumphant barrage directed against rein- 
 forcing units. Maricourt becomes a veritable seething 
 
THE SOMME 271 
 
 Hell. What we gave, we get ! — shrapnel ; smash and wang 
 and thunder and detonation and reverberation ! The whole 
 thing is gone through with again with us on the receiving 
 end, — mercy God ! 
 
 The first amoches* and prisoners come over two hours 
 later — the latter in perilously-close-to-starving condition. 
 We pass over our rations as long as there is a mouthful 
 left, especially bricheton^ — ^the emaciated, gaunt prisoners 
 falling on this like hungry wolves. Constant passes among 
 the artilleurs gathering further sustenance as he cannot 
 stand their pale faces. 
 
 The daylight fades and the night lightens. Plunging 
 marmites incessantly stream over the valley. We are 
 powder-blackened and grave. It will be our turn next. 
 The is6th, returning after their relief has gone into the 
 conquered terrain, files past, ploughing up the boyau. A 
 slender face stares at me — nods . . . 
 
 Durand — ^whom I saw last at Verdun! . . . 
 
 "How are you? Did the 156th make the objective?" 
 
 "More than that, — ^we lost only eighteen men," he re- 
 sponds. 
 
 "We? " 
 
 "Out. I am on the line now. Jean Raas and I trans- 
 ferred from the liaison. It was — well, yes, — it was just 
 after you saw us at Froide Terre. He never got over 
 Pierre. He says, T want to get out and be killed too !' " 
 
 "Is he dead?" 
 
 "Oh, no,— not yet; only eighteen men, I told you. He 
 comes behind me." 
 
 Several minutes later a shuffling figure appears. It is 
 Jean Raas, wearing a most vacant countenance. 
 
 "Hola, Jean ! — one moment . . ." 
 
 He passes me blankly by. 
 
 I say to a sergeant following: "That boy knows me, but 
 he seems to be 'affected.' " 
 
 "He gets the 'Medal' anyhow— he did a daring thing." 
 
 ♦Wdunded. 
 tBre^. 
 
2'j2 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 He shrugs, continuing his march. 
 
 "The lieutenant thinks so anyway !- 
 
 The 4th of July swamps with a continuous rain. We 
 start toward the lines heavily laden with machine-guns and 
 munitions. Sluicy mud oozes through the trenches — sucks 
 in our croquenots.* The order is passed along, man-to-man, 
 man-to-man : 
 
 "Remember, HARDECOURT !— mo further!" 
 
 The 2nd Mitrailleuse sinks down behind demolished para- 
 pets, posting its guns in position to fight ofif counter-at- 
 tacks, and sits back to wait. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 Boom — crrackk — ^whrroarr ! 
 
 — ching, whrroarr ! ! 
 
 The marmites herald the attack and it comes with a 
 rush ! We aim — feed — fire, feed — fire, feed — fire, fire !" In 
 rhythmical ear-splintering cadence the mitrailleuses hum. 
 Fritz falls back amid chaos, and the field is strewn. 
 
 The 5th sees a second hail of marmites and a second 
 surge. Dust-grey forms loom up in heroic sacrifice before 
 the gun-muzzles — crash into nothingness to earth! It is 
 grandiose — it is fanatic, smacking of martyrdom; but the 
 ever-diminishing hosts leave their ever-increasing toll upon 
 the "Champ d'Honneur."^ 
 
 The 6th adds natural horror to unnatural ghastliness : the 
 i-ain comes down in torrents! It floats cadavers in huge 
 puddles entre les lignes. By and by an opening is washed 
 through the parapet where the wires are demolished, and 
 one floated in ! 
 
 "Sacrel Will you take this fellow into your guitoune, 
 please ? — ^he annoys me I" I sing out to my copain. 
 
 "No boche shall sit at my table," Constant retorts, 
 
 "Put him underneath then." 
 
 "He is better off outside. I don't serve salad!" 
 
 *Shoes. 
 
 tField of Honour.- 
 
THE SOMME 273 
 
 He refers to the expression "eating the salad by the 
 roots," which applies to all maccabes. 
 
 "Get him before that opening then so he keeps his fel- 
 lows out." 
 
 Constant, who is not on duty upon a mitrailleuse, boosts 
 him into position like a sack, stuffing his head into a crev- 
 ice. . . . 
 
 "Eh bien. Let them hammer shot and shell. I call that 
 good protection." 
 
 From the rear comes a roll and rumble. A shriek passes 
 over the parapet, frightfully close and spitting wind in our 
 faces! A second follows, higher, and breaking further. 
 The air comes in resilient and tempered with slashing 
 water. It whisks in frequently after this; so much so, in 
 fact, that by morning of the 7th a steady bombardment is 
 once more in force, departs* leaving our lines and gradually 
 doubling and trebling. Now the atmosphere chokes with 
 falsetto sibilation. The air agitates like a variable storm, 
 stampeding and muttering; lashing in our eyes, exposed 
 parts of our necks and ears. This weird inharmony con- 
 tinues until the sixth hour of day, when, the 8th having 
 ushered in, the second offensive rises from our ranks, 
 launches forward with determination; and, gritting and 
 squirming, approaches the foe. Blue cloud clashes with 
 grey! Boche and poUu lock hand-to-hand in cut-throat 
 battle ! 
 
 The 2nd Mitrailleuse becomes silent spectator of a 
 slaughter supreme in the annals of Hardecourt! 
 
 Companies 9 and 10 of the i6oth, swelling with a roar 
 over the crest of opposing trenches, leap in, — over, — con- 
 tinue the fight into the village, slashing, stabbing, striking 
 right and left, and falling; — but ever and anon keeping up 
 the persistent hammer — hammer — hammer of the offensive 
 until obscured from view by a rising tide of brown! . . . 
 It is the khaki-clad Colonial horde, pouring entre les lignes 
 — black Senegalese as ferocious as any African in the jun- 
 gles, armed with butcher-knives, — ^terrifying, unsheathed in- 
 ♦Departing shells. 
 
274 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 struments, hungry for gore and determined to exact it ! . . . 
 
 These trench-cleaning assassins bear down on the luck- 
 less Teutons. Without ignominy Fritz casts aside his guns, 
 elevating his red-calloused hands, and begs for quarter. 
 QUARTER?! — Heads are hacked clean off by the gloating 
 Senegalese; ribs exposed at a twist; hands lopped and 
 hurled in the air in the blood-lust and exuberance and riot ! 
 . . . No savage massacre in primitive Dahomey could show 
 a swifter descent into animalism — naked venom and brute 
 ravagings ! 
 
 Within an hour we are ordered to move into the village 
 won by force of French arms — Hardecourt. In shell-holes 
 just outside we plant the machine-guns. Rapid counter- 
 attacks, heavily enforced by battering-ram bombardment, 
 leave us gasping but still secure at nightfall. The Sene- 
 galese are encamped about the village. Relief gives us a 
 chance to inspect the ruins. 
 
 I ask my copain: "How is it the sous-lientsnant led us 
 into Hardecourt?" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "Captain Robilleux? . . ." 
 
 "Amoche!" 
 
 "When?" 
 
 "He lost his arm in the examination of Raymonde's 
 mitrailleuse on the 6th. You remember the gun went out?" 
 
 "Yes. Mais, — that is the third time wounded, is it not ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And the lieutenant? . . ." 
 
 "// est bomUUr* 
 
 "Sacre nom!" 
 
 He shrugs. 
 
 "Well, how is that, the ofKcers go — ^go — ^go? Whenever 
 we have an attack there is nobody!" 
 
 "That is your imagination, frangin. Everybody dies— 
 you, too — maybe, sometime." 
 
 "You talk like Jandray now — the big Parisian up in Ar- 
 ras. 'I am killed, but never he !' Sd, he lives, — ^but without 
 
 *He is killed I 
 
THE SOMME 275 
 
 a jaw! . . . Let us look at the guitounes below here." 
 I They are dug to some ten metres' depth, well-fortified 
 with trees, reinforced concrete and rails. Much damaged, 
 however, in spots, the aerial torpedoes have nested twenty, 
 and, sometimes, thirty, boche-corpses in one cavern. Par- 
 ticular savagery ravages here with a heavy hand, — the 
 gruesome knifing and double-edge thrusts of the Senegalese. 
 
 "Pah! — the brutes!" My copain turns one of the vic- 
 tims over with his foot. The heart lops out of the man and 
 hangs sideways over the floor, held up by partial valves 
 still innocent of the butcher's twist. "A savage profes- 
 sion, n'est-ce pas? — they are better trained at it than we." 
 
 He stoops and gathers up a grenade from the floor, flat 
 and shaped like a crab. It is quite small and there are 
 boxes and boxes of them — ^unused. 
 
 The odour is nauseating. We pass through the village — 
 a cavernous hollow underground, a mortuary containing 
 sound slaughtered human-beef! Dank and brutish blood 
 smell encircles the place with a sort of vapour, sickish and 
 stenchy. 
 
 Fritz comes over for a counter-attack again on the loth 
 under a vicious barrage, but with no gains; and the 2nd 
 Mitrailleuse thereupon picks up its guns and equipment and 
 marches for Bray, having been duly relieved. 
 
 We are short fifty-two men and four machines ! 
 
 Bray-sur-Somme has been a neat township in its day — 
 no doubt about that, and the honours for its desolation be- 
 long to the war. Yet now in its abandoned and cataclysmic 
 condition, minus every comfort or vestige of a safe resort, 
 another innoxious victim is added to the long list and a sad 
 requiem must be pronounced by the chance visitor. 
 
 We dwell, besides a lot of English troops, in the principal 
 villa or caravansary of the town, nursing its tottering walls 
 with a sort of sportsmanship that even the crackling shells 
 from Fritz's long-range batteries cannot dampen. It does 
 not survive them long. On the third day a salute in the 
 shape of shrapnel bursts in the yard! . . . Cries and 
 groans in two tempos summon us. There a horse is ripped 
 
2T(> THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 open in the belly and two men are passing out. Pathetic, 
 unalleviable situation! Before we can make the caravan- 
 sary, a burst gets that! ... an enormous detonation is 
 followed by quaking walls, shivering, despairing, sur- 
 rendering, descending! — the whole thing goes down in a 
 cloud of debris ! 
 
 One-half kilo over is the River Somme. Withdrawing 
 hastily in this direction, we plunge in, rejoicing in the cool 
 water as well as our good fortune to have been out of the 
 building when the demolition occurred. An English "Tom- 
 my" is swimming near my copain, who tries in vain to un- 
 derstand his patois. 
 
 "Bloomin' bloody dangerous pond, ya know — sort of a 
 natatorium without a cov — ah — gur — gur — glub — ^guggle 
 
 He ducks below as a sibilant sound shrills overhead — 
 an arrwee buries in the water! A columnal water-spout 
 immediately rises, foaming down and spreading consterna- 
 tion among the swimmers. 
 
 "I sy, cawn't ya wait? " Our voluble Britisher is 
 
 again on the surface, "ah — gur — gur — ^guggle " A sec- 
 ond shell cleaves over, — "this is gettin' 'ot ; 'e 'asn't the man- 
 ners of a coal-heave — 'e — Gawd per-serve!" 
 
 The marmite explodes and throws a peculiar round some- 
 thing with force into the water before me, striking my arm, 
 spreading crimson blots upon the pea-greenish, foamed 
 water. It is the calf of his leg, torn apart by the violent 
 messenger, and swirling in an iridescent circle ! 
 
 "Bande de vaches!"* Sputtering and strangling. Con- 
 stant breaks for shore. His legs are kicking; his breath 
 comes loud and short. Before him a marmite bursts, send- 
 ing a spray of water into his mouth. He gives up and 
 sinks, throwing out his arms. A "Tommy" dives for him — 
 gets him to the surface when the slippery body of my 
 copain slides through his fingers and disappears again. 
 
 "So 'elp me! — one o' you French blokes lend a 'and — 
 think I can rescue him without — gur — ^glub — guggle " 
 
 ♦Herd of cows. 
 
THE SOMME 277 
 
 I am the only one who understands him, and, seeing me 
 
 iim alongside, the "Tommy" dives again for Constant. 
 7 copain comes up a struggling, choking weight, lashing 
 in all directions. . . . 
 
 \Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 "Nab 'im, Francois!" gasps the "Tommy." "Take 'im 
 uiider the arm-pits. So — you got some sense." He grunts 
 apiprovingly, wiping the water out of his eyes. "Fight, will 
 
 ya? " He addresses this to Constant, hauling off and 
 
 driving his fist into his face. . . . "That'll 'old ya, ya 
 blitherin' h'idiot ! Come alongside an' we'll see ya safe, so 
 'elp me!" 
 
 Ah-ching — ching 
 
 "That'll do. Take it easy up there !" He looks up where 
 the shells are still sending spouts of froth into the air at 
 distant points. "Paddle 'im — swim 'im along. That'll do, 
 — ^ya got a scratch, matey?" He sees a red daub like the 
 crimson in a butterfly's wings on my arm. 
 
 "No. Your English friend bit the dust and I came in for 
 a grand-stand finish — ^he decorated me !" I educidate in good 
 American slang. 
 He frowns. Paddling, he looks at me sharply. 
 "Matey, I suspect you are not French." 
 "I am American." 
 
 "Put it there! That h'accounts for the brains in your 
 bucket. How comes it ya fight Franzose ?" 
 
 "How comes it you know my name ?" ^ 
 
 "FranQois ?" He laughs. He pronounces it "Frankoize." 
 "We call 'em all that in the ' 'orizon' — sort of a monniker 
 like— like 'poy-lu.' " 
 "I see." 
 
 We get my copain to shore. The "Tommies" have been 
 hesitating here, not knowing which way to turn as their 
 clothes are some paces down the bank and the shells are 
 breezing between. 
 
 "H'awkward situation — what ?" 
 
 A fair-haired Apollo, whom I construe to be an officer, 
 calls up a private. 
 
278 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Daw!" 
 
 "Y-sa!" The naked "Tommy" salutes his naked su- 
 perior. 
 
 "Can you swim the stream and cut over to the barracks ?" 
 
 The boy looks dubious, hesitating over the feat — ^unable 
 to say. 
 
 With that a brisk voice cuts in : "I can, sorr !" 
 
 Constant's late rescuer leaps into the picture, saluting his 
 superior gravely. "I've made many a blitherin' league in 
 the sea off . . ." 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 Crackk — whrroarrr ! 
 
 "Well, you make it! Tell Hem " The officer's voice 
 
 drowns under the increasing cannonade . . . they both 
 salute, heels together, and as comical as two pagan images, 
 and the swimmer starts back into the water, measuring 
 clearly the distance with his eye. 
 
 I am working over Constant. He breathes, shudders 
 convulsively once or twice and opens his eyes. 
 
 "Eh bien. Thank the British boy there for your life. He 
 " I commence in French. 
 
 " 'Sail— right! Only I'm not British,— I'm Irish!" rips out 
 that cheery individual, leaping into the Somme. 
 
 We dine, on the evening of the 20th, at Suzanne. The 
 weather is glowingly warm, and the low, furnace sun 
 blazing into the valley, sends gleams between the frequent 
 flashing fires of the 210s. The 75s have moved nearer to 
 the front. Their objective is pressed further.^ We are ad- 
 vancing to take the lines once more at Hardecourt. 
 
 The Battles of Mawrepas and Combles 
 
 Directly back of the Ch&teau de Suzanne the geme has 
 built a bridge. The Somme widens here, over-reaching 
 Cappy. 
 
 Whisst — whroarr ! 
 
 A splintering crash breaks up from the demolished 
 bridge! Planks go sailing and ricochetting against the 
 
THE SOMME 279 
 
 chateau, slamming against its walls and crumbling the 
 stones like chowder! . . . 
 
 A tense moment obtains after this, — we are all wonder- 
 ing whether the old feudal towers will resist the blast and 
 continue to shelter the "Etat Major,"* or whether they 
 will disintegrate, charring to pieces and burying the luck- 
 less council under their archaic pollen. 
 
 They do last. The dust emanates from their crevices and 
 deep voices rumble through their confines, the warmakers 
 continuing uninterruptedly their schemings in behalf of the 
 Patrie. 
 
 Our emplacement this trip to the trenches is within hail 
 of Maurepas. There is an aero-field back at Hammel and 
 engagements between the avians de chasse^ of both sides 
 are frequent. Our "sausages" are attacked and the ob- 
 servers forced to leap out under parachutes and float to 
 the ground. Huge explosions are followed with roaring 
 flames as the nearest two come under the bombs of the 
 Teutons; whereupon Constant calls my attention to our 
 planes that leap into the air with avidity. 
 
 "There will be a fine time, my copain, and don't you for- 
 get it. The fire is in the soul and once N and G get 
 
 on their trail, it is all up, — that's a sure thing." 
 
 The French flyers climb and circle widely, overtaking 
 their German foes at about two thousand metres. A run- 
 ning fight ensues . . . they are driving in the direction of 
 Curlu, inside our lines and approximately three kilos to the 
 south. Black flecks of smoke appear on their tracks; the 
 anti-aircrafts hum a continuous, monotonous refram, their 
 full, deep roar punctuating the rattle above like thunder- 
 claps. The first of the hoches ducks down, turns three 
 complete somersaults and rights, coming up to the attack 
 only to be grenaded from above. He flops uncertainly — 
 staggers — dives ... in a long columnal haze of smoke 
 goes down within the faubourgs of Curlu ! 
 
 The remaining boche turns tail and starts toward his 
 
 ♦Staff Officers, 
 f Pursuit planes. 
 
28o THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 own lines. Then our avians spiral from above directly 
 in his fore, heading him off, sending him obliquely off 
 southwest toward Cappy, and we lose them in a grey of 
 clouds coming up from the horizon. 
 
 "Did I not tell you — they cannot beat us in the air," Con- 
 stant avers with pride. He is a great advocate of the 
 "overhead cavalry" ; and, were he not too old, would trans- 
 fer to this branch of the service. More and more of the 
 poilus are expressing the same desire. The life in the 
 trenches sickens — it grows ever more bestial, monotonous, 
 refractory. 
 
 The aeroplanes being still abroad at nightfall, a brilliant 
 pyrotechnic display spews into the Heavens coming up 
 from the German lines. Red-fire hangs overhead like a 
 volcano-crater inverted and shedding lava. From time to 
 time a perfect rainbow of blazing balls succeeds one the 
 other, rapidly and without chance for the leaders to dim. 
 These chenilles* as we call them, go up in chains, dawdling 
 through the sky like crawling creatures, signalling the 
 absent flyers to return to their home-hearths, as it were, 
 after a midnight sortie. We have our own system. 
 
 "My brothers, we attack Maurepas in the morning," an- 
 nounces our sergeant on the evening of the 29th of July. 
 
 At six o'clock then, — the dawn blushing warm and 
 dry, — ranks of blue-backed infantry, sac au dos and bay- 
 onette au canon,'\ pour over the parapefs crest and enter 
 the village. A frightful bombardment has levelled dwell- 
 ings to streets and streets into cellars. From these 
 latter, as barricades, the last of the German mitrail- 
 leuses blare forth, sending a rattling stream of projectiles 
 toward the French advance, driving the men into shell- 
 holes from which they can with difficulty pursue the of- 
 fensive. Troops are therefore dispatched to right and left, 
 encircling the township. The snipers are taken at the 
 back, and being caught in the midst of their diablerie, dis- 
 patched without quarter. 
 
 ♦Caterpillars. 
 
 fKnapsack to shoulder and bayonet on rifle. 
 
THE SOMME 281 
 
 Maurepas is ours! The 2nd Mitrailleuse, an interested 
 and jubilant spectator of all this, leaps into the fray. 
 Machine-guns are hauled forth, like Indian papooses, on 
 the back, struck up in shell-pits just before the village, 
 prepared to hold the gains at any cost. In the space of 
 half an hour Fritz hurls a tremendous barrage directly into 
 the town, tearing the heart out of an already heartless com- 
 munity, cutting off our reserves behind, and reckoning on 
 a debacle among the 156th Regiment deployed variously 
 through the underground net-work and cellars of Maurepas. 
 But he reckons without his guests. We are prepared to 
 combat this. The 9th Company charges directly in the face 
 of these 77s blaring overhead, and rips the crews so badly 
 they are forced to declare a defeat. 
 
 And now a strange incident marks the passing of these 
 batteries, — ^not so strange after all, since it occurs fre- 
 quently on the Franco-Prussian Front ! — an Alsatian recog- 
 nises his brother fighting vis-a-vis! In other words, the 
 sergeant in charge of the 9th Company, in lieu of any 
 surviving superior, rushes his men forward, bellowing at 
 the top of his lungs : 
 
 "Neuvieme Companie, suives-moi!"* 
 
 Then forward they start with a roaring volley, flatten- 
 ing and advancing, flattening and advancing, taking ad- 
 vantage of walls and obstructions to shelter their ap- 
 proach, and staggering in the face of the awful casualties 
 as they leap over comrades' bodies into the arms of the foe ! 
 Hand-to-hand, the encounter is brief. 
 
 "Kameraden Framosen!" goes up the wail. 
 
 The humane 9th hesitates before a mortal blow. In that 
 moment of indecision, they look to their sergeant for the 
 sign. He is faced with uncertainty. The crews have 
 merited death by their persistence. . . . 
 
 "Strike — ah, no, no!" he screams, in mortal terror, al- 
 lowing his upraised bayonet to sink to earth, quivering, pale 
 and unstrung. "Ah, Marcel, Marcel " 
 
 *gth Company, follow me. 
 
282 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 The lance-pierre* clatters, to earth — the brothers em- 
 brace, boche in the arras of poilu! The astonished 9th and 
 its captives stare stupidly and open-mouthed. A brother 
 has met a brother — recognised on the field of battle, in the 
 lap of blood and turmoil, — one from the German and one 
 from the French side. Born of identical parents, raised in 
 the same Alsace, parted before the inexorable enigma of 
 war. . . . 
 
 "Truly," says Constant, "there is a higher law than man's, 
 and here is a demonstration of it. Marcel Delmanhorst 
 would have been killed had he faced any other man. As 
 it is — ^his brother came within an inch of slaying him." 
 
 I ask him astonished: "How do you know him?" 
 
 "I do not. But his brother — the sergeant, Rudolf Del- 
 manhorst — was my caporal before I transferred from the 
 9th." 
 
 "Ah." 
 
 "We have many interests in common in Alsace." 
 
 "I thought you are from Paris, Constant." 
 
 "Born in Mulhouse ; but I am a true Parisian," he smiles, 
 
 "I have seen his paintings at the Academy once in a 
 
 while, this Delmanhorst — ^the younger. He had some 
 talent." 
 
 "The French boy?" 
 
 "The German." 
 
 The music of the marmites breaks over fitfully. Two 
 heavy counter-attacks are repulsed before dawn. Then we 
 have further word to advance. The objective this time is 
 north in a direct line to Combles. The crash and batter of 
 shells swells up enormous. Whole curtains of flame jetty 
 from the German lines, irregular, and straggling more and 
 more as we advance. Now death spreads like a cancer 
 through the company, plying its nefarious trade among 
 our officers and men, until twenty-six, — thirty-two, — forty! 
 are gone; and three mitrailleuses! At this rate we will 
 be wiped out before jiightfall. . . . 
 
 But the boche attempts against Maurepas result in a 
 
 *Rifle, 
 
THE SOMME 283 
 
 fiasco; we press the advantage to Combles. On their side 
 the English have moved forward with equal avidity, leav- 
 ing a gleaming field crimson under the beams of the sun, 
 with huddled groups and sanguinary corpses strewn in 
 endless disorder. Hail from Heaven of human-flesh could 
 not have spread a more noxious blanket. 
 
 The village is encircled — the last remaining blows are 
 struck in the early hours of night, — then several thousand 
 pick-and-shovel men arrive to consolidate our fresh posi- 
 tions. A firm emplacement is opened up, proper protection 
 and stability assured, and we look forward to the coming 
 of the relief as a sight too celestial for earth! 
 
 It is at last the 7th of August. Released from our post, 
 we retire to Suzanne, to Bray, and, finally, as far back as 
 Hammel, lodging in very temporary wooden barracks be- 
 side the humming aviation-field, droning like May-dragon- 
 flies in the breeze. 
 
 "Come, we take a look at it," Constant apprises me, 
 eagerly obtaining a permission, and we advance to the 
 nearest hangar. Long, squat buildings shelter these eagle- 
 eyes of the artillery. The pilots, quartered in separate 
 dwellings with a bunk for each man, are taking their sun in 
 the open, gravely gathered about little tables, playing cards 
 and smoking in the best of ease. 
 
 My copain nods with self-satisfied approval. 
 
 "You see, this is the life. These boys when they sleep, 
 — sleep ; eat, — eat. Look there — the kitchens, the beds, the 
 air of comfort and refinement. They have none of the hard- 
 ships of the trenches." 
 
 He lights a seche, offering one to the mechanician in 
 charge of the hangar, addressing him also some questions 
 on the type of planes. 
 
 "Oh, oui," finally retorts the latter, "unless a man can 
 rudder upside-down, downside-up, dive, spiral, loop, wing- 
 slip, whirl — well, he is simply no good for the present day 
 aerial tactics. He has got to be a performer in the air— an 
 acrobat, a humming-bird, a swallow — ^all rolled in one !" 
 
 "Do you have much damage?" 
 
284 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "Oh, out, they all come down perforated." 
 
 "The aviators?" I interject, 
 
 "Sacre — non — panouille!" Constant nudges me dis- 
 gustedly, — "the wings !" 
 
 "That is a marvel. And they fly any time — any hour?" 
 
 "Absolutely. The weather makes no difference." 
 
 "Suppose it rains?" 
 
 "Up or down, it is always the same." He means the 
 shells exploding from underneath as well as the elements 
 above. 
 
 "Then flying is fool-proof ?" 
 
 "Well, not exactly. Capitaine Reul, — he approaches now 
 — ^he — wait a moment — stand aside. . . ." 
 
 Two other mechanicians spring forward and the plane 
 is guided rapidly out on the field. Here a quiet hustle 
 seems to permeate the air. Other scouts simultaneously 
 run out of adjacent hangars, their nacelles* mounted by 
 close-helmeted, gloved, goggled pilots, the propellers turned 
 over, — a devastating wind sent churning backward over the 
 meadow . . . sudden roaring of the exhausts, and the V 
 whole crew speeds over the sward, mounts without visible 
 effort ... is off in wide spirals into the air ! . . . 
 
 My copain draws a deep breath. 
 
 "Magniftque!" he says, nostrils distended. 
 
 It is all done so unauspiciously — so matter-of-fact. 
 
 Our informant says: "The captain was lost in a cloud 
 yesterday." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "He dove in and could not get out." 
 
 "Impossible! . . ." 
 
 "Oh, no. There is no way of telling direction or in- 
 clination once you are wrapped in a fog. He came out 
 wrong side up." 
 
 "What! . . ." 
 
 "And the bombs were all dropping out of his machine," 
 — he laughs heartily, — "it was the most amusing thing: he 
 didn't know his head was down until he saw them fall!" 
 
 *Cock-pits. 
 
THE SOMME 285 
 
 Constant and I have a most delicate sensation — it is cold 
 shivers. 
 
 We proceed to the prisoners' camp to have a look at 
 Fritz. Territorials are on guard here over the blood- 
 thirsty ( ?) crew — for the greater part old men and boys. 
 In this enclosure— barbed-wired, and truly fitting cattle bet- 
 ter than a human brood — temporary buildings are erected 
 to hotise the five hundred inmates. 
 
 "Look at that, for the love of Heaven !" says Constant,, 
 pointing out a group labouring on the roads outside their 
 enclosure under the guttural orders of an unter-offizier* 
 one of their own particular breed. In each mouth is a 
 pipe, and in each famished eye a great and pathetic relax- 
 ation, as if the burden of the whole soul had been lifted 
 and a new and gentler resignation come to dwell in its 
 stead. A single Territorial is on guard with a single gun, 
 and in his mouth the well-worn pipe with a single diffusion 
 of smoke. 
 
 "Well, that beats everything I have seen!" my copain 
 exclaims, and I am bound to agree with him. "How 
 stolid and unenergetic and home-grown they now appear — 
 these devilish masters of the marmite, these imps of a Hun- 
 nish civilisation! Can you condone their present occupa- 
 tion with their past performances? B'ande de vachesf — 
 pah ! — they are a band of sheep and the wolf is nesting in- 
 side!" 
 
 Back at our cantonment is a large reinforcement. The 
 2nd Mitrailleuse is once more up to war strength, and on 
 the I2th of August we depart for Longueau, located near 
 Amiens, where a burning sun sees us into dank cattle-cars 
 and shipped off to Eu. Eu is in the Seine Inferieur near 
 the seacoast, far, indeed, removed from the front, and a 
 fitting haven for rest and recuperation. Our battalion 
 lodges at Monchy sur Eu close by — a village of lesser 
 proportions. The good two-months' sojourning sets in and 
 Normandy and its romantic atmosphere float over the spirit 
 like balm. 
 *Non-commissioned oflScer, 
 
286 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "You may be sure the war will be through before they 
 get us back, my frangins," say the more optimistic members 
 of our company. "Fritz is stopped — we have him backed — 
 and, anyway, let us eat and drink and be merry!" 
 
 But the great world war is not over. Fritz is not pushed 
 back. On the 8th of October, when the soft life ends, and 
 we are once more on our way into Purgatory, some such 
 small gain as Sailly-Saillisel, eastward of Combles, is the 
 only palpable indication that Fritz is weakening, and other- 
 wise the mortality is not above the average, — ^which is to 
 say that it is intense ! 
 
 Our route follows now somewhat this pattern : Monchy 
 to Moncheaux, to Reel Camp, to Illois, to Allancourt, to 
 Plachy Buyon, to Croixrault, to Cerisey, — ^but what a change 
 here! — Cerisey! . . . the throbbing, businesslike, unde- 
 vastated, optimistic Cerisey of June last ... it is now in 
 the most total desolation that can be imagined. Not a 
 house, not the railroad station, not a car on a siding, but 
 is cluttered in satanic confusion over every quarter, — and 
 not any one location holding all of anything. 
 
 What a strange thing to pass through an able-bodied 
 township — to be part and parcel of its hustle; the cottages 
 smoke at the chimneys, the maids stand in the door-frames, 
 the trade carries briskly, the whistles of plying trains echo 
 through depot walls out over the fields into pasture-lands, 
 the munitions of a countless army disgorge and stack — 
 — stack — stack into the sidings, the villagers lush, toasting 
 long life to the Republic of France and confusion to her 
 vandal-enemies; and then — four months posterior to all 
 this, the gaunt spectre Destruction stalks through its streets 
 and a gay community crumbles to ashes ! That, for the eye 
 of the casual, chancing into Cerisey, is the sole impression 
 in Fall. 
 
 A gay, young poUu, greeting us on the street with 
 snatches of song, is amazed at our chagrined expressions. 
 
 He sings out : "Why are you so sad ?" 
 
 We reply: "Why are you so gay?" 
 
THE SOMME 287 
 
 He explains he is on his permission and all the world 
 looks lusty and bright to-day. 
 
 "It is not so! What has happened to Cerisey?" we ex- 
 claim indignantly. 
 
 "Nothing that could not happen to any other well- 
 brought-up city under the same circumstances," he re- 
 sponds, merrily, — "Shelled from above, my copains, and still 
 smoking." 
 
 "He, how is that?" 
 
 "The German planes swooped down two weeks ago and 
 bombed away like the devil ; thus the ammunition depot went 
 up and the whole town went down, and everybody blew to 
 smithereens ! Is that quite clear ?" 
 
 "Everybody? . . ." 
 
 "Not quite. / am here you see." 
 
 "Diahle! Tell us who was killed and who was not!" 
 
 "Some citizens, some troops. Contrary to the usual pro- 
 gramme — no children, but a vast amount of property as you 
 can see ; and — oh, yes 1 the prison camp with three or four 
 hundred fresh boches from Sailly-Saillisel. They scattered 
 like hornets before a smoke-jar; some went into the air and 
 some into the Sbmme, — ^but whether up or down they 
 merited what they got. It was their spark touched us off." 
 
 "The beautiful Cerisey !" 
 
 "Go down and you will see the bodies floating in the 
 river. They make a fine dam." 
 
 "I do not believe it is as bad as that," Constant confides 
 to me. "The Somme is a pretty swift-flowing stream. But 
 all the same it is the townships farther down that will 
 eventually get the corpses and a stinking, stenching lot 
 they will be by that time. War is a foul institution." 
 
 We advance to Cappy and Curlu, and over the hill de- 
 lineated the "Chapeom de Gendarme"* rising above swampy 
 country, interlaced with boggy hoyaux, ravaged and ex- 
 ploded—a shell-torn terrain. The hill is a trophy, of the 
 successful drive of the Colonials against Fritz earlier in 
 the year. We move down upon this battlefield. We pick 
 
 ♦Policeman's hat 
 
288 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 our way through moist craters, "marching by one," and 
 deploy in the gathering dark in a great snakey line toward 
 Hardecourt. 
 
 "Attention au Hi!"* 
 
 "Attention au M!" 
 
 "Attention au Hi!" 
 
 The order is passed from man to man. November blasts 
 sing a chill requiem and the desire for hot coffee goes 
 stoutly abroad. The 2nd Mitrailleuse, however, being with- 
 out kitchen and continuing from point to point along a de- 
 vasted route in quick succession, obtains only frozen nutri- 
 ment and this without abundance. Maricourt is in ruins; 
 Hardecourt, a memory; Maurepas, a tragedy! The same 
 destruction and the same utter, waflton, cruel, woeful lot 
 cast to each settlement in turn as the adder strikes. 
 
 In the Ravin de Maurepas is a substantial unit of artil- 
 lery. A tako^ supplies the needed fuel for this organised 
 herd of death-angels. Farther over an English tank en- 
 gages momentary attention. It is the first of the monsters 
 we have had a close-up view of. 
 
 Camouflaged after the manner of all prominent objects 
 on the front, long chains of thick, solid rubber and steel 
 intermesh to form the rotating base. From a V-shaped 
 nose two muzzles protrude, and, farther back, on movable 
 platforms, two additional ones. The mechanism is entirely 
 enveloped in armour-plating. 
 
 On our departure for Combles a rafale of Austrian 88s 
 blares over, kicking up the dust and pitting the roadway 
 every other metre. 
 
 Bordering the highway, the platanest have given way to 
 stumps, amputated low down on their sturdy trunks. Truly 
 it is pathetic. Combles, former mistress of three thousand 
 souls, virile and charming, breathes now but in snatches 
 through tottering walls between the uproarious peals of 
 engaging sides. Two houses are standing ! . . . 
 
 ♦Watch out for wire-entanglements, 
 f Temporary railroad. 
 JPIane-trees. 
 
THE SOMME 289 
 
 Turning now toward the right and skirting the cemetery 
 of Fregicourt, disinterred, a litter of granite head-pieces 
 and mutilated remains, we pass through the hoyau to 
 Sailly and Sailly-Saillisel— equally disrupted and discon- 
 solate—and into the lines now advanced thus far. 
 Morning sees two men of the company go out. 
 "We are on the ravitaillement," announces Constant. 
 This means a journey to Combles to connect with the roll- 
 ing kitchens, and a scramble through drenching rain to re- 
 ration the crews. 
 
 "Didble!" the corvie is cursing,— "is there no regard 
 for us in this miserable sky overhead? Must we slash 
 
 through mud to the knees daily with the d d croute?"* 
 
 Each man has his pack strapped firmly to his back, and now 
 a slipping, blaspheming file starts its procession forward. 
 An ocean of slush uncovers. One after another the 2nd 
 Mitrailleuse goes out with frozen feet and her crews are 
 relegated to base hospitals along with other of the un- 
 fortunate brothers from similarly affected units. 
 
 I am limping on the night of November 21st with 
 I my rations behind Constant, and the wind mutters up the 
 hoyaux, freezing them ever lower and lower with its sinister 
 breath. We pass the cemetery of Fregicourt, the dismal, 
 shattered head-stones rattling like dice at every gust. The 
 cold is bitingly intense. To add discomfort a German bar- 
 rage comes over, piercing the roadway, churning up debris 
 and a hail of leaden slugs! A caisson of artillery in the 
 van of our corvee dives directly into this! . . . there is a 
 crash and roar . . . ear-splitting detonation, tempered with 
 screams of anguish . . . mortal terror . . . 
 
 I leap behind the rear wheels of the caisson to escape 
 fragments of the conductor and two horses raining down ! 
 .... a severe something strikes across my hand at the 
 knuckles, sending an agony of pain to shoulder and breast ! 
 . . . "ah, God — I am touched ..." I moan and feel faint. 
 Constant drags me by main force to the nearest boyau. 
 A fusee eclairante budding here and blazing a white light 
 
 ♦Food. 
 
ago THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 on the front-line trenches, shows gleaming blood reddening 
 the fingers of my right hand and drip — dripping in a sodden 
 stream to earth. My copain dresses the fourth member 
 presently with gauze from the pansement* The highway 
 is in desperate condition with kicking horses and marmites 
 playing a glorious tattoo. We advance to the lines through 
 the boyau. 
 
 "It will not be much. You see, it soon heals," Constant 
 assures me of the scratch,— "you were lucky, Americain, to 
 
 get out of it as you did, and I " He holds up his 
 
 hands in silent mockery of fate. "I was born to be hung !" 
 
 The next night in Maricourt, however, the hand in- 
 flames, blackens. My arm throbs. Flames seem to be leap- 
 ing up my coat sleeve. 
 
 "Nom de Dieu, I cannot stand it any longer!" 
 
 "Then come, we visit touthibe," says Constant kindly, 
 leading me to the surgeon, who cleans and dresses it, scout- 
 ing the idea of infection. 
 
 The 2nd Mitrailleuse moves to Camp Celestin, a tempo- 
 rary wooden barracks near the Valley of Suzanne. There 
 I faH into a sort of delirium. My injured member grows 
 more painful, finally ceasing to be of use. 
 
 "Monsieur le Major," I appeal to toutbibe again, "you 
 will have to do something. I cannot stand the inflamma- 
 tion. If it is impossible to cure here, send me away." 
 
 He makes a second examination. 
 
 On November 26th, with my Fiche (^Evacuation attached 
 to the front of my capote, bearing name, company, regiment, 
 and nature of disability, I arrived in Bray-sur-Somme, leave 
 the ambulance for the field "Hopital de Triage," and am 
 relieved of all equipment with the single exception of the 
 musette.^ A quantity of antitetanum serum is injected. I 
 am then dosed with hot tea and asked innumerable questions 
 any of which could be read from the Fiche d'Evacuation, . 
 and these all carefully noted down and an itemization of the 
 case prepared. Arrivals conclude their examination by being 
 
 *First-aid kit. 
 
 fCanvas bag with reserve ration. 
 
THE SOMME 291 
 
 hustled off to various sections designated sick, dangerously- 
 or slightly-wounded, according to the nature of their com- 
 plaints. 
 
 I am assigned to the latter ward. 
 
 I enter. 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 The clerk drones this off in tick-tock order. 
 
 "Now," says he, concluding this second report, "be ready 
 to move on a moment's notice." 
 
 I am moved in an hour. I dismount at Cailly. Enter- 
 ing the field hospital, flanked before and behind with in- 
 valided soldiers, the clerk murmurs at sight of us in an 
 apologetic manner, 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 The same examination is jotted down with the same 
 amount of blue ink and paper. Supper is served. Beds 
 are distributed. The following morning I am treated to 
 an inquiry regarding my disability. A red-nosed, black- 
 browed, thick-necked surgeon, with the exact delineations 
 of a butcher and the voice of a crow, slashes the offending 
 member wide, scrapes it to the bone, packs it, straps two 
 pounds of cotton over it, and sends me out reeling to a 
 sanitary train, so-called. 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 After being duly notated again, this time on the moving 
 paste de secours, luncheon is offered us. It is December 
 1st. A stop is made at Amiens. Red Cross workers 
 spread cigarettes and oranges through the cars. — We are 
 directed to a depot d' eclopes* containing a thousand men 
 under the single roof of a high-school building. 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" snaps out the ever-present interlocutor. I am as- 
 signed, reassigned, and examined by two physicians, the 
 hand being unwrapped, the infection exposed, the whole 
 
 ♦Infirmary. 
 
292 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 thing being wrapped up again with "ahs" and "ohs" and 
 instructions given to transfer me as rapidly as possible to a 
 neighbouring hospital — a former nunnery. 
 
 "Name? Age? Reg " 
 
 "For mercy's sake, is there no getting acquainted with 
 the patients in French hospitals ? I have given my pedigree 
 six times since being amoche!" I exclaim irritably to the 
 clerk, who scrutinises me leisurely after this outburst, ad- 
 judges me sane, and says in a nasal voice, applying his pen 
 to paper: 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 In the midst of the inquisition a door swings open and a 
 young nurse makes her appearance. She takes a position 
 at my side. On the examination being concluded, she 
 hustles me without ceremony to a bathroom, strips off every 
 vestige of my clothing and souses me into a bath-tub ! . . . 
 
 "Cristi !— mamsell " 
 
 A mouthful of soap! 
 
 She scrubs me off, disregarding protests. The water is 
 hot — steaming — ^billowing . . . my flesh turns lobster-pink. 
 
 "But, mamsell " 
 
 Further scrubbing. When I commence to like it, I am 
 whisked out, rubbed, piled into fresh linens and encased be- 
 tween sheets. 
 
 "Mais — mais — I am well — I can walk — I " 
 
 She gives me a withering look, closes the door quietly 
 and retires. 
 
 My room is in semi-darkness from the effect of shades 
 half-lowered, but I see I have a roommate — one other 
 sleeper. He snores heavily and I am commencing to 
 wonder whether his affection is as vital ( ?) as mine, when a 
 loud noise goes through the air, spitting wind at me — a 
 marmite ploughs up the earth and it floats over in huge 
 clouds and all at once the rain falls in sheets and my wife 
 says, bringing a steaming dish upon the table: "Francois, 
 I have had two proposals in case you are killed!" — and I 
 am killed and I see Constant standing over me and saying 
 
THE SOMME 293 
 
 to a man without a jaw: "You were right, Jandray, he 
 was bousUle as you said. Good fortune cannot last 
 
 forever, and this Americain " "I am not dead !" I say 
 
 indignantly, rising, and the hoches come over the ridges at 
 Verdun carrying pitchforks like, demons "to catch the 
 rain," they say, and we walk through the "VMee de la 
 Mart" and all the bodies start to cry and cry so the tears 
 flow out like an ocean. Then we get in a boat— all the 
 baches and myself alone, and start to ride through the sea. 
 A periscope bobs nearby and I say : "Look out !" But the 
 captain of the baches pulls it up and it is a rosalie and it 
 starts to melt so it forms a pot. "For shame," says my 
 wife, pulling a lobster from the pot, "you should not as- 
 sociate with Germans. It is against the patrie. Oh, 
 Frangois, I am so " 
 
 I open my eyes, and it is still light in the hospital. My 
 hand is freshly dressed and oranges and cigarettes are be- 
 side my pillow. The door opens and my nurse steps in, 
 
 "Oh, you are awake !" 
 
 "Have I slept?" 
 
 "Twenty-four hours," she smiles amiably. "Man pauvre 
 petit, you will be better soon." 
 
 "I am not sick. Where is my tocarde?"* 
 
 She looks puzzled. 
 
 The boy in the next bed starts to laugh. 
 
 "Panouille," he says, "you are not in the trenches!" 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 "You are in the hospital. Say 'montr^^ to the lady." 
 
 She starts to laugh. I commence to hate him. She is 
 very amiable — very chic indeed! 
 
 "Here is your — tocardej' she says with an effort over 
 the last word, handing me my time-piece. "Maintenant, 
 you eat !" 
 
 My watch is on the same stroke as when I entered the 
 hospital, yet it seems to be going. 
 
 "What is the hour correctly, s'il vous plait, m'amsellef" 
 
 ♦Slang for watch, 
 t Watch. 
 
294 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 "What does that say ?" She points to my watch. 
 
 "That is wrong. It is eleven o'clock on there." 
 
 "It is right." 
 
 "What?! . . ." 
 
 "I told you — you have slept twenty-four hours, my fine 
 fellow." 
 
 I am astounded. 
 
 "No wonder I had such dreams!" 
 
 "What about?" 
 
 "Verdun." 
 
 "Oh, tell me!" 
 
 "What is there to tell ? Fritz fell on his nose, and that is 
 all there is to it." 
 
 "Ah, you should have been in the Champagne," says my 
 roommate 4rloatingly. "There was a slaughter-pen!" He 
 wags his head. "Not a man — not a cannon left at Beause- 
 jour. Down they went like chaff before the flail. We ran 
 right over and the entire German defences crumbled. I tell 
 you — that was fighting. Hand-to-hand, we butchered and 
 they begged. Singlehanded I took a whole emplacement. 
 'Well,' says my capitaine after the victory, 'Sainte-Breuve, 
 you are the wonder of the war — I recommend you for the 
 "Croix." Some day you will be a great general like Pet 
 
 "Un moment, my friend, are you quite sure this is true?" 
 I face him bluntly. "Can you tell me, for instance, what 
 time the attack was launched on Beausejour?" 
 
 "Mais, oui, — certainement. At five o'clock." 
 
 "You went over the parapet at five?" 
 
 "Oui." 
 
 "Then you must have gone alone! The i6oth Regiment 
 did not advance until 9:30 o'clock, as you will find if you 
 take the trouble to enquire of some one who was there." 
 
 He sneers : "I suppose you refer to yourself ?" 
 
 "Exactly. Furthermore you are a marioUe,* and if you 
 have ever been inside of a trench you know what that 
 means !" 
 
 *Bluffer. 
 
THE SOMME 295 
 
 "Oh, monsieur, you excite yourself," nutters the little 
 nurse. 
 
 "But not half as much as he will once I am — 00 — 00 — 
 ouch — h," sputters my worthy roommate, sinking down 
 from his elbows after having elevated himself the better to 
 shout at me. "Now, see here, who knows the shoe is not 
 on the other foot ? Can you prove you were there ?" 
 
 "I can at least give you the name of the commanding of- 
 ficer and any other little incidents you may desire." 
 
 "Well, and who was it?" he asks weakly. 
 
 "Medouin, Colonel du Regiment Cent-Soixante. Bour- 
 rier was commandant of the 3rd Bataillon." 
 
 "We called him 'Bee d'Ombrelle'* because he has a face 
 shaped like the parrots on the umbrella the demoiselles 
 carry in the streets of Paris," I say jokingly to the little 
 nurse, who is immediately restored to good humour and 
 begs us to quit talking and go to sleep. 
 
 "What, again! No, this time I get up and go for a 
 walk." 
 
 "You do nothing of the kind 1" 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "You are sick." 
 
 "I am not. Mademoiselle, truly " 
 
 "The doctor has ordered it. That is suificient." 
 
 Nevertheless when she leaves the room I leap to my 
 feet, scrambling into my clothes. 
 
 "Ha ! You have been deceiving the hospital authorities," 
 my erstwhile warrior from the Champagne shouts, his eyes 
 glittering. 
 
 "To the contrary, they have been deceiving me ! I said 
 
 I am well ; they insist I am sick. And to prove it " As 
 
 I start for the door, it opens and a medical officer walks 
 in, 
 
 "How — are you up?" 
 
 "I am in perfect condition except for this hand." 
 
 "I see. Well, you will be transferred." 
 
 He makes an inspection of my roommate's trouble, which 
 
 *Unibrella handle. 
 
296 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 seems to be a broken leg, and with many groans and "ohs" 
 the operation proceeds until the whole member is carefully 
 dressed, when we leave the ward-room. 
 
 "This is a hospital for the severely wounded. You will 
 be sent to the region," the surgeon tells me. 
 
 "Will that be soon, monsieur le Major?" 
 
 "On the ninth of the month." 
 
 I bid good-bye then to my chagrined mariolle and the 
 charming hand-maid of us both, and drive with a lot of 
 convalescing patients to the railroad station. There we are 
 lunched by the Red Cross, and taken for an eleven-hour 
 journey to Etaples; from there travelled still further by 
 automobile to Paris-Plage, — arriving in the dead of night. 
 
 "Name? Age? Regiment? Company? Home ad- 
 dress?" 
 
 "Mais — ^here are the papers, look over for yourselves, 
 m'ssieut's!" I hand over columns and columns of pedigree, 
 gathered together from all the various question-depots en- 
 countered up to the present ; papers congregated at my last 
 hostelry and turned over to me there. They are red and 
 blue and green and yellow, and all the approved colours of 
 the fainbow. 
 
 "That will not do. Please answer: Name — age — regi- 
 ment " 
 
 In a sing-song voice the new documents are made out. 
 My papers confiscated along with the rest of my clothes, 
 I am once more rudely shocked into the most adjacent bath- 
 tub and scoured off by a haughty Englishwoman of digni- 
 fied, challenging presence and a broad-A, masculine voice. 
 
 A mincing English school-girl puts in her head, 
 
 "Your ladyship will have the towels now?" 
 
 "Ah, yes, Cecile ; and get the 'Tommy's' — that is — ahem ! 
 the boy's sheets ready as he comes out of his bawth, deah." 
 
 Again I have nothing to say ; and again I am rushed to a 
 sleeping section, rebellious all the way. 
 
 My dowager says composedly and without the least little 
 sign of a ruffle : "My deah sir, this is a hospital. There is 
 no fuss made here." 
 
THE SOMME 297 
 
 I find myself on the third floor, facing a nurse with a 
 lead-pencil and pad, and in my hospital pajamas burst 
 out at once : 
 
 ' "Name — Francois Xavier ; age — thirty-two years; 
 
 i6oth Regiment; 2nd Mitrailleuse Company; home address 
 — San Francisco, California." 
 
 "Really — an American! — ^how interesting! . . ." She 
 jots away with the most painstaking care. 
 
 "Extraord'nary !" sniifs my dowager, leading me by the 
 hand as if she feared her invalid might cut and run ; — and 
 together we go into the ward . . . 
 
 It is a dainty one with dimity curtains and blue-and-white 
 (juilts like a bridal suite . . . and nurses are browsing 
 about with square paper-pads in their hands. 
 
 "If another one asks me she shall have a sick man on 
 her hands, and that is a sure thing !" I vow. "No wonder 
 France is short on paper. They used up two reams 
 describing my case, which is liable to be healed before they 
 get it all compiled." 
 
 I have three accomplices-in-illness in this ward, and we 
 sleep in brass-beds. The luxury of this and of springs and 
 mattresses, carpets and electric-lights and steam-heat, is 
 almost overpowering! My roommates look pale from want 
 of hardship. 
 
 "My copains," I say, having succumbed to the harsh 
 treatment of my nurse, and slipped between the sheets, "is 
 there anything more gratifying than war?" 
 
 A manly voice pipes up : "Out!" 
 
 "What is it?" I challenge. 
 
 "Being wounded!" he retorts, which sets us all off on a 
 laugh. 
 
 But not all are as well off as I ; for, with the exception of 
 my split finger and numb shoulder and some temperature, I 
 am as strong as ever before in my life. The boy in the first 
 bed is delirious before dawn. He has two bullets through 
 his Ijings. Number 2 is minus an arm — taken off at the 
 shoulder. Number 3 — my closest neighbour — has bandages 
 over his head. His skull is bruised and one ear taken off 
 
298 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 ^nd some other troubles, he infers; besides four fingers. 
 
 My own scratch seems trivial in comparison; still the 
 doctor gives it two more days to heal, "And then," says he, 
 "if it is gangrenous it will have to come of5F." 
 
 Bad news, and in such a beautiful Summer Resort too, for 
 Paris-Plage is a watering-place near Boulogne-sur-Mer. 
 The hospital on its peace-footing was the Hotel de f Her- 
 ■mitage, modern, new, concrete, and pleasure-built. Gay 
 throngs sped through its corridors, brass bands blared ; rec- 
 reation floated along on an even tide and millionaires 
 crossed the terraces. 
 
 Paris-Plage is now an English encampment. Chalets and 
 cottages are given over to the oflicers. Immense con- 
 tingents reserve here for Etaples, from which point they 
 are travelled to the front, having come in from Dover via 
 Calais or Folkstone via Havre or Dieppe. 
 
 For two days, then, we are uncertain about my hand, but 
 at the end of that time, X-ray examination sets me at ease 
 — it will not be stumped. 
 
 We have Christmas Trees ; we have theatres and bistros, 
 and a good deal of petting from the English society women, 
 not the least of whom is my haughty dowager of the mas- 
 culine voice and exaggerated manner. She is somewhat of 
 a personage. Her commandments ring out as I imagine the 
 original "Ten" must have had they not been prematurely 
 tableted. 
 
 She approaches the whole township in an effort to gather 
 together a surprise-box for my Christmas — following this 
 resolve with especial unction. 
 
 "Have you some cigarettes. Captain Brandon? It's for 
 the American, you know — our American boy in the 8th 
 Ward. He's fighting for France — and, of course, for Eng- 
 land! Oh, thank you so much — ^you don't know what a 
 
 favour Oh, Lef tenant Lourd, how generous of you! 
 
 Those cigars My! — Harry, you overwhelm me! . . . 
 
 "This razor — ohy I know he'll be transported! . . ." 
 
 I dive quickly out of ear-shot to allow the gushing re- 
 
THE SOMME 299 
 
 tipient to get by without knowing that I will not be either 
 surprised or transported. 
 
 The holidays are, however, spent in the most congenial 
 manner. It is the nth of January, 1917, almost before it 
 is the 1st! I am instructed to take myself and papers to 
 Nancy, there to convalesce before returning to the trenches. 
 I have also an order on Noisy-le-Sec to obtain a complete 
 new outfit. 
 
 Noisy is just outside of Paris in the Seine. Several 
 embusques of the correct military age but without hav- 
 ing seen a particle of trench-service, direct me to Mont- 
 Notre-Dame in the Aisne, where I am supposed to find the 
 regiment, and from there to Paris, Gray, Chalindrey, Isle 
 sur Tille, Neufchateau, and Toul, in quick succession, and 
 always quite in vain. I find myself in Nancy in the end, 
 no better off. 
 
 "Hola, Americain!" cries a cheery voice on the rue St. 
 Jean, — "where have you been skulking while the Army 
 Corps labours in Lorraine?" 
 
 "In Lorraine ! . . ." I ejaculate, recognizing a sergeant 
 from the 2nd Mitrailleuse. 
 
 "In the foret de Parroy. I am here on permission." 
 
 "Well, then we can go back together. Meanwhile let us 
 find a restaurant." 
 
VIII 
 
 THE AISNE 
 
 WINTER is casting her bleak mantle over the 
 equally cheerless vista of an approaching 
 Spring acknowledged to bear on its shrill tide 
 the strangling lust of a still war-inflamed 
 frontier. The cold is paralysing. The snow falls in a 
 stealthy, silent manner. We proceed to Miliary. A rum- 
 ble of sound like the braying of ten jackasses and swelling 
 into positive discordance on the frosted air, jars from 
 the direction of the station-house. 
 
 "Sah, what is this ? . . ." 
 
 "It sounds like Nicodemus," I say to my comrade, who 
 frowns, not understanding the reference to my adventure in 
 Froide Terre. 
 
 We push open the station-door and a chorus of laughter 
 bursts out. Eleven freshly-outfitted poilus are seated 
 against the wall, and a twelfth standing before them, wav- 
 ing his arms like a concert-maestro. A sonorous, harmoni- 
 ous chorus swells up to the rafters : 
 
 "Pourquoi si triste — ^jjj' — sttt? . . ."* 
 
 "Yahhh!" 
 
 Ending up the serio-comic tune with this exclamation, 
 Constant leaps from the end of the line and comes toward us ! 
 
 "Sacre nom d'un nom, Americain, you are always turning 
 up when no one wants you!" He greets me affectionately 
 and the others crowd around with shouts and tumult. 
 
 "Well, there is Andre ! How are you, bridegroom ?" 
 
 "See, there is a bridegroom — hola, my friends, he is 
 blushing like a girl!" 
 
 My poor, unfortunate comrade is rushed off his feet and 
 
 ♦Why so sad? . . . 
 
 300 
 
THE AISNE 301 
 
 out into the street on the shoulders of a poilu, the whole 
 mob trailing after bawling out his predicament to the vil- 
 lage rustics. He is freshly married on his present permis- 
 sion. 
 
 "Shall we find the company, Constant?" I ask my 
 copain. 
 
 He shrugs. 
 
 "Let them find us." 
 
 "Mais " At this instant an emhusque* enters wear- 
 ing the "Croix de Ciierre." 
 
 "Pah ! That is the way. The man behind the lines wears 
 it!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "That andouille there, — ^you think he ever got it for 
 bravery? No — some brother-in-law is some minister's sec- 
 retary or servant or something, and he wears a decoration. 
 That is low — I don't want it!" 
 
 He walks away, spitting contemptuously. 
 
 "Why? Have they been thinking of decorating you, 
 Constant?" I ask, following after. 
 
 "We are the men who should wear it 1" 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "They give it to these loafers." 
 
 "That is all right. When it comes our turn . . ." 
 
 "They can keep it !" 
 
 "Now, what is the matter?" 
 
 "Oh, they make me angry. Nobody with self-respect 
 wears the 'Croix' any more. It is only embusques who have 
 never been at the front. Disgusting — ^bah!" 
 
 With sufficient patience one can accomplish anything. 
 After so much search for the regiment, it is indeed the 
 regiment that finds us ! It is on its way to Frouard. We 
 proceed along, reporting, and receiving rations and wine. 
 Our quarters are beside a munitions factory where a good 
 deal of shelling is constantly in vogue. Aeroplanes drop 
 
 ♦Government ofKcial, such as clerk or munition-man, who shirks 
 first-line duty— looked down upon by the poilus. 
 
302 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 bombs and long-range guns sputter over from the front. 
 We are set at digging guitounes in the back yard of the 
 factory for the workers. In case of raids it will then be 
 propitious to drop under cover until the damage is done, — 
 or passed over. 
 
 A slim figure comes out to inspect our work, non- 
 chalantly, and in passing. It is one of the munitions 
 workers, dressed in dark blue overalls, presumably twenty- 
 two or so years of age, and healthy and elastic-looking — 
 from the back, at least. 
 
 "These fellows should be at war," I say to Constant. 
 
 "You think so? Well, why don't you tell him?" 
 
 I address the figure sternly: "I think it is an outrage 
 you are not at the front !" 
 
 Two mild blue eyes look around out of a crop of golden 
 hair. 
 
 "Ah— ha— ha !" laughs Constant. 
 
 "Ah — ha — ^ha! — well, laugh, espece d'andouille!" I 
 thunder when she is gone. "You nearly made a fool out of 
 me ! Why did you not tell me it was a woman ?" 
 
 "What for have you eyes?" 
 
 "Really, Constant, sometimes I think you are a " 
 
 "Ah— ha— ha!" 
 
 The morning following ushers in bombardment. Now 
 the arrivSes come rapidly overhead, plunging for the most 
 part into the Moselle, but otherwise ripping open several 
 streets and putting to death civilians and dogs. The 
 mercury falls with equal fervour. Our bread freezes ; our 
 pinard solidifies. Even the morning ablutions are coated 
 with ice, so a dash of water in the face causes the head to 
 freeze before a towel can be applied. 
 
 However the months roll around. It is the 14th of 
 March when we quit Frouard. At Villers les Nancy a 
 frightful storm impedes progress, the snow whirling on 
 long terrifying blasts of wind, blanketlike, over the soil, 
 racing up frenzied clouds and swirling the wet particles 
 down our capotes. By slow stages we reach the Aisne. 
 Another indefinite space looms before us. 
 
THE AISNE 303 
 
 "I have had enough of this inaction," Constant grumbles. 
 "So have I!" 
 "And I !" Andre adds. 
 
 "If we do not take a hand the war will be over," mut- 
 ters a fourth member of the company. "Let us approach 
 the Captain and ask for a transfer." 
 
 It is to the sth Company we are transferred — a. unit of 
 infantry slated for early offensive, still in the i6oth Regi- 
 ment and the 39th Division, 20th Army Corps. We are 
 the "Division de Paursuite," that is, a relief troop which 
 is rushed into already negotiated gains to hold these at 
 any cost. It is in April — the 15th, to be exact, and five 
 o'clock in the morning — when we start out. We have re- 
 serve rations, grenades, fresh, full equipment. From 
 Launois to Muret the weather is warm with occasional 
 flashes of rain. We march to D'Huizel, to Bourg et Comin, 
 and lodge in a forest. 
 
 "Do you know where we go. Constant?" 
 "Oui. West of Graonne," my copain responds. 
 "What is there?" 
 
 "Offensive along the Chemin des Dames." 
 "Ah." 
 
 The Chemin des Dames or Ladies' Road, a name given to 
 it for no particular reason since it differs in no wise from 
 any other road in France, all being wide and planted with 
 trees, save in the ferocity of the fighting there, is in Ger- 
 man hands. The present proposed French offensive is for 
 the purpose of winning it back. There is some strategical 
 value attached to this. Some gains, we are given to un- 
 derstand, have already been made by the African Troops' 
 Division, and it is to conserve these and to penetrate over 
 the hills and beyond the Road that we have been called to 
 the Aisne. 
 
 "Sah! There will be a struggle, Americain. It is only^ 
 
 the Iron Division can realise this. Well, I tell you, the 
 
 Chimin des Dames is bound to go down in history. A 
 
 greater abattoir it will be hard to find." 
 
 The bombardment blasts infernally along the entire sec- 
 
304 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 tor. Youthful Teuton prisoners and wounded French form 
 their usual procession, proceeding to the rear. Once more 
 I come upon Felize, and now he is a sergeant passing 
 through Bourg et Comin with papellards* for the "Etat- 
 Major"'\ back in Longueval. He has such a hearty hand- 
 clasp that these things alone in war seem to be worth 
 while — friendships that survive brutality and lust if they 
 survive death itself. 
 
 "How often I think of Ypres," says Felize, a little sadly. 
 "We were all together then, Parisot, you and me — ^the old 
 Eighth. Now, it is over. The entire company, I heard, 
 gone — ^you were the last remaining man. Americain, j'en 
 aie mcwe.X I wish the war were over." 
 
 "This maybe is the last offensive." 
 
 He says dully: "No, not this, nor the next, nor the 
 next. We are in it to stay seven years, mark my words. 
 Every poilu knows it: I'Allemagne is not so easily beaten 
 down." 
 
 "I see you have stripes again." 
 
 "I will be a joM.s-lieutenant in June. I am in the report." 
 
 "Felize, I congratulate you. Bonne chance, bon succes! 
 Mon frangin, good-bye' ." 
 
 "Good-bye!" 
 
 We move on the 21st of April. We go through Verneuil. 
 We take a location on the top of a hill, in reserve, over- 
 looking Verneuil and BoUrg et Comin beyond the valley on 
 the one hand and the remnants of two destroyed villages 
 on the other. These latter, the twin battlefields of a 
 recent, magnificent slaughter, precede the present objec- 
 tive — the Chemin des Dames — by several kilos, gliding off 
 in the distance to the German lines. 
 
 The 5th Company enters the first-line trenches of the 
 Aisne on the 25th of April, 191 7. Filing after is the 6th 
 Company. The boyau leads through a stone quarry into a 
 
 ♦Official papers — orders. 
 
 tStaflf officers. 
 
 %1 am sick and tired of it 
 
THE AISNE 30s 
 
 bois* down a hill and then across an open space to the 
 foot of a second hill, fearfully steep, — forming the present 
 French emplacement. 
 
 ^ "Pass over rapidly the open space, mes enfants," cau- 
 tions the captain. We leave the forest, rush down the hill 
 and across in one bedlam, every man panting and 
 dishevelled. 
 
 "Eh Men . . ." 
 
 Crrashh — whrroarr ! 
 
 A seething inferno of shells splits in the death-trap be- 
 hind us, catching the 6th Company and squarely ripping 
 it open with cries and moans and shouts of the unfortunate 
 victims! A barrage-fire is levelled with killing effect. 
 
 "Ah, God — let us get out of this !" Constant presses up 
 the hill-side, scrambling and clutching. We issue into the 
 lines and take up our emplacement. 
 
 With the first bud of day the situation becomes more 
 definite. We are posted on a ridge of a hill with Fritz 
 only a scant hundred metres distant. The Chemin des 
 Dames is now visible, running parallel with the Ger- 
 man position and fifty metres beyond. Our own slopes are 
 the desolation of a cemetery of recent growth, and below 
 this the criminal, the exposed, the morbid valley which we 
 are to know as the "Piste de la Mart." f It is not long, 
 furthermore it is not wide, but it is sufficiently treacherous 
 to claim its victims every day we are in the Aisne. To-day 
 it is five, to-morrow fifteen, or, maybe, twenty! The toll is 
 variable but never ending. 
 
 Alone is this path the connecting link with ravitaillement. 
 No other is provided to the rear. We are forced daily to 
 travel it, shuddering at its swamps a metre deep on either 
 side, and its sinister heaps added to every day under 
 Fritz's barrage. He has a habit of sending them over un- 
 swervingly every two minutes. This lends a slender chance 
 to skip across, leaping the niaccabes,^ skittling alongside 
 
 ♦Forest. 
 
 fPath of Death. 
 
 JDead men. 
 
3o6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 the fetid bogs as hungry as quicksand, and to forsake the 
 fatal zone before another rafale. 
 
 The boche accuracy is another marvel that sets me think- 
 ing. 
 
 "Panouille!" shouts Constant, "You have the brains of 
 a toto ! Is it possible you do not see that Fritz held these 
 lines before you or I and therefore knows them better? 
 He has the exact range. It would be difficult to miss. See 
 the valley below." 
 
 And sure enough it is filled with German shells — mar- 
 mites of all calibres, which, having sped from here, have 
 left their evidence below. 
 
 "Ravitaillement to-night, Americain," says Andre, who 
 is my sergeant. 
 
 "Cristi! It is best to go while it is light?" 
 
 He nods. 
 
 We go off in squads, approaching the path and deciding 
 to cross after every rafale in order. The first group starts 
 over. Unfortunately at this exact instant a corvee of the 
 1st Battalion is returning. The two meet in the middle. 
 Each hesitates to step out. It would be suicidal because 
 of the morass spreading its grimed arms on either side. 
 
 "Nom de Dieu!" 
 
 We crouch back, hiding our heads. We know the ver- 
 dict. It will be fatal! 
 
 Boom — ^boom — crrackk — whrroarr ! 
 
 A tumultuous detonation shivers through the valley! 
 The whole slope rocks. Bleeding bodies are thrown to left 
 and right — splashed into the bog — sunken from sight! A 
 bellow of pain leaps out of a throat . . . earth and flesh 
 spin giddily! . . . 
 
 "Ah, Dieu! Sacre nom d'un nom!" 
 
 Several of our own crew are nauseated' beyond measure. 
 My eyes blind for an instant and a helpless, hysterical 
 feeling swims over. I want to run — I — I 
 
 "A'lle2-vous-en—<)ite!"* 
 
 Pushed from behind, led on by others, I go — into the 
 
 *Go — quick. 
 
THE AISNE 307 
 
 strip of Purgatory, between fragments of flesH . . . leap- 
 ing, agonised and frensied . . , panting, gasping, strang- 
 ling — onto the other side! . . . 
 
 Sweat oozes now from every pore, — faint dizziness en- 
 velopes us all. We sway. We hesitate on the borders of 
 that inferno while another rafale comes over, breathing 
 in great lungfuls of air — overcoming our nausea. 
 
 Out of Vemeuil is the ravitaUlement. It is a long, 
 cheerless journey. Hours later — in the grey of morning — 
 we are back before the "Piste."* The little heaps have 
 grown larger. Bodies are even strewn to the foot of the 
 slope. Laden like pack-animals, we stand undecided. One 
 — ^two — four — six minutes — what has become of the rafale? 
 Is there no more cannonading from Fritz? 
 
 "Eh Men, let us go !" 
 
 Six together, we leap out to cross. 
 
 Ah-ching — ching — ching 
 
 "Barre-toidela!"^ 
 
 Whrroarr ! 
 
 We are back in the boyau — all but the man who spoke> 
 who is flat on his face in the road. A second time we es- 
 say the crossing, but this time directly after the barrage, 
 scuttling like rats, and pulling up exhausted on the farther 
 slope before our step-ladder emplacement. 
 
 The 5th of May thunders in. The 79th Infantry climbs 
 the parapet, comes hand-to-hand with Fritz, advances as 
 far as the Chemin des Dames, but is here pressed back by 
 sudden numerically-superior forces. It is miserably appar- 
 ent what has occurred : the Teuton East-Front Hordes, re- 
 leased by the Russian debacle just at this time, have trans- 
 ferred with all speed \to the line from Rheims to Soissons 
 — known in its entirety as the "Secteur de l'Aisne"X — 
 bolstering up the palpitant heart of the Western Theatre 
 at this point. There is no doubt that a decisive break 
 could have been accomplished and the German forces 
 
 ♦Path. 
 
 tMove out of there! 
 
 (Sector of the Aisne. 
 
3o8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 routed back to the Ardennes but for this unlucky Slavic 
 stroke. 
 
 A steady shelling comes over from the enemy's lines. 
 The 6th of May looms up burning hot with a blood-red 
 sun and a strange, spangled cloud-effect. Soon after the 
 wind starts to play in gusts about the emplacements. The 
 sky over-shadows — ^blurs — turns black ! A deluge of water 
 cataracts out of the Heavens. It fills in the boycmx. Long 
 streamers of it flow down the hill-sides into the valleys, 
 bubbling and boiling. Our situation is bad. Without 
 guitounes, without reserve rations or sacs — ^the latter hav- 
 ing been taken from us on the Tilleuls above Verneuil, 
 which is the first time, to my knowledge, this has been done 
 in an infantry attack — hunger and dampness gnaw to the 
 vitals and we are as miserable as wretches before the 
 guillotine. 
 
 Attack of the Chemin des Dames 
 
 At 13 :oo o'clock the official order comes in : Ready to go 
 over at 15 hours and 15 minutes (a quarter past three 
 o'clock). 
 
 "What!" indignantly exclaims Constant. "Do they send 
 us in without jus* or gnoleif or pinard?"X 
 
 "No suplementf'^ 
 
 "To die with an empty stomach — that is tragic, mes 
 frangins!" 
 
 "Ah, let us not leave the trenches !" 
 
 "Metier de metier — ^no pinard?" 
 
 And so it goes, each man having something to say — 
 but nothing to do, of course, other than obey commands. 
 A Frenchman cannot work without complaining. 
 
 Captain Vanino, our commander, addresses us with dig- 
 nity : 
 
 *Coflfee. 
 
 t Brandy. 
 
 twine. 
 
 § Sweet-meats. 
 
THE AISNE 309 
 
 "Mes enfants, let us not falter. The honour of the patrie. 
 ... If we rise to the glory of. . . . The 5th Company 
 must uphold the reputation of the Iron Division, which. 
 . . . — Therefore be ready,^ — c'est pour la France!, . . ." 
 
 "Nom de Dieu! — ^where is the artillery?" the sergeant, 
 Andre, complains. "Are we to go forward without artil- 
 lery preparation, mon capitaine?" 
 
 "Nonsense! . . ." 
 
 "Suicide r . . ." 
 
 "Shall we, my friends, sacrifice our lives in a cause with- 
 out hope of success ? Non, mes frangins, non, Non, NON'." 
 
 Other exclamations are not long in forthcoming, but 
 at 15 :i5, true to the traditions of the 20th Corps d'Armee, 
 every poUu has his bayonette au canon, his eyes to the front. 
 In silence, marked intensely for its unaccustomed presence, 
 nous grimpons le parapet!* 
 
 Choppy explosions break out all along the line — settle 
 into a thrum! The German machine-guns are in action. 
 Slight whistling shrieks denote the passage of bullets, 
 far overhead as their range carries too high. The silence 
 is broken thus far but no farther. We advance upon the 
 entanglements. . . . 
 
 "On les aura, mes copams, — on — les — aura!"^ 
 
 Heaving the grenades into the air, they go smashing in 
 — tearing, detonating, slashing to left and right ! A mum- 
 bled response comes out of the Teuton trenches, — cries, 
 groans, instant action, and vomiting grenades! — they are 
 exchanging them man for man. Our joMj-lieutenant goes 
 out. Our caporal reels, choking his life out with a great 
 ghastly hole in his chest. 
 
 "Suivez-moi!"i 
 
 At the heels of Vanino we leap into the trench. 
 
 "Kamerads Franzose, nix capout. . . ." 
 
 A surrendering line of baches, herded among swimming 
 debris, whine with upraised palms. We knock them right 
 
 *We climb the parapet— the French "Over the Top." 
 tWe get them. 
 JFolIow me. 
 
3IO THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 and left, scrambling, roaring over, past the parados, past 
 dead and dying, toward — the — Chemin des Dames ! 
 
 "Suivez, mes enfants!" 
 
 The field breaks with churning shells! Clouds of sooty 
 smoke roll over, darkening the battlefield like a huge 
 morass. Forward — the Ladies' Road, emanating in patches 
 from between the billowing veil, — is a thunder of flames 
 from our own artillery. The hoche batteries blaze into the 
 valley. . . . 
 
 C-thung — ^whrroarr — whrroarr — rr ! 
 
 Boom — ^whang ! 
 
 "On les CM—. . . ." 
 
 Against the second entanglements a barrage of fire stops 
 our further advance. We drop into shell-holes. Over- 
 head tromblons* and machine-gun bullets ply their dismal 
 trade. The 5th Company replies with rifles from the pits. 
 
 "Sah! What is that?" 
 
 Constant sniffs two or three times. 
 
 "Liquid fire!" 
 
 A heavy odour of petroleum comes over. 
 
 "Bande de vaches! We give it to them good!" 
 
 He fires rapidly, loading in grenades. Our next neigh- 
 bour — a boy — ^is pierced in the shoulder — leaps up with 
 a shriek! . . . 
 
 Andre roars: "To the rear!" and the boy starts back, 
 his eyes rolling, head lolling to and fro, — dragging him- 
 self by his hands, fingers clutching the turf. The barrage 
 closes in. Behind, in the flaming valley, are fresh troops 
 waiting to come to our assistance — ^unable to advance. 
 Before, are liquid-fire containers — dark-grey boxes the 
 width of a man, strapped to the backs of the German 
 genie and spraying inflammation into the air! Acrid gas, 
 arriveis, rifle-bullets and grenades — a medley of deadly in- 
 struments — ^wing over. The field becomes an inferno! 
 
 "Dieu! We cannot go back — we cannot advance — ^we 
 
 ♦Grenades fired from rifles; — resting in a chalice-shaped con- 
 trivance at the end of the barrel, the cartridge carries it out. 
 Small shells^ designated as "W^sJ' are also used for this purpose. 
 
THE AISNE 311 
 
 are caught! Like rats in a trap, — we are lost— 1-o-s-t ! 
 Planques ta trogne!"* screams Constant, — "Mon Dieu! 
 
 A deafening burst of shrapnel overhead rains slugs like 
 a leaden army about our ears ! The grenades split with a 
 painful, thudding jar! Everywhere the air is vibrating 
 with monstrous concussions. 
 
 Two metres ahead and to the left is the sergeant, Andre. 
 A dense column of smoke billows up to the right, black as 
 pitch and heavy with coal-tar smell. It circles, streams, — 
 gathering momentum. Shrieks and nerve-racking human 
 whimpers arise through the uproar. 
 
 "What is it? Ah, God— the fire! Regarde!" He leaps 
 up and points, hysterical with fright. "Regardes, mes 
 copains, they bum us alive ! They bum. . . ." 
 
 The thick column breaks, wafted by the wind — ^pours 
 toward us — envelopes, hides — sails past — ^leaves us choking 
 and grovelling in the pit. 
 
 "Regardes . . . Ah — ^ha — ^ha! — they roast! See them 
 . . . Ah — ^ha . . . cooking, mes copains, voyez . . . Ah— 
 ha — ha !" Andre's crazy laughter, morbid with terror, peals 
 out. He screams — ^he shouts — ^he guffaws — ^his helmet 
 whirls up insanely — ^he gurgles, sinks and dies, shot through 
 the brain! 
 
 "Americain — mon Dieu! — did you see ? !" Constant blub- 
 bers like a girl. "Married four weeks. . . . Americain, 
 what shall we do — they are retreating. . . . . — tears of 
 Christ!" 
 
 A fourth jet of fire spews to the left. Three flare on 
 the right, the wind veering their smoke and exposing them 
 plainly. The flames leap up a metre or more from the 
 nozzle of their hoses, spraying back and forth, up and down, 
 washing with the tongues of Cerberus the unhappy poilus 
 before them. Emanating gaseous, they ignite — flare — cata- 
 pult forward, their slender necks extending fifteen metres 
 in greedy rapaoity — contacting the "bleu horizon," in- 
 cinerating it — charring it! No power can quench these 
 *Duck your head. 
 
312 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 demons; no hand — once exposed to the air — smother their 
 virulent breath ! 
 
 The black offal spreads over the heavens like a mourn- 
 ing veil, blotting light and sight from this unholy scene. 
 
 "Americain . . . what shall we do . . . retreat? . . ." 
 
 The fifth of the genie leaps over his parapet directly 
 before us, grey-black box to shoulder, nozzle in hand. 
 
 "Tonnerre de . . . Never !" 
 
 Constant levels his rifle, fed with a tromblon — trembles 
 — steadies himself and fires-^not a moment too soon ! 
 
 An unearthly shriek passes over the terrain ! The whole 
 mighty, blazing flood pours out, stabs the sky, spreading 
 red-hot, purgatorial doom among its perpetrators ! The ex- 
 plosion of the grenade has ripped open the man — the death- 
 box — contacts it in one huge, cataclysmic riot ! He vanishes 
 into ashes. 
 
 The heat from this blazing turret becomes so intense we 
 feel it smoulder in the atmosphere of the shell-pit. 
 
 "Well, then, it is 'get out.' We will have to move, my 
 friend." 
 
 My copain clasps my hand and then releases it and starts 
 out perfectly certaiin he will never reach the rear. He 
 crawls along, flat-bellied, and I parallel with him, a metre 
 over. The air is suffocating, — acrid with poison and tangy 
 with smoke. Marmites are spitting wind; shells rebreak 
 the pathetic, sky-bluish corpses. We part to skirt a poilu, 
 face upward, staring into smoke, a round, leaden hole in 
 his throat and another in his shoulder, bleeding-red, — the 
 last soldier Andre ever commanded, the young boy he or- 
 dered to the rear! 
 
 At twenty-five metres my copain rises to his feet, stooped- 
 over, and commences to run. I rise and follow after him. 
 ... A shell screams . . . 
 
 "Planquez!" 
 
 Too late to stop myself, I go headlong over his body and 
 into a deep crater ! The shell explodes, — volumes of earth, 
 water and fragments pound the top of my helmet, and my 
 
THE AISNE 313 
 
 nerves into a jelly. Fifteen more metres remain before 
 the trenches. 
 
 "Do you come?" I crawl out of the shell-pit, calling 
 backward, and clamber to the lines. The stretch is hum- 
 ming like a high metallic wire with bullets. 
 
 My copain, I imagine, is behind me. I feel his hand on 
 my arm. 
 
 "Well, we are back, Constant," I say. "I would never 
 have believed it!" I turn to him: "Here we are in the 
 tren — mon Dieuf where is he? Constant? . . ." 
 
 The other boys are looking at me: "What is it?" above 
 the turmoil. 
 
 "Raoul Constant — ^behind me " 
 
 They look around, at me, at each other. 
 
 The German counter-attack starts. The boches swarm 
 over the bedemoned plain — they leave a trail of broken 
 corpses and mangled men in their wake. They stream up 
 — the 75s speak — they stream back in full retreat! The 
 field dots splendidly — a. whole army fertilising its chest! 
 The terrain shakes — the powder clouds roll — the dead men 
 weep. 
 
 At twilight the whole pot simmers — French and Germans 
 rest on arms. A reorganisation of our sector is begun. 
 Maccabes, lifted over the parapet, are lowered entre 
 les lignes. A gentle, sibilant breeze wafts over and the 
 night drops. Leaning against the creneau I feel a burning 
 pain in my head — ^a sensation of dullness, strange mental 
 inertia. What is it that persists in eluding me? A mo- 
 ment — two — in the afternoon's chaotic splendour? . . . 
 
 Something speaks over the parapet — ^moans. Speaks 
 aga in — -murmurs. 
 
 A thought startles me with full force ! 
 
 Disregarding everything, I hoist up to the level and peer 
 out, summon a poilu, and we drag at the shoulders until 
 we have our man inside. 
 
 "Constant? ..." 
 
 A mutter. I turn my rescued one over and see — ^it is a 
 boche. The poilu looks at me strangely. 
 
314 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Our lieutenant is summoned and he whispers in German : 
 
 "Wo sind sie Verwundetf"* 
 
 "In der Huefte. Ich lag im Felde vierundswanzig Stun- 
 den, die game Nacht im Regen."f 
 
 I rob a dead man to feed the boche. I dress his thigh and 
 he groans, and then the brancdrdiers^ take him away. 
 
 The second counter-attack is launched within an hour. 
 Teuton batteries hammer the left and right wings of our 
 horse-shoe defences with tireless energy. The valley 
 quakes; desperate shivers go through it with the thud — 
 thud — thud of impacting shells — torture of their concus- 
 sions! Our own batteries raise a cadenza. The Heavens 
 choke . . . vomit . . . 
 
 A light flares over the landscape, bringing into sudden 
 prominence our lines and those of the enemy. 
 
 I light a seche. . . . 
 
 ♦Where are you wounded? 
 
 tin the thigh. I lay in the field twenty-four hours — ^the whole 
 night in the rain. 
 IStretcher-bearers. 
 
IX 
 
 LORRAINE 
 
 San Francisco, 
 2 Novembre 1917 
 Dear Mr. Lewys, 
 
 B told me before leaving Nancy that you intend to 
 
 publish the book, making literature out of my memos. In 
 that case you will want the balance. 
 
 The second German attack failed in the Chemin des 
 Dames. B'oche attacks have a habit of doing this lately on 
 the Western Front, as you probably know by reading the 
 
 M , which prints so much of the truth! It was the 
 
 — th Army Corps carried the Chemin des Dames finally, 
 but the Iron Division paved the way as I describe. I would 
 include this in the book. They are there to stay with the 
 help of God ! I regret I could not have been there at the 
 climax, but they withdrew us after the second counter- 
 attack and before we could see it through. 
 
 I'll tell you how it is, mon vieux, the deputies were kick- 
 ing. Most of the boys from Paris are in our corps and the 
 losses were too heavy. "Nom d'un chien, let the southern 
 provinces contribute — ^why should all the blood flow out of 
 Paris ?" That is the kind of racket went up in the Cham- 
 ber of Deputies in May of 19 — . Our colonel told me con- 
 fidentially that 3S,ooo men went through the 20th Army 
 Corps in three years, which is to say they wiped us clean 
 out of existence! But the reinforcements kept up — -the 
 constant filling-in closed the gaps and the Division de Fer 
 de Toul et Nancy is as good as it ever was. But the blood 
 has been spilled — ^no getting away from that. The biggest 
 offensive division in the French Army has lost all of its 
 original material. They threw us in too often. They saved 
 
 31S 
 
3i6 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN'* 
 
 their other regiments at our expense. Now the shoe is 
 on the other foot — they are sparing the 20th all in a bunch. 
 Amaury Durand writes me they have been resting in 
 Nomeny (Lorraine) ever since I left, which was in Oc- 
 tober. The American troops are there now. 
 
 That reminds me: we had a demonstration before the 
 first American officers in July — the 29th — in the Camp de 
 Bois I'Eveque between Toul and Nancy. At nine in the 
 morning it started, artillery, machine-guns, liquid fire, 
 grenades, gas, everything. The only difference from a 
 real attack was the absence of the enemy. They saw us 
 all through, — ^when it was over gave us suplement, and we 
 went fishing with grenades. K you throw them into the 
 Meurthe the explosion brings the fish to the top of the 
 water. Great sport, only the Ministre de Guerre forbade 
 it. That makes no difference, the boys do it just the same. 
 
 After that second attack of the Germans in the Chemin 
 des Dames we came down to Braisne. We rested there a 
 few days and I got in my notes, but only as far as you 
 have them. Then — just at that instant, when a really fine 
 bombardment was in progress and the rockets were bud- 
 ding — somebody clapped me on the back and said: "Hola, 
 Americain, I go on permission to Paris !" 
 
 This was too good an opportunity to miss. I seized 
 him and asked him if he could find his way in Paris, 
 
 "Mais, ouif — what do you think, — I know it better as 
 you!" 
 
 That ended the matter. He must certainly know it well ! 
 I said: "Bras-Casses, you find this party and when you 
 are sure you have him, give him this." That was the 
 packet. Well, we know the rest — of course, you have it. 
 Bras-Casses reported to me in Nancy, as I have said. By 
 the way, I ought to explain — we call them "Bras-Casses," 
 the stretcher-bearers, — a corruption of brancardiers, be- 
 cause they have broken arms, we say, or they would fight 
 like men! 
 
 Bras-Casses was surprised to find you in such a position 
 of . . . 
 
LORRAINE 317 
 
 After Braisne, where we got our first bath of the season, 
 swimming under Teuton bombs, raining down like cocoa- 
 nuts out of the aeros — they got 15 of our boys in one flour- 
 mill one evening ! — we went to Plessier Huleu. 
 
 Here the sergeant-major read out one morning from the 
 report : 
 
 "The soldiers whose names follow will receive the Croix 
 de Guerre at the next review, 
 
 "Francois Xavier . 
 
 "Pierre Bertrand. 
 
 "Jules Raveneau. 
 
 "Raoul Constant. 
 
 "Louis Larnes," etc., etc. 
 
 Constant immediately shrilled: 
 
 "Pooh ! You can keep the Croix de Guerre — as long as it 
 is not the Croix de Bois* I am satisfied !" 
 
 At that everybody laughed and the rest of the report went 
 for nothing. 
 
 Mr. Lewys, the surprise of my life was in Braisne — 
 Constant came back! Please correct in my manuscript, — 
 my copain was not killed. He had his head scratched and 
 the paste de secours fixed him up with plaster easily enough. 
 It was a wonderful thing — somehow I felt he was not dead 
 in the emplacement. He is in Saloniki now. I have a letter. 
 
 Constant got his Croix when I did — in Chamagnes in 
 the Vosges, June 17th. It was quite a ceremony, but, sad 
 to say, the Croix is not worth it! Too many unworthies 
 wear it. You see them everywhere, and the real heroes put 
 them away in their sacs or send them home, and then when 
 a review is ordered and the boys instructed to put on their 
 decorations, several will not do so and the result is a dose 
 of prison. This is not right. Either make a decoration a 
 restricted and worthy thing or else excuse the genuine 
 boys from wearing it. I don't believe in dishonouring the 
 hand of the State. 
 
 If you care for an outline of the ceremony, it is this: 
 
 The battalion is lined up for the review. The com- 
 ♦Wooden Cross. 
 
3i8 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" ' 
 
 mandant rides his horse in the usual manner up and down, 
 "La Musique" stands at one end, blaring out the Marseil- 
 laise, while the captain-adjutant of the battalion rides af- 
 ter and tries to keep up with his chief. Then the greMer* 
 a lieutenant generally, steps out and calls our names, and 
 we line up embarrassedly until the superiors dismount, ad- 
 vance, pin the decorations to our palpitating breasts, shake 
 our limp hands, and remark : "You are decorated with the 
 Croix de Guerre in the name of the RepuhUque Frangaise." 
 The music blares Sombre et Meuse, we steal back to our 
 places, and the battalion marches and disbands. 
 
 We are decorated ! 
 
 We have been in the service of our country two years 
 and a half and are still alive — and, therefore, should be re- 
 warded. Now, is this so great an achievement in the face 
 of all those who perished? Pah! You can see the fallacy 
 of it — either a man dies for the sake of his principle, or he 
 lives and the principle marches on. The dead are decorated 
 with the Croix de Bais; the live with the Croix de Guerre. 
 
 The i2th of July, 1917, at ten in the morning, we arrived 
 in Nancy. Now the Iron Division was at home once more 
 after three years of fighting. Each company had its own 
 flag — ours, a green-and-red with gold letters, denoting the 
 battles in which the battalion had engaged : 
 
 COURONNE DE NANCY 
 
 Ypres, Arras, Champagne, Verdun, Somme, Chemin des 
 
 Dames 
 
 This was quite a record! The townspeople went wild. 
 Such a demonstration has rarely been seen. Can you 
 imagine it ? — ^parading through the streets, rifle on shoulder, 
 cheering, screaming throngs to right and left, before and 
 behind, wherever possible ! The bands gave out their share 
 of the racket of the moment, and we came in for food, wine 
 and tobacco and chocolates. 
 
 ♦Secretary of the battalion. 
 
LORRAINE 319 
 
 But the "Bastille!" we celebrated in Moivron. We 
 marched there in the dead of night, but in a warmth such 
 as only the Vosges can stand in this season. There was 
 no celebration outside, but inwardly — cristi! friend Lewys, 
 it poured all day — inside! We made a thorough-going 
 clean-out of Moivron so not a bottle remained. We got 
 on the march, we marched all night, we passed villages 
 full of troops all celebrating with phonographs and poules 
 and litres of pinard. In short, the holiday was universally 
 well-drunk. It is no use talking, a Frenchman cannot fight 
 or live or love without wine, and any notion of excluding 
 it — which seems to be talk in the capital here — would be 
 tommyrot, of course. Please distinctly say this where 
 you can in my memos. The fact should be made clear. 
 Esipecially the heads in America ought to know it if they do 
 not. 
 
 We took the sector in the Lorraine from the Territorials. 
 
 "Easy work here, boys, — no trouble at all. You only 
 watch tiie road at night." The old fellows told us this. 
 
 "Whete are the trenches?" 
 
 "Oh, don't worry about them. They are in the wood. 
 But here it is unnecessary." 
 
 Well, what a funny sector! We looked about for the 
 explanation. It is this : 
 
 Bordering the Bois de la Fourrace was a road. On the 
 other side of this road were the entanglements leading down 
 to the river. On the other side of the river was a hill. 
 On the other side of the hill was Fritz 1 Before the declara- 
 tion of war, you see, the river Seille was our frontier along 
 these parts, so nobody was disturbed and the enemy as well 
 as ourselves were very much at home on our own soil. 
 Furthermore, it seems apparent nobody is particularly de- 
 sirous of starting anything in Lorraine. The boches stay 
 on their side of the fence ; we, on ours, — ^both sides per- 
 fectly content to rest on arms. In this way we are but a 
 kilometre and a half removed from the enemy but as safe as 
 one would be in a drawing-room at home. Any one can 
 picnic in the bois — in fact, at Nomeny, three kilos back. 
 
320 THE "CHARMED~AMERICAN" 
 
 women and children rake hay in the fields, vegetables and 
 cabbages. The whole arrangement is like a resort in Cali- 
 fornia, the woods team with berries, the Bois de la Trhppe 
 is to the right. On the other hand. Chateau Salins is also 
 there. Just a bit further removed — but it is the first city in 
 German Lorraine. 
 
 No guitounes were built in the sector. It is unnecessary. 
 Two cannon-shots daily is the passage of hostilities. One 
 goes back two hundred metres to the kitchens. It is there- 
 fore eat and sleep and keep the lines, — ^but don't fight 
 or you may kill somebody ! 
 
 I was badly delayed in getting my permission for San 
 Francisco. The application was in July, but months la- 
 ter it was still : "Wait, Americain, your papers cannot be 
 signed before the ist of October." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 "C'est militaire il ne faut pas chercher a comprendre!" 
 
 That is it ! In military circles one must not seek to un- 
 derstand — anything! Do — don't think; obey — don't ques- 
 tion; go — come — die, worm, wretch! But if you try to 
 comprehend — the hon Dieu alone preserve you. . . . 
 
 Dear Mr. Lewys, I fully understand your impatience with 
 me at this stage. You are thinking: "Cannot tliis poilu 
 stop philosophising and giving us his opinions ? Actions — 
 not opinions !" 
 
 Mon Dicu! — ^you are right! 
 
 I left Faulx for Nancy; I left Nancy for Paris; I left 
 Paris for Bordeaux; I left Bordeaux on the Steamship 
 Chicago, the identical one I went abroad in three years 
 before. We had no torpedoing — I am sorry to disappoint 
 you. We neither saw nor imagined a periscope, which I 
 understand so many travellers have a habit of doing. We 
 did carry the crews of two torpedoed American ships, how- 
 ever, the Campama and the Grace, and brought them safely 
 in. 
 
 The idea of arriving on American soil in a French uni- 
 form was rather terrifying had I known it. They minced 
 and mouthed over me — congratulated me and spun a fine 
 
LORRAINE 321 
 
 web over my extraordinary valour, notwithstanding I did 
 not don my Croix for the delectation of all the worshipful. 
 I came straight to San Francisco. There was a good deal 
 of money spent on the route for refreshment and comforts. 
 / did not spend it! In Chicago a recruiting sergeant in- 
 troduced me to some French citizens formerly of Arras. 
 
 "Ah, m'sieu, do you know Neuville St. Vaast? — that 
 beautiful . . ." 
 
 "What is left of it, oui, madame." 
 
 "Left of it?" 
 
 "Certainement." 
 
 "How is that?" 
 
 "I know at least fifty of the fifteen thousand men who 
 lie buried in its ruins." 
 
 "Ruins? — mon Dieu!" 
 
 "Ruins, madame. There never were finer ruins, — ex- 
 cept those in La Targette! My friend, Parisot, used to 
 say " 
 
 "There is nothing standing unblemished of Neuville St. 
 Vaast? Impossible! You jest! Neuville . . ." 
 
 And so it goes. 
 
 No one is willing to believe that the east of France is 
 really a desolate waste; and, knowing further that I will 
 be taken for a liar and marioUe wherever I go — regard- 
 less of the affection these Americans seem to have for the 
 "Bleu Horizon!" — why, I say nothing, where I can help it. 
 I tell them neither that I have faced gas nor liquid fire 
 nor Fritz in Ypres, Arras, the Champagne, Verdun, the 
 Somme, Aisne, or Lorraine ; I leave that all for you to do, 
 mon vieux! Every word in those notes of mine is true, 
 so help me Heaven ! and any one having cause to doubt has 
 never been on the front! 
 
 War is not a pleasure, or a necessity, — it is a curse! 
 
 I have had thirty-two months of it — my government de- 
 crees I must go back into the abattoir, Vhich all govern- 
 ments are decreeing — therefore not one is any wiser than 
 the other. I shall go! 
 
 Meanwhile, I arrived and betook myself to my home. 
 
322 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 where my wife and two tots were waiting — but not for 
 me! They did not know I was a permissionavre. They 
 were waiting for a letter from their pere in France. . . . 
 I rang the bell. My wife opened the door. She saw my 
 light blue uniform and took me for the postman. 
 She said: "Any mail to-day?" 
 I responded : "No, Elice, but I am here myself !" 
 
 — Voire correspondant, 
 
 Franqois. 
 
X 
 POILU SLANG AND FRENCH EXPRESSIONS 
 
 abri, a^ dugout or trench residence. 
 
 amoche, wounded. 
 
 andouille, stupid — an epithet. 
 
 arrivee, a German shell. 
 
 as de carreau, knapsack. 
 
 avians de chasse, pursuit biplanes. 
 
 asor, another name for knapsack. 
 
 B 
 
 habillarde, letter. 
 
 hande de vaches, literally: band of cows, an epithet. 
 
 handes moletieres, wrappings for the legs, a poilu's leggings. 
 
 bachot, bed. 
 
 banquette de tir, elevated bank of earth in a trench to stand and 
 fire from. 
 
 barre toi or barre toi de la, get out of the way. 
 
 bidoche, meat. 
 
 bidon, canteen. 
 
 binette, face. 
 
 bistro, a drinking-house. 
 
 boche, German soldier. 
 
 boite de singe, literally a box of monkeys — I lb. of canned meat. 
 
 boucle la lourde, close the door. 
 
 bouffer le pisenlit par les racines, eat the salad by the roots, a 
 buried man. 
 
 boueiller, to kill. 
 
 boyau, communicating trench. 
 
 boyau d' evacuation, trench for removal of wounded. 
 
 brancardiers, stretcher-bearers. 
 
 bras-casses, corruption of brancardiers, meaning literally broken- 
 arms. 
 
 bricheton, bread. 
 
 C 
 
 cabot, corruption of caporal, literally toy-dog. _ 
 
 cachibi, another name for dugout or trench residence. 
 
 cafard, the blues. 
 
 caisson, a large wagon carrying supplies. 
 
 calbombe, lamp. 
 
 camion, a French motor-lorrie 
 
 323 
 
324 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 capote, poilu's overcoat. 
 
 carafe, literally a decanter, slang for head. 
 
 c'est moche, it looks rotten. 
 
 chenilles, caterpillars, a name for single-lights in strings. 
 
 chic, nobby, stylish. 
 
 claboter, to die. 
 
 copain,_ friend and pal. 
 
 crapouillots, small aerial torpedoes. 
 
 creneau, shooting-hole in the parapet. 
 
 croquenots, shoes. 
 
 croute, food. 
 
 culasse, breech-block of a rifle, or cannon. 
 
 D 
 
 dibine-toi, beat it. 
 
 dSfiler a I'ours or dSfiler en tole, go to prison. 
 depart, a French shell. 
 
 donne-moi de la Aotte or un quart de ffotte, give me some water. 
 donne-moi du riMe, give me a light (for a cigarette, etc.) 
 Dieu or Man Dieu or Nom de Dieu or En notn DS, God, Name 
 of God, etc. 
 
 E 
 
 ichelon, small wagon or train of wagons carrying machine-guns. 
 En avant! C'est pour la France! Forward! It is for France! 
 Spatante, cute, pretty, fashionable. 
 ispice d'abruti, numbskull — an epithet. 
 espice d'andouille, fool, stupid — an epithet. 
 etat-major, staff officers. 
 
 F 
 fahard, pants. 
 
 ferine ta boite or ferme ton Sgout, shut up! 
 Aancher, to give up. 
 Aotte, water. 
 
 fourbi, mixture of everything. 
 font le camp au diable, go to the devil! 
 frangin, brother-in-arms. 
 frichti, food. 
 
 Fritz, German soldier or army collectively. 
 fusSe, head of a shell.' 
 fusie blanche, ordinary colourless rocket. 
 fusee eclairante, star-shell, flare-shell, rocket, Bengal fire. 
 fusil, rifle. 
 
 G 
 
 gamelle, tin-pan for food, part of equipment. 
 
 gerbe, bouquet of lights, generally signal for barrage. 
 
 gnole, brandy. 
 
 godasses, another name for shoes. 
 
 gomesse, girl, lady-love, sweetheart. 
 
 grimper le parapet, climb the parapet, the French "over the top." 
 
 gmtoune, another name for dugout or trench residence. 
 
APPENDIX 325 
 
 *! a le cafard, he has the blues. 
 
 •7 est bouzilli, he is killed. 
 
 if est_ mains cinq, it missed you by an inch. 
 
 il grille une seche, he smokes a cigarette. 
 
 il n'a pas la trouille, he has no fear. 
 
 il ne faut pas ^en faire, never worry. 
 
 ils s'engueulent, they argue. 
 
 je crois qu'on pourra numeroter les abatis, I think you better 
 
 number your legs, i. e., you will be blown apart. 
 je I'engueule, I argue. 
 
 je n'ai rien a houffer or bouUoter, I have nothing to eat. 
 j'en aie mare, I am sick and tired of it. 
 je suis fauchi, I am broke, money-less. 
 jits, coffee. 
 
 L 
 
 lance-piirre, literally stone-thrower, slang for rifle. 
 
 liguette, shirt. 
 
 litre, a quart measure of anything. 
 
 lisense chien, literally dog-license, identification tag. 
 
 louftingue dingo, crazy-nut. 
 
 M 
 maccabe, dead man. 
 
 marches par un, march by one, i.e., single-file. 
 margolette, another name for face. 
 mariolle, a bluffer. 
 
 marmite, another name for a German shell, literally sauce-pan. 
 mes enfants, my children, a form of address from officer to 
 
 soldiers. 
 mitrailleuse, a machine-gun. 
 
 mom.e, same as gonzesse, i. e., lady-love, sweetheart, girl. 
 morlingue, pocket-book. 
 
 musette, canvas bag for reserve food, fork and spoon, part of 
 equipment. 
 
 N 
 nauge de gaz, gas-cloud. 
 numerate tes abatis, man vieux, number your legs, my old friend. 
 
 On les Aura! we get them, meaning the boches — a battle-cry of 
 France. 
 
 P 
 pannards, feet. 
 panauille, stupid — an epithet. 
 papellards, official papers, orders. 
 
326 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 parados, the rear wall of a trench. 
 parapet, the top part of a front trench. 
 perlot, tobacco. 
 
 permissionaire, a man of leave, soldier on furlough. 
 pied de choux, literally foot-of-a-cabbage — an epithet. 
 pinard, wine. 
 
 piou-piou, French "Tommy Atkins." 
 planque ta trogne, down with your head. 
 planquez-vous, duck, get down, squat, flatten. 
 plaque d'identite, identification tag. 
 poignon, money. 
 
 poUu, literally a hairy man, France's nickname for her sons. 
 poltron, coward. 
 
 pompes, another name for shoes. 
 paste d'ecoute, listening-post. 
 paste de secours, first-aid station. 
 
 poule, literally chicken, applied to lively girls or sweethearts. 
 pour rallonger le tir, for ranging the fire. 
 
 punaises, literally bed-bugs, applied to lentils, small flat army 
 beans. 
 
 Q 
 
 quart, a tin cup, measuring % oi a litre. 
 
 R 
 
 rabiat, left-over food. 
 
 ragout de boeuf, beef -stew, the principal army dish. 
 
 ravitaillement, food supplies, food service. 
 
 ripatons, another name for feet. 
 
 rosalie, facetious name for bayonet. 
 
 S 
 
 sac, knapsack. 
 
 sac au das, knapsack on the back. 
 
 sardines, stripes, denoting ranks in army, etc. 
 
 sauti le parapet, jump the parapet, "over the top." 
 
 seche, cigarette. 
 
 suivez-moi, follow me. 
 
 syphon, another name for head. 
 
 tartines, another name for shoes. 
 
 tiens! harken, listen. 
 
 tocarde, watch, 
 
 toutbibe, nickname for doctor. 
 
 tranche, also used for head. 
 
 trogne, also used for head. 
 
 troquet, another name for drinking-bousa. 
 
APPENDIX 
 
 327 
 
 U 
 
 une balk m'a rase les tiffes, a cartridge "burned my hair." 
 
 uniform de fantasie, dress uniform. 
 
 un train de plaisir, a pleasure-train, i.e., whistling shell. 
 
 voyez, look, see. 
 
 « « * 
 
 CORPS AND DIVISION COMMANDERS 
 Army Corps (23,040) 
 
 
 Division (11,520) 
 
 Division (11,520) 
 
 Brigade (5,760) 
 
 Brigade (5,760) 
 
 Regiment (2,880) 
 
 Regiment (2,880) 
 
 Batt. (960) 
 
 Batt. (960) 
 
 Battalion (960) 
 
 Company (240) Co. (240) 
 
 Co. (240) Co. (240) 
 
 Sec. (60) 
 
 Sec. 
 (60) 
 
 ^^j Section (60) 
 
 Half-Section (30) 
 
 Half-Sec. (30) 
 
 Escouade (15) 
 
 Escouade (15) 
 
 Soldat (i), 
 
 Soldat (Private). 
 
 Caporal (Corporal) commands an Escouade. 
 
 Sergeant (Sergeant) commands a Half-Sectton. 
 
 Sous-Lieutenant (Junior Lieutenant) commands _a Section. 
 
 Lieutenant (First Lieutenant) commands a Section. 
 
 Capitaine (Captain) commands a Company. 
 
328 THE "CHARMED AMERICAN" 
 
 Commanclanf (Major) commands a Battalion. 
 
 Colonel (Colonel) commands a Regiment. 
 
 General de Brigade (Brig. Gen'l) commands a Brigade. 
 
 General de Division (Major-Gen'l) commands a Division. 
 
 General de Corps d'Armee (Lieut.-Gen'l) commands a Corps. 
 
 METRIC SYSTEM OF WEIGHTS AND MEASURES 
 
 « * * 
 French English 
 
 I litre I quaH 
 
 % litre I pint 
 
 I quart ^ pint 
 
 * * * 
 
 2j4 cmt I inch 
 
 30 cmt I foot 
 
 90 cmt I yard 
 
 I m I yard, 5 in. 
 
 z klm. 610 m I mile 
 
 * * * 
 
 I sou I cent 
 
 I franc 20 cents 
 
 5 francs i dollar