 Chapter 4 of IN THE FIELD, 1914-1915 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by FNH IN THE FIELD, 1914-1915 by Marcel Dupont Chapter 4 Chapter 4 The Jewel-Gone Affair On September 9th, at about eight o'clock in the evening, our advanced scouts entered Montigny-les-Cond at the moment when the last dragoons of the Prussian guard were leaving it at full speed. Our pursuit was stopped by the night, which was very dark. Large, threatening clouds were moving across the sky, making it impossible to see ten paces ahead. Whilst the captains were hastily posting guards all around the village, whilst the lieutenants were erecting barricades at all the outlets and setting centuries over them, the quartermasters had all the barns and stables thrown open. With the help of the inhabitants, they portioned out as well as they could, the insufficient accommodation among the men and the horses of the squadron. In each troop campfires were lighted under the shelter of walls so that the enemy could not see them. What a dinner we had that evening. It was in a large room with a low, open roof supported by small beams. The walls were smoke-blackened and dirty. On a chest place near the door I can still see a big pile of Russian loaves thrown together anyhow, and leaning over the half of the large fireplace, lit by the wood fire, was an unknown man who was stirring something in a pot. Round the large table a score of hungry and jaded but merry officers were fraternally sharing some pieces of meat which the man took out of the pot. The captain and I ate off of the same plate and drank out of the same metal cup, for crockery was scarce. The poor woman of the house ran round the table consumed by our eagerness to make everybody comfortable, and in the farthest corner, away from the light, a very old peasant with a dazed look and haggard eyes was watching the unexpected scene. The company heartily cheered Captain C for his cleverness in finding and bringing to light from some nook or other a large pitcher of rough wine. For three days we had been pursuing and fighting the German army, and we were tired out. But we had not felt it until the evening on stopping to give our poor horses a little rest. Before the last mouthful had been swallowed several of us were already snoring with their heads on their arms upon the table. The rest were talking about the situation. The enemy was retreating rapidly on the man. He must have crossed it by now, leaving as cover for his retreat the division of the Covery of the Guard which our brigade had been fighting unceasingly ever since the Battle of September 6th. Would they have time to blow up all the bridges behind them? Should we be obliged to wait until our sappers have built new ones before we could resume our pursuit? We were particularly anxious about two fine officers that our Colonel had just sent out on a reconnaissance, F, of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, and my old friend O, of our squadron. We wondered anxiously whether they would be able to perform their task, to get at all costs as far as the man, and let us know by dawn whether the river could be crossed either at Monson Pair, Jalgon, Passi-sur-Man or Dormans. Nothing could have been more hazardous than these expeditions made on a dark night across a district still occupied by the enemy. The night was short. Before day dawn the horses were saddled and ready to mount. And as soon as the first rays of morning filtered through my squadron, which had been towed off as advance guard for the brigade, rapidly descended the steep slopes which commanded the small town of Cond. A's troop led. My business was to reconnoitre that eastern part of the town with mine, whilst F, with his troop, was to cede to the western quarters. With sabres drawn, A'shasseurs distributed themselves briskly, by squads, through the streets of the old city. The horses' hooves resounded cheerily on the paved streets between the old grey houses. The inhabitants ventured out upon their doorsteps, in spite of the early hour, with some hesitation at first, but glad indeed when they saw our light blue uniforms. They cheered, crying, They are gone! They are gone! But some old folk replied more calmly to my questions. Monsiuli officer, have a care. They were here an hour ago with a large number of horses and guns. There was even a general, with his whole staff lodged up at the great house up there. We would not swear that some of them are not still there. I collected my troop, and then quickly went to the chateau which stood at the northern entrance of Cond. It was a rather fine building, but I had not the time to notice its architectural style. Haste was necessary, for the brigade behind me was due to arrive. As far as I remember, the chateau formed a harmonious hull, and the different parts of it showed up cheerfully against the dark foliage of the park, which was still glittering after the night's rain. The building was in the form of a horseshoe, and in the centre there was a kind of courtyard, bordered by two rows of orange trees in tubs. I at once posted two guards, one on the road to provide against any surprise, and the other at the park entrance to prevent egress, in case any fugitive should attempt to pass. Then with the rest of my men, I rode through the large gilded iron gates at a trot. In the avenue which led to the house, two men were standing motionless. One of them, dressed in black and clean shaven, appeared to be some old servant of the family. The other must have been one of the gardeners. Their pale faces and red eyes showed that they had had little sleep that night. Well, my friend, said I to one of them. Is there anybody left at your place? Sir, he answered, I couldn't tell you, for I have not set foot in the house since they left it. What I do know is that they have feasted all night, and got horribly drunk. They have drunk the whole cellar dry, and I shouldn't be surprised if some of them are still under the table. But when I asked him to come in with me to act as a guide for our visit, he refused with a look of horror. He trembled all over at the thought of seeing perchance one of the guests who had been forced upon him. As there was no time to be lost, I told my men to dismount at once, and gave orders to one corporal to search the right wing of the building, to another to reconnoitre the left wing. I myself undertook to see about the central block with the rest of my troop. We had to make haste, so I instructed my subordinates to go quickly through the different rooms and not to inspect them in detail. The entrance door was wide open. Taking my revolver in my hand, I entered the hall, which was in an indescribable disorder. Orderlies had evidently slept and had their meals there, for the stone floor was littered with straw and empty bottles, sardine boxes, and pieces of bread were lying about. But when I opened the door of the dining room, I could not help pausing for a moment to look at the strange sight before me. The grey light of that September morning came in through four large windows, and shone dimly upon the long table. The officers of the guard had evidently made their arrangements well. They had levied contribution upon all the silver plate that could be found, which was hardly necessary, for as they had arrived too late to have a proper meal prepared, they had to be content with what they had brought with them. The contrast between the rich plate, some of it broken, the empty silver dishes, and the empty tins of preserved meat were strange indeed. But they had solaced themselves in the cellar. Inumerable bottles, both empty and full, were piled upon the furniture. Costly glasses of all shapes and sizes, some empty, others still half full, were standing about in every direction. The white tablecloth was soiled with large purple stains. The floor was littered with bits of smashed glass. By the table the chairs that had been pushed back, or overturned, showed the number of drinkers to have been about ten. An acrid smell of tobacco and wine hung about the scene of an overnight orgy. One thing I especially remember. The sight of an officer's cap, with a red band hanging from one of the branches of the large chandelier in the centre of the room. I could not help picturing to my mind the head of the man it had belonged to. Some writmeister, with an eyeglass, fat pink cheeks and neck bulging over the collar of his tunic. What a pity he had been able to decamp. That is the kind of countenance we should so much have liked to see closer and face to face. But I could not wait. We rushed hastily through the drawing rooms, turned upside down, and bedrooms where the bed still bore traces of the summary used by heavy bodies. But we found no forgotten drunkard in them. My two corporals were already waiting for us when we returned to the courtyard. They had not found anyone in their search. Quickly we mounted, and passed rapidly out of the gilded gates. The old servant and the gardener were still on the same spot, standing silent and depressed. They said not a word to us, nor did they make any sign. They seemed to be completely unhinged and incapable of understanding what had happened. I had hardly returned to the squadron when I saw a sight I can never forget. At a turn in the road three horsemen came towards us, covered in blood. I recognised F, the officer of the Chassers de Afrique, who had been sent out to reconnoitre the evening before. He had lost his cap, and had his head bound up with a blood-stained handkerchief. His left arm was likewise slung in an improvised bandage tied round his neck. He was followed by two men who were also covered with wounds. Their eyes shone bright and resolute in their feverish faces. One of them, having no scabbard, was still holding his sword, which was twisted and stained with blood. We pulled up instinctively and saluted. I haven't been able to reach the man, said F, with disappointment in his voice. But being fired upon by their outposts in the dark, we charged and got through, and then charged through two villages under a hail of bullets, and again we had to charge their outposts to get back. You see, I have brought back two men out of eight, and all my horses have been killed. These horses, pointing to his own, are those of three eulens we killed so as not to have to come home on foot. Certainly they were not riding the pretty little animals that make such excellent mounts for our Chasseurs d'Afrique, but were perched upon three big mares with their heavy German equipment. But, F repeated in a tone of vexation, I wasn't able to get to the man. There were too many of them for us. We pressed his unwounded hand firmly. Poor F, brave fellow! Not many days afterwards, he was to meet a glorious death charging once more with three Chasseurs to rescue one of his men who had been wounded. A more perfect type of cavalryman, I might say of knight, was never seen. He sleeps now, riddled with lance wounds in the plains of Champagne. We had hardly left him when we caught sight of the reconnoitering party of my comrade, O, and were overjoyed to find that he had come back unscathed with all his men. And yet he had had to face a fair number of dangers, attacks by cyclists and pursuit by cavalry. At Cresancy, where he had arrived at three o'clock in the morning, he found the village occupied and strongly held. There is only one bridge over the railway there, and that is at the other end of the village. By good luck he was able to get hold of one of the inhabitants, and he forced him by holding a revolver to his head, to guide him by all sorts of byways so as to make a circuit without attracting attention and get to the bridge. There he set forward at a gallop, and passed in spite of being fired on by the guard. At last he reached the marne. The only bridge he found intact for crossing the river was at the bridge at Jalgon, a slender, fragile suspension bridge, but one we should be very glad to find if there was still time to use it. He then hurried back through the woods, but not without having to run the gauntlet of rifle fire several times more. He brought back information, which was to guide our advance. It was seen at once there was not a minute to lose. The captain detached me immediately with my troop, to act as a flank guard along the line of the woody crest by which the road on the right was commanded, whilst F, with his troop, crossed the Sermelin and the railway which runs alongside of it and went to carry out the same task on the other side of the valley. My job was difficult enough, in fact the heights which looked down upon the course of the Sermelin to the east consists of a series of ridges separated by narrow ravines at right angles to the river, and these we had to cross to continue our route towards the north. The enemy seemed to have withdrawn completely from this region, and the cannon fire in the distance towards the east could hardly be heard. At last, at about seven o'clock in the morning, we debouched upon the valley of the Marne. Whilst I sent some troopers along the road which winds the Sermelin to keep touch with my captain, I carefully inspected the right bank of the Marne with my glasses. The scene would have tempted a painter, and the labours of war did not prevent one from enjoying the charm of such delightful pictures. The sun was gradually dispersing the mists of the sullen morning, and was beginning to gild the wooded heights which looked down upon the two banks of the river. Everywhere, a calm was raining, which seemed to promise a day of exquisite beauty. We might have fancied that we were bent on some peaceful rural work favoured by a radiant autumn morning. The Marne in this region winds in graceful curves. It flows limpid, and clear through a narrow valley carpeted with green meadows and bordered, right and left, by gentle hills dotted with woods. At our feet, peeping from the poplars and beaches on the bank, we saw the white houses of dainty villages, Chateves, Jalgon, Varens and Basi. I directed my attention more particularly toward Jalgon, because it was in that direction that the attempt across the river would be made. The heights immediately above Jalgon rise steeply on the north bank and almost stand in the river. On the other hand, to the south, on our side, the left bank of the Marne is bordered by extensive meadows crossed by the railway, and the high road to Epenei. The position, therefore, would have been very strong for the Germans, if they had crossed to the other side of the river, for we should have been obliged before we could reach the bridge to traverse a vast open expanse which they could have kept under the fire of their artillery. My chasseurs prompt to grasp the reason of things, scrutinise the opposite bank no less intently than I. No movement could be seen. Nothing suggested the presence of troops among the russet thickets which covered the sides of the silent hill. Could they have already repaired further north? Could they have abandoned this formidable position without any attempt to defend it? At that moment one of my chasseurs appeared, coming by the steep path which led from the road to the wooded ridge on which we were. His horse was panting, for the declivity was stiff, and he had had to hasten. He brought me orders. On Lieutenant, the captain has sent me to tell you to join him as quickly as possible at the other end of the bridge. The first troop has already crossed, but some of the enemy's horse have been seen on the other side of the village. As he said these words we heard some firing in the distance, which sounded very distinct and sharp in the radiant piece of that beautiful September morning. Come, so much the better, thought I. We have engaged them. We shall have a good time. My men had already begun to joke and to be more alert and abrupt in their movements. It was a kind of joyous reaction which always affects troopers when they begin to hear the guns and look forward to a good hard ride in which they, like the rest of us, are always certain of getting the best of it. In single file we went quickly down towards the plain by the stony slippery path. We soon reached the high road and then turned to the left and came upon the long causeway bordered by poplars which led to the bridge. Quite close to the bank I saw a small group of dismounted cavalrymen, and soon recognised our colonel with his brigade staff. He was giving his orders to the Lieutenant Colonel commanding the Chasseurs d'Afrique. I went up to him to report, and learnt that the first squadron had already crossed the river and occupied the village on the other side. Some parties of German cavalry had been seen on the neighbouring heights. I got ready to rejoin my comrades at once, but patience was required if the man was to be crossed. The bridge appeared to be a delicate sort of toy hovering over the water. How could they dream of sending thousands of men, horses and guns over a thing so slender that it looked as though it was supported by fragile meshes of spider's web? Captain D gave me the Colonel's precise orders, not to pass more than four troopers at a time, and these at walking pace. Taking the initiative in the movement, I started with my first four chasseurs. The bridge rang strangely under our hooves, and seemed to me to oscillate in an alarming manner. Fortunately, the enemy was not on the other side. If he had been, our passage would have cost us dear. As I was making these reflections, a violent fuselage burst out from the edge of the woods overlooking Jargon to the east. It must have been directed upon the village, for no bullets whistled around us, so it was probably our first squadron engaging the German cavalry. When I got to the other end of the bridge, my impatience increased. It was torture to think of the time it would take to collect my thirty men and hurry forward to help the others, and I noticed the same impatience in my men's looks. Those who were on the bridge, walking slowly and gently across, seemed to implore me to let them trot, but I pretended not to understand, and the horse's feet continued to trample heavily over the echoing bridge. At last all my men were over. We fell in and reached Jargon at a trot. On passing through it we found several of the inhabitants on their doorsteps. Monserly officer, Monserly officer, will they come back again? Never, I shouted with conviction. I stopped an orderly, who told me that the German cavalry were firing on the exit from the town. How many of them he could not say, as they were hidden in the woods. He told me too, that the first squadron was holding all the entrances to the north and east of the village, except the one on the river bank, on the road to Marsilli, where my comrade F had posted his troop. I decided then to put myself at the disposal of the party defending the chief exit from the village, the one that opened on the road to Fismes. It was the most important one, for it was in that direction that the Germans were retiring. The village had been prevented from spreading further to the north by the heights, which formed an abrupt barrier. It is built astride the road to Fismes, which thus becomes its principle if not its only street. I had then to go right through Jalgon before I could get out of it in the direction of the firing. I soon did this, and found the horses of the first squadron massed in the short alleys leading out of the main street. I ordered my troop to dismount in a yard much too small and very inconvenient. But the first thing to do was to clear the causeway, and shelter our horses from the bullets, which might infilate the street if the fighting bore away towards the left. Then, whilst a non-commissioned officer collected the squads for the action on foot, I ran as far as the furthest houses of the village to reconnoitre the ground and get orders. I spied Major P in a sheltered nook, still mounted, and he told me of his anxiety about the situation. The enemy riflemen were invisible and were riddling the outskirts of the village, while we were unable to reply and some guns had been seen which were being got into position. He advised me to go and see the captain of the first squadron, who had been ordered to defend that entrance of the village and to place myself at his disposal in case of need. Whilst we were talking, my troop, led by its non-commissioned officer, came to the place where we were, edging along by the walls. The men, calm and smiling, with their carbines ready, waited in silence for the signal to advance. I signed to them to wait a little longer, and then going round the wall, I found myself suddenly in the thick of the fray. I must say the reception I got startled me. The bullets came rattling in hundreds, chipping the walls and cutting branches from the trees. On airside there was absolute silence. Our men, on their knees or laying flat behind any cover they could find, did not reply as they could see nothing, and waited stoically under the shower of bullets until their adversaries chose to advance. I looked for Captain D. L., who commanded the first squadron. There he was, standing with his face to the enemy and his hands in his pockets, quietly giving his orders to a non-commissioned officer. On my asking if he wanted me, he explained the situation. The enemy, numbers unknown, was occupying the woods overlooking Jalgon to the east. It was impossible for us to debouch just yet. The essential thing was to hold the village, and consequently the bridge, until our infantry could come up. He told me that the first troop of my squadron, led by Lieutenant D. A., had just advanced in extended order into the vineyards, orchards, and fields stretching between the road and the river. He was going to reconnoiter the woods, and see what kind of force was holding it. You see, dear fellow, for the present I don't want the help of your carbines. I have my whole squadron here, and they can't get a shot. So long as the enemy sticks to the wood, all we can do is wait and keep our powder dry. I put my troop under shelter in a small yard, and directed my non-commissioned officer to keep in touch with me, in case I might want him. Then I went back to the outskirts of the village to examine the ground. I then joined my friend S., behind a large heap of faggots. He commanded the nearest troop of the first squadron, and we could not help laughing at the curious situation, being formed up for battle, fronting the enemy, under a hail of bullets, and not able to see anything. During the campaign S. had become a philosopher, and he deserved some credit for it, for the great moral and physical sufferings we had endured must have even still more insupportable to him than to any of us. In the regiment S. was considered preeminently the society officer. He went to all the receptions, all the afternoon teas, all the bridge parties, all the dinners. He was an adept at tennis and golf, and a first-rate shot. His elegance was proverbial, and the beautiful cut of his tunics, breeches, jackets and coats was universally admired. The way his harness was kept, and the shape of his high boots were a marvel. To say all this is to give some idea of the change he suddenly experienced in his habits and in his taste during these demoralising days of retreat and merciless hours of pursuit. But in spite of it all he had kept his good humour and never lost his gay spirits. He still accompanied his talk with elaborate gestures, and seemed to be just as much at ease behind the heap of wood, bombarded with bullets, as in the best-appointed drawing-room. His clothes were stained and patched, his beard had begun to grow, and yet under this rough exterior the polished man of the world could always be divined. He explained the beginnings of the affair with perfect clearness and self-possession, how the scouts sent up to the ridge by D.A., and driven off by the Germans, had fallen back upon Jalgon, how the first squadron had come to barricade and defend the village, and in what anxiety they were wanting to know what had become of D.A.'s troop, which had started out to reconnoitre the wood. We hoisted ourselves to the top of the faggot stack, and peeped over carefully. The glaring white road wound up the flank of the slope between the fields dotted with apple trees. At a distance of eight hundred yards in front of us stretched the dark border of the wood, and from which the fuselage was coming. To our right, at the edge of the water, on the road leading to Marsilli, F must have been able to see the enemy, for we could distinctly hear the crackle of his carbines. Our attention was drawn to a man of F's troop running along under the wall, bending almost double to escape the attention of the sniper and endeavouring to screen himself behind the high grass. As soon as he came near enough we called out, What is it? The Lieutenant has sent me to say that the enemy has just placed some guns in position up there in the opening of the wood, saying which he pointed vaguely in a direction where we could see nothing. However, we knew that F would not have warned us if he had not been quite certain of the fact, so for some unpleasant minutes we wondered what the enemy's objective was. We longed to know at once where the projectiles were going to burst. Would it be on F's troop, or on the bridge, or on the infantry which perhaps were beginning to debouch, or perhaps on that portion of the brigade that had remained dismounted on the left bank drawn up for action? The uncertainty was worse than the danger itself, but we were not long in doubt. Two shrieks of flying shells, two explosions about 300 yards in front of us, two puffs of white smoke rising above the green fields. This showed they had an objective we had not considered, namely the A's troop, for the shrapnel had burst in the direction he had just taken with his men. Our anxiety did not last long. We soon made out our chasseurs, coming back quietly, not running, and in good order. They took to the ditch, a fairly deep one which ran along the left side of the road and covered them up to the middle. The German shells were badly aimed, and exploded either in front of them, or higher up on the hillside. But our anxiety became more intense every minute. Had a shell fallen on the road, or in the ditch, we should have seen those brave fellows knocked over, moaned down, cut to pieces by the hail of bullets. When we're fighting ourselves, we hardly have time to think about our neighbours in this way. We have our own cares, and our first thought is for the safety of the men who form our little family, the troop. But when one is safe, or fairly so, it is torture to watch comrades advancing under the enemy's fire without any protection. At that moment the Germans were concentrating their fire upon the small line of men we were looking at, two hundred yards away from us. The shells succeeded one another uninterruptedly, but without any greater precision. We watched our friends coming nearer until they had almost reached our barricade, and noticed that two of the chasseurs were being supported by their comrades. In our anxiety we got up out of our shelter, but the A shouted, it's nothing, only scratches. At last they got in, and whilst our good and indecafatable assistant surgeon P took charge of the wounded men, we pressed round the officer and questioned him as to what he had seen. Are there many of them? Was there any infantry? we asked. But his daring reconnaissance had not been very fruitful. He had had to stop when the artillery had opened fire on him, and had not been able to see how many adversaries we had to deal with. Acting on the advice of Major P, our captain, who had just rejoined us with the third troop, gave us orders to mount. We were only in the way here, where there were too many defenders already, so recross the bridge to put ourselves at the Colonel's disposal. I led with my troop, and we passed through Jalgon by the main street. The inhabitants thought we were beating retreat, and became uneasy. Some women uttered cries, begging us not to leave them at the mercy of the enemy. We had to calm them by saying that they need not fear, that we were still holding the Germans, that our infantry would soon arrive, and that in an hour the foe would have decamped. To tell the truth, we were not quite so sure of it ourselves. The enemy were in some force, and he had guns. Our infantry had at least fifteen kilometres to march before their advance guard could debouch on the bridge at Jalgon. If they had not started before dawn, they could not arrive before eleven o'clock, and it was then barely nine. The German artillery was already beginning to fire upon the village. Suddenly, as we reached the marketplace, we saw a group of three dismounted chasseurs emerging from an alley that ran steeply down the Marne. They belonged to F's troop. Two of them were supporting the third, whom we at once recognised. It was Laurent, a fine fellow, and a favourite with a whole squadron. It went to our hearts to see him. His left eye was nothing but a red patch, from which blood was flowing freely, drenching his clothing. He was moaning softly, and, blinded by the blood, allowed himself to be led like a child. The corporal with him explained, a bullet went in just over his eye. I don't know if the eye itself was hit. The captain sprang off his horse. Cheer up, Laurent. It shall be attended to at once. Perhaps it will be nothing, my man. Come with me. We will take you to the Red Cross ambulance close by. Then between his groans the wounded man said a thing I shall not easily forget. Mon capitain, haven't they taken away their guns yet? He still had an interest in the battle. I heard afterwards that F had sighted the German guns, and that the fire of his troop had been directed upon them. Laurent would have liked to hear that they had been driven away. He was carried off to the ambulance. I went on towards the bridge. The cannon and rifle fire still raged fiercely, but none of the shots reached the bank where we were. We had to repeat the trying process of crossing the swaying bridge by fours at walking pace. I led off with four troopers. It was not so tedious this time, as my eyes were distracted by the view of the green meadows on the opposite side. The Colonel had disposed the brigade in such a way that he could concentrate his fire upon the bridge and the opposite bank in case we could not maintain our position there. A squadron on our left concealed in the sand quarry was directing its fire upon the heights where the German artillery was posted. Both up and down the stream, the Chasseurs d'Afrique lined the river banks, making use of every scrap of cover. Peeping out over the trunks of fallen trees, banks, and ditches, inquisitive heads could be seen wearing the khaki tack on it. But my troubles were not yet over. Just as I was going to step ashore from the bridge, Captain D brought me the Colonel's orders to recross the river with my whole squadron and occupy a clump of houses to the left of the bridge. It was evidently a wise precaution. Although no firing had come from this direction, it was quite possible that some of the enemy might have slipped through the woods and come halfway down the slopes. But I did not expect such a bad time as I was going to have. At the very moment when I was turning back and was beginning the hateful passage for a third time, the enemy gunners changing their objective aimed at the bridge, and the shrapnel bullets began disturbing music once more. Could any situation be more excreable than ours, to be upon a bridge as thin as a thread, hanging as if by a miracle over a deep ravine, to see this bridge enfiladed by heavy musketry fire, and to be obliged to walk our horses over the two hundred yards which separated one bank from the other? If we had been on foot so that we could have run and expended our strength in getting under cover, since we could not use it to defend ourselves, we should not have complained. But to be mounted on good horses, which in a few galloping strides could have carried us behind the ramparts of houses, and to be obliged to hold them back instead of spurring them on was very unpleasant and made us feel foolish. I looked at the four brave chasseurs in front of me. They instinctively put up their shoulders as high as they could, as if to hide their heads between them. But not one of them increased his pace. Not one of them looked round at me, to beg me to give his orders for a quicker advance. And what a concert was going on all the time. Whilst the horses whose were beating out low and muffled notes, the bullets flew above us and around us, with shrill cracklings and whistlings which were anything but harmonious. Happily the firing was distant and disgracefully bad, for at the pace we were travelling we must have offered a very convenient mark. Another twenty yards. Ten more. At last we were safely under cover. I communicated the Colonel's orders to the Captain, who came to join us and directed us to occupy the little garden of a fair-sized house situated just on the edge of the Marne, and most advanced of a small group of buildings on the left-hand side of the bridge. After lodging the horses in an alley between the house and an adjoining shanty, I went to reconnoiter my ground. The house was a rustic restaurant, which in the summer no doubt afforded the inhabitants an object for a walk. On passing along the terrace leading to the river, I found the disorder usually in places that have been occupied by the Germans. Tables overturned, bottles broken, the musty smell of empty casks, and broken crockery. The little garden did not offer much protection for my men. However, crouching behind a kind of breastwork of earth which shut it off from the woods, they were able at least to hide themselves from view. I at once posted my sharpshooters, sent out a patrol on foot as far as the entrance to the wood, and then turned my attention to what was happening near the bridge. Whilst I was busy carrying out the Captain's orders, I had not noticed that the situation had undergone a decided change, and that our chances of being able to complete our task thoroughly had increased considerably. The German guns were no longer aiming at the village. Their fire had become more rapid, and their shrapnel flew hissing over the barricade. We could see them bursting much further off on the other side of the water, in the direction of the woods crowning the heights wents in the morning, I had admired the smiling landscape. I inferred then that the advance guard of our corpse was debouching. In half an hour it would be there, and the German cavalry we felt sure would not hold out much longer. But our fine infantry had done more than this. They had no doubt found good roads, or perhaps the German gunners hypnotised by the village had not spied them. For I had now the pleasure of witnessing one of the most exhilarating spectacles I had seen since the opening of the campaign. From where I stood on the bank, I could see the thin line of the bridge above. I did not think that anyone would risk crossing it now that it was known to be a mark for the enemy's fire, but suddenly I saw five men appear and begin to cross it. I could distinguish them perfectly. They were infantry soldiers, an officer and four men. The officer walked first, calmly, with a stick under his right arm and in his left hand a map which formed a white patch on his blue coat, and behind him the men in single file, bending slightly under their knapsacks, their caps pushed back and holding their rifles, marched firmly and steadily. They might have been on parade. Their legs could be distinguished for a moment against the blue sky. The step was so regular that I could not help counting—one, two, one, two—as their feet struck the bridge. But just at that moment, when the little group had got halfway across, a hiss, followed by a deafening explosion, made our hearts beat, and we heard the curious noise made by the innumerable bullets and pieces of a shell striking the water. The Germans had seen our infantry beginning to cross the river, and they were now pouring their fire upon the bridge. I looked again at the men, and saw they were there, all five of them, still marching with the same cool, resolute step—one, two, one, two—ah, the brave fellows! How I wanted to cheer them, to shout, bravo! But they were too far off, and the noise of the fuselage would have prevented them from hearing me. No sooner had they reached the bank than another little group stepped onto the narrow bridge, and then after them another, and each was saluted by one or two shells with the same heavy rain of bullets falling into the water. But Providence protected our soldiers. The outline of the bridge was very slight, and the gunners of the German cavalry divisions were very sorry marksmen. Their projectiles always burst either too far or too near, too high or too low, and as soon as a hundred men had got across, and the first sharpshooters had clambered up the heights that rise sheer from the river and begun to debouch upon the plateau, there was a sudden silence. The ennui's cavalry had given way, and Aircorp's D-Army was free to pass the man by the bridge of Jalgon. The entire battalion of the advance guard then began to pour over the bridge on their way to the plateau. Abrogade was quickly got together, and Achasseurs hastened to water their horses, out came the nosebags from the saddlebags. A few minutes later no one would have suspected that fighting had taken place at this spot. The men hurriedly got their snack, for we knew the halt would not last long, and that the pursuit had to be pushed till daylight failed. Our troop was in good heart, and thankful that the squadron's losses had been so small. F had just seen Laurent, the one wounded chasseur of his troop, and said the doctors hoped to save his eye, so we had no reason to grumble. Saddlebags were now being buckled, and horses re-bridled. I was to go forward to replace the troop that had led the advance guard. The colonel sent for me, and ordered me to proceed at once along the road to Fismes, search the outskirts of the village carefully, and take up a position on the heights overlooking the valley. My troop got away quickly, and I rejoiced again at the sight of my fellows, radiant at the thought of having a dash at the enemy. We had to hasten to get ahead of the foremost parties of infantry, which also halted for a meal. I detached my advance scouts. Their eager little horses set off after gallop along the white road, and I was delighted to see the ease and decision with which my chasseurs flashed out their swords. They seemed to say, come along, come along, we are ready. As for me, I rode on in quiet confidence, knowing that I had in front of me eyes keen enough to prevent any surprise. One squad climbed nimbly up the ridge to the left. The horses scrambled up the steep ground, dislodging stones and clods of earth. They struggled with straining hawks hard to get up, and seemed to challenge each other for a race to the top. Their riders, in extended order, showed as patches of red and blue against the grey stubble. Up they went, further and further, and then disappeared over the crest. Only one was still visible, but this one was my guarantee that I had good eyes keen and alert on my left. Should any danger threaten from that quarter, I knew well that he would pass on to me the signal received from his corporal, and I should only have to gallop to the top to judge the situation for myself. I could see the man against the blue sky, the whole outline of his body and that of his horse, the equipment and harness, the curved sword, the graceful neck, the sinewy legs, the heavy pack. I recognized the rider and knew the name of his horse. They were both of the right sort. Yes, I felt quite easy about my left. On the right the ground dropped sheer to a narrow valley, at the bottom of which flowed a stream of clear water. Among the green trees were glittering patches here and there, on which the sun threw metallic reflections, and on the other side rose heights covered by the forest of Riz. On the edge of this forest I could see the stately ruins of a splendid country mansion. I questioned a boy who was standing on the side of the road looking at us half timidly, half gladly. Tell me, child, who burnt the chateau over there? Monsieur, they did. They took everything away, all the beautiful things. They even carried everything off on big carts, and then they set fire to the house. But everything isn't burnt, and a lot of them came back again this morning with some horses, and they went on looking for things. I sent off another squad towards the chateau, telling them first to follow the edge of the wood and to be careful how they approached it. The men got into the wood by the spaces in the bank along the road, and scattered in the thickets that dotted the side of the spur we were turning. I was thus protected on my right. I went up at a trot to the place where the road reached the plateau, and just as I was on the point of reaching it we were met by a crowd of village folk, men, women, and children coming along looking radiant. I saw some of them questioning my advanced scouts and pointing in the direction of the north-east. It was the whole population of Lechamel, and they had come out to meet us. Lechamel is a small village that stands at the meeting of two roads, one leading towards Fismes, the other towards Freire de Tardenoise. It has the appearance of hanging on to the hillside. For whilst the road to Fere de Tardenoise continues to follow the plateau, that to Fismes dips abruptly at this place and disappears into the valley. The houses of Lechamel are perched between these two roads. Thus the people of the village had a good view of the enemy's retreat, and everybody wanted to have his say about it. I turned to a tall man, lean and tanned, with a grizzled moustache, who had something still of a military air, and seemed to be calmer than the others around him. From him I was able to get some fairly clear information. Monleaf Talent, it was like this. They went off this morning early, a great number of cannons and horses. The artillery went straight on towards Fismes by the road. The cavalry cut across the fields and disappeared over the ridge, you see, over there on the other side of the valley. Then towards eight o'clock some of them came back. How many? Well, two or three regiments perhaps, and some guns, and they went down towards Jalgon. I believe they wanted to destroy the bridge. Just as they got into the turn of the hill, pan, pan, they were fired at. But then of course we got back to our houses and shut them up as the guns began to fire. But when we heard no more reports we came out again, and saw them making off across the fields, like the others, and in the same direction. But it's quite possible that some of them stayed in the woods, or in the farms on the other side of the forest of Riz. He was interrupted by my non-commissioned officer. Monleaf Talent, the scouts, they are signaling to you. I galloped up to them. When they pointed out to me, at about 1500 yards distance on the opposite ridge, a small group of cavalrymen near a stack, and, on the side of the slope, a patrol of German dragoons pacing slowly with lances lowered, and stopping every now and then, and facing in our direction. I took my glasses and looked carefully at the stack, and then I saw a sight which sent a shiver of joy through me. The horsemen had dismounted and put their horses behind the stack. Three of the men then separated themselves from the rest, and formed a little group. I could not distinguish their uniforms, but saw very clearly that they were looking through their glasses at us. Now and again they put their heads together, and consulted the map as it seemed. A man then came out from behind the stack on foot, and could be distinctly seen against the sky, sticking into the ground by his side a square pen and which flapped gently in the breeze. As far as I could see it was half black and half white. There could be no doubt that we were confronting a staff. So the division was not far off. It had halted, and perhaps intended this time to fight at close quarters. I told my men what I thought, and they were overjoyed at the idea that, after all, there was a hope of realizing our dream. There was not one of them who doubted that the Division of the Guards had been kind enough to stop its flight, and that our brave Light Brigade would attack it without any hesitation and cut it to pieces. I dismounted quickly, and lost not a moment in drawing up my report. I wrote down what I had seen, and what I had learnt from the inhabitants, and then called one of my chasseurs, Tedekernal, full gallop! At the touch of a spur the little chestnut turned sharp around, and flew down the dusty road like a whirlwind. Meanwhile I carefully posted my men, threw out scouts over the Chateau, and up to the Forest of Fear, and formed patrols under my non-commissioned officers. I then took my observation post under a large tree, which, to judge by its venerable look, must have seen many generations pass, and many other wars. The village folk collected around me in such numbers that I was obliged to have them thrust back by my men to Lechamel. To console them I said, you must go away. The enemy will take you for armed troops and fire guns at you. I kept my eye upon my staff, and wished my glasses could help me to distinguish more clearly what men I had to deal with. Along to see what they were like, to examine the faces of these haughty routers, who for the last four days had been fleeing before us and always refusing a real encounter. I fancied that among them might be that Rittmeister, with the bulging neck and pink cheeks, who after the orgy of that night at the Chateau de Cond had left behind him the cap that I had found hanging from the chandelier in the dining room. How I longed to see the brigade debauch, and to receive instructions from the Colonel. I had not longed to wait. My messenger soon came back, trotting up the road from Jalgon. But the instructions were not what I had expected. I was to stay where I was until further orders, and to continue to observe the enemy and keep a look out in his direction. I learned some details from the man. The greater part of the infantry had already crossed the bridge, and there was also some artillery on this side of the river. As he said this, a clatter of wheels and chains caused me to turn my head, and I saw behind us in the stubble fields of the plateau, two batteries of 75s taking up positions. Aha! We were going to send them our greetings, then a salute to the pompous general over there and to his aide to camp, the stiff and obsequious Rittmeister, whom I imagined to be at his side. I looked on gaily with my chasseurs at the laying of the guns. How we all loved that good little gun, which had so often come up to lend us the support of its terrible projectiles at critical moments. And those good fellows the gunners loved it too, the men we saw jumping nimbly down from their limba, quickly unhitching their peace, and pointing it with tender care towards the enemy. Standing on a bank, with his glasses to his eyes, the officer in command gave his orders which were passed from man to man by the markers, and then suddenly we heard four loud sharp reports behind us. The whistling of the shells which almost grazed our heads was impressive, and though we knew there was no danger we instinctively ducked, but we recovered ourselves at once to see what effect they had produced. What a pity! They had fallen a bit short. We distinctly saw four small white puffs on this side of the hill, just below the group of German officers. Ah, they didn't wait for another. I saw them make off in hot haste whilst the troopers stationed behind the stack galloped off the horses. The man with the flag was the last to go, closing the procession with rather more dignity. But in ten seconds the whole lot had decamped, and the only men we could see were the dragoons of the patrol who rode back to the ridge at full speed. But, just as they reached it, the second battery opened fire, and this time the sighting was just right. Four white puffs appeared exactly over the spot where the staff had stood a minute before. Two at the right and two at the left of the stack, and all we now saw of the patrol was two rideless horses galloping madly towards the woods. Then the two batteries pounded away with a will. When I received orders to resume the forward movement and my good chasseurs had taken up the pursuit again, the gunners had lengthened their range with mathematical precision, and the shells burst on the farther side of the ridge. I took grim pleasure in imagining what must have been happening there, where no doubt the division was drawn up, and whilst I continued to direct my vigilant and expert scouts, I amused myself by picturing the brilliant troopers of the Prussian Guard in headlong flight. Chapter 5 of In The Field 1914-1915 This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by F.N.H. In The Field 1914-1915 by Marcel Dupont, Chapter 5 Chapter 5 Low Mass and Ben Addiction One morning, in the middle of September 1914, as we raised our heads at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my friend F had a very disagreeable surprise. We heard in the darkness the gentle monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the penthouse roof onto the road. Arriving at Pevi the evening before, just before midnight, we had found refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved with tiles in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of trusses of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have been awakened in good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my friend. It is raining, said F. I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers and especially cavalrymen, note to the full how dispiriting is the sound of those few words. It is raining. It is raining means your clothes will be saturated, your cloak will be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds. The water will drip from your shackle along your neck and down your back. Above all your high boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up in the eyes, horses slipping, rain stiffening, your saddle transformed into a hip bath. It means that the little clean linen you had brought with you, that precious treasure in your saddlebags, will be changed into a wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made by the soaked leather. But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran, horses to be saddled and squadron ready to mount at six thirty, and they had to be carried out. It was still dark. I went out into the yard after pulling down my campaigning cap over my ears. Well after all the evil was less than I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild, and there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it would take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end of the yard some men were moving about around a small fire. Their shadows passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making coffee, just as they call it, that indispensable ration in which they soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot be a good soldier. I ran to my troop through the muddy alleyways, skipping from side to side to avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared pale and dismal. A faint smell rose from the sodden ground. Nothing noom on Lieutenant, were the words that greeted me from the sergeant, who had then made his report. I had every confidence in him. He had been some years in the service and knew his business. Small and lean and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our trials he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned officer. I knew it had already gone round the stables, which he did with a candle in his hand, patting the horse's haunches and looking with a watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a kick or entangled in its tether. In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm where the men had been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and take their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of insipid, lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly. Then I went to get my orders from the captain, who was lodged in the market square. No word had yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at a farm in Vadoville, two kilometres off. Patience. We had been used to these long waits since the army had been pulled up before the formidable line of trenches which the Germans had dug north of Reims. They were certainly most disheartening, but it could not be helped, and it was no use to complain. I turned and went slowly up the steep footpath that led to my billet. Pevee is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line of heights that runs parallel to the road from Reims to Paris. Its houses are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the ridges for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which intersect the village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We were obliged to tramp about in the sticky mud of the main road waiting for our orders. Passing the church it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since the war had begun, we had hardly had any opportunity of going into the village churches we had passed. Some of them were closed because of the parish priests had left for the army, or because the village had been abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for the artillery, and now stood in the middle of the villages, ruins loftier and more pitable than the rest. The church of Pevee seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and was approached by a narrow stairway of grayish stone climbing up between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little churchyard with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read some of the simple inscriptions. Here lies, here lies, pray for him. The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf, and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling, a fine, persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was enmist, the roofs and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable. Passing through a low, dark porch I opened the heavy door studied with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little sanctuary of Pevee seemed to me in its humble simplicity. Imagine, a kind of hall with bare walls, the vaults supported by two rows of thick pillars, the narrow, gothic windows hardly allowed the gray light to enter. There were no horrible, cheap, modern stained windows, but a multitude of small, white, rectangular, leaded panes. All this was simple and worn, but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and touching poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light did not reveal walls covered with horrible color wash we are accustomed to see in most of our village churches. This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very well defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed, rebuilt and repaired by many different generations. But those who preserved it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering which disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine, large stones, on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no grotesque painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim light that filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague, soft glow. No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The stations of the Cross were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish in their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic artist, and even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole. But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft and monotonous murmur coming from the altar. The choir was almost in darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars of lighted candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing a large white shadowy form, almost motionless and like a phantom. At the bottom of the steps another form was kneeling, bowed down towards the floor. It did not stir as I approached. I went towards the choir on tiptoe, very cautiously. I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a sacrilege by coming to disturb these two men praying there all alone in the gloom of that sad morning. A deep feeling of emotion passed through me, and I felt so insignificant in their presence, and in the mysterious atmosphere of that place, that I knelt down humbly, almost timidly, in the shadow of one of the great pillars near the altar. Then I could distinguish my fellow worshippers better. A priest was saying mass. He was young and tall, and his gestures, as he officiated, were slow and dignified. He did not know that someone was present watching him closely, so it could not be supposed that he was speaking and acting to impress a congregation, and yet he had a way of kneeling, of stretching out his arms, and of looking up to the humble, gilded cross in front of him that revealed all the ardour of fervent prayers. Occasionally he turned towards the back of the church to pronounce the ritual words. His face was serious and kindly, framed in a youthful beard, the face of an apostle, with the glow of faith in his eyes, and I was surprised to see underneath the priest's vestments the hems of a pair of red trousers, and feet shod in large muddy military boots. The kneeling figure at the bottom of the steps now stood out more distinctly. The man was wearing on his shabby infantry coat the white armlet of the red cross. He must have been a priest, for I could still distinguish some traces of the neglected tonsure among his brown hair. The two repeated in low tone by turns the words of the prayer, comfort, repentance or supplication, harmonious Latin phrases, which sounded to me like exquisite music, and as an accompaniment in the distance in the direction of St. Théry and Barry O'Buck, the deep voice of the guns muttered ceaselessly. For the first time in the campaign I felt a kind of poignant melancholy. For the first time I felt small and miserable, almost a useless thing compared with these two fine priestly figures who were praying in the solitude of this country church for those who had fallen and were falling yonder under shot and gel. How I despised and upbraided myself at such moments. What a profound disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life, its gross pleasures and silly excesses. I was ashamed of myself when I reflected that death brush me by every day and that I might disappear to-day or to-morrow, after so many ill-spent and unprofitable days. Without any effort and almost in spite of myself pious words came back to my lips those words that my dear mother used to teach me on her knee years and years ago, and I felt quiet delight in the almost forgotten words that came back to me. Forgive us our trespasses. Pray for us, poor sinners. It seemed to me that I should presently go away a better man and a more valiant soldier. And, as though to encourage and bless me, a faint ray of sunshine came through the window. Itta, Missa Est. The priest turned round and at this time I thought his eyes rested upon me, and that look was a benediction and an absolution. But suddenly I heard in the alley close by a great noise of people running and horses stamping and voice crying. Mount horses! Mount horses! I was sorry to leave that little church of Pevi. I should so much of like to wait until those two priests came out to speak to them and talk about other things than war, massacres, and pillage. But duty called me to my men, my horses, and to battle. Shortly afterwards as I passed at the head of my troop in front of a large farm where the ambulance of the division was quartered, I saw my abbey coming out of the barn with his sleeves tucked up and his kepi on the side of his head. He was carrying a large pail of milk. I recognised his clear look and had no doubt that he recognised me too, for as our eyes met he gave me a kindly smile. My heart was lighter, and as I went forward my soul was calmer. For the last six days we had been quartered at Montigny-sur-Vessel, a pretty little village halfway up a hillside on the heights, 20 kilometres to the west of the rooms. There we enjoyed a little rest for the first time in the campaign. On airfront the struggle was going on between the French and German trenches and the employment of cavalry was impossible. For all the regiment had to do was to supply two daily troops required to ensure the connection between the two divisions of the army corps. What a happiness it was to be able, at last, to enjoy almost perfect rest. What a delight to lie down every evening in a good bed, not to get up before seven o'clock and to find our poor horses stabled at last on good litter in the barns and to see them filling out daily and getting sleeker. For our mess we had the good luck to find a most charming and simple welcome at the house of the good Monsignor Chevrolet. What that kind old gentleman did everything in his power to supply us with all the comforts he could dispose of, and he did it all with such good grace and such a pleasant smile that we felt at ease and at home at once. Madame Chevrolet, whom we at once called Maman Chevrolet, was an alert little old lady who trotted about all day long in quest of things to do for us. She put us up in the dining room and helped our cook to clean the vegetables and to super intend the joints and sweets. For Gosset, the bold chasseur appointed to preside over our mess arrangements, was a professional in the culinary art and excelled in making everything out of nothing. So, with the help of Maman Chevrolet, he accomplished wonders, and the result of it all was that we began to be envenerated by the delights of this new capoeira, and how thoroughly we enjoyed it. We shared our Eden with two other squadrons of our regiment, a section of an artillery park and a divisional ambulance. We prayed heaven to grant us a long stay in such a haven of repose. Now one morning after countless ablutions with hot water and a clean shave, I was going with brilliantly shining boots down the steep footpath which led to the little house of our good Montseor Chevrolet. When my attention was drawn to a small white notice posted on the door of the church, it ran. This evening, at six o'clock, benediction of the most holy sacrament. It occurred to me at once that this happy idea had been conceived by the chaplain of the ambulance, for until then the church had been kept locked as the young parish priests had been called up by the mobilization. I made haste to tell our captain and my comrades the good news, and we all determined to be present at the benediction that evening. At half-past five, areas were delighted by music such as we had not been accustomed to hear for a very long time. In the deepening twilight some invisible hand was chiming the bells of the little church. How deliciously restful they were after the loud roar of the cannon and the rattle of the machine guns. Who would have thought that such deep and also such solemn notes could come from so small a steeple? It stirred the heart and brought tears to the eyes, like some of Chopin's music. These bells seemed to speak to us, and they seemed to call us to a prayer and preach courage and virtue to us. At the end of the shady walk I was passing down, whose trees formed a rustling wall on either side, appeared the little church with its slender steeple. It stood out in clear relief, a dark blue, almost violet silhouette against the purple background made by the setting sun. Some dark human forms were moving about and collecting around the low-arched doorway. Perhaps these were the good old women of the district who had come to pray in this little church which had remained closed to them for nearly two months. I fancied I could distinguish them from where I was, dignified and erect in their old-fashioned mantles. But as soon as I got closer to them I found I was mistaken. It was not aged and pious women who were hurrying to the church door, but a group of silent artillerymen wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The bells shook out some solemn notes and seemed to be calling others to come too, and I should have been glad if their voices had been heard, for I was afraid the chaplain's appeal would hardly be heeded and that the benches of the little church would be three parts empty. But on gently pushing the door open I found at once that my fears were baseless. The church was in fact too small to hold all the soldiers who had come long before the appointed hour as soon as they had heard the bells begin. And now I had no fears about the church being empty. I wondered how I was going to find a place myself. I stood on the doorstep, undecided, on tiptoe, looking over the heads of all those standing men to see whether there was any corner unoccupied where I could enjoy the beauty of the unexpected sight in peace. The nave was almost dark. The expense of lighting had no doubt to be considered. For several days past no candle or taper was to be had for money, and no doubt the kindness of a motorist of the Red Cross had been appealed to for the supply of all the candles which lit up the altar. This was indeed resplendent. The vestry had been ransacked for candlesticks, and the tabernacle was surrounded by a splendid aureal of light. All this increased the touching impression I felt on entering. Against the brilliant background of the choir stood out the black forms of several hundreds of men standing, looking towards the altar. Absolute silence reigned over the whole congregation of soldiers, and yet no discipline was enforced. There was no superior present to impose a show of devotion. Left to themselves, they all understood what they had to do. They crowded together, waiting in silence and without any impatience for the ceremony to begin. Suddenly a white figure came towards me through the crowded ranks of soldiers. He extended his arms in token of welcome, and I at once recognized the chaplain in his surplus. His face was beaming with pleasure, and his eyes shone behind his spectacles. He appeared to be supremely happy. This way, Monschurli officer, this way I have thought of everything. You must have the seat of honor. Follow me. I followed the holy man, who elbowed away for me up the crowded aisle. He had reserved all the choir stalls for the officers. Before the war they had been occupied at high mass by the clergy, the choir, and the principal members of the congregation. He proudly showed me into one of them, and I felt rather embarrassed at finding myself suddenly in a blaze of light between an artillery lieutenant and a surgeon major. The low vestry door now opened, and a very unexpected procession appeared. In front of a bearded priest walked four artillerymen in uniform. One of them carried a censor, and another the incense box. The other two walked in front of them, arms crossed and eyes front. The whole procession knelt before the altar, with perfect precision, and I saw beneath the priest's vestments muddy gaiters of the same kind as those worn by the gunners. At the same time we heard, quite close to us, strains of music, which seemed to us celestial. In the dim light I had not noticed the harmonium, but now I could distinguish the artist who was enchanting us by his skill in the drawing sweet sounds from a poor worn instrument. He was an artillery captain. At once all eyes were turned towards him. We were all enraptured. None of us dared to hope that we should lift our voices in the hymns. The organist seemed unconscious of his surroundings. The candle placed near the keyboard cast a strange light upon the most expressive for her heads. Against the dark background of the church the striking features of a noble face were thrown into strong relief, a forehead broad and refined, an aristocratic nose, a fair mustache turned up at the ends, and, notably, two fine blue eyes which, without a glance at the fingers of the keys, were fixed on the vaulted roof as though seeking inspiration there. The chaplain, turning to the congregation, then said, My friends, we will all join in singing O Salataris. The harmonium gave the first notes, and I braced myself to endure the dreadful discords I expected from the crowd of soldiers, mostly reservists, who, I supposed, had come together that evening mainly out of curiosity. Judge of my astonishment, at first only a few timid voices joined the chaplains, but after a minute or so a marvel happened. From all those chests came a volume of sound which I could hardly have believed possible. Who will say then that our dear France had lost her faith? Who can believe it? Every one of these men joined in singing the hymn, and not one of them seemed ignorant of the Latin words. It was a magnificent choir, under a lofty vault, chanting with the fervour of absolute sincerity. There was not one discordant note, not one voice out of tune to spoil its perfect harmony. Who can believe that men, many of them more than thirty years old, would remember all the words unless they had been brought up in the faith of their ancestors and still held it? I could not help turning to look at them. In the light of the candles their faces appeared to be wonderfully transfigured. Not one of them expressed irony or even indifference. What a fine picture it would have made for a Rembrandt. The bodies of the men were invisible in the darkness of the nave, and their heads alone emerged from the gloom. The effect was grand enough to fascinate the most sceptical of painters. It soothed, and charmed one, and wiped out all the miseries that the war had left in its wake. Men like these would be equal to anything, ready for anything, and I myself should have liked to see a monsoon Hamas hidden away in some corner of that church. Meanwhile the sacred office was proceeding at the altar. At any other time we might have smiled at the sight of that soldier-priest served by choristers of thirty-five in uniform. At that ceremony it was inexpressibly touching and attractive, and it was especially delightful to see how carefully and precisely each performed his function that the ceremony might not lack its accustomed pomp. When the singing had ceased the chaplain went up to the holy table. In a voice full of feeling he tried to express his gratitude and happiness to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him to be a brilliant speaker at the best of times, but on that occasion the worthy man was completely unintelligible. His happiness was choking him. He tried in vain to find the words he wanted, used the wrong ones, and only confused himself by trying to get them right. But nobody had the least desire to laugh when to conclude his address he said with a sigh of relief. And now we will tell twenty beads of the rosary, ten for the success of our arms, and the other ten in memory of the soldiers who have died on the field of honour. Hail Mary full of grace! I looked round the church once more, and every one's lips were moving silently accompanying the priest's words. Opposite us I saw the artillery captain take a rosary out of his pocket and tell the beads with dreamy eyes, and when the chaplain came to the sentence Holy Mary, Mother of God, hundreds of voices burst forth, deep and manly voices, full of fervour, which seemed to proclaim their faith in him who was present before them on the altar, and also to promise self-sacrifice and devotion to that other sacred thing, their country. Then after the tantum ergo had been sung with vigor the priest held up the monstrance, and I saw all those soldiers with one accord kneel down on the stone floor and bow their heads. The silence was impressive, not a word, not a cough, and not a chair moved. I had never seen such devotion in any church. Some spiritual power was brooding over the assemblage and bowing all those heads in token of submission and hope. Good brave soldiers of France, how we love and honour you at such moments, and what confidence your chiefs must fill when they lead such men to battle. We sat at table around the lamp, and Good Mum and Cheveread had just brought in the steaming soup. Right away towards the east we heard the dull roll of the cannon. Good Moncier Cheveread had just brought up from his cellar a venerable bottle of his best burgundy, and at the invitation of the captain he sat down to drink a glass with us, smoking his cherry wood pipe, and listening with delight to our merry chat. Gosset was in his kitchen next door preparing a delicious piece of beef à la mode, and at the same time telling the admiring mamane Cheveread about his exploits of the past month. We heard the men in the first troop cracking their jokes in the yard as they ate their rations and emptied their panikin of wine under a brilliant moon. Down in the valley on the banks of the murmuring vessel, songs and laughter floated up to us from the artillery park, and the village itself shining under the starlit sky seemed bathed in an atmosphere of cheerfulness, courage, and confidence.