Our “dug-out” was a little rectangular room five mètres long by two mètres wide, cut in the stiff soil, stayed up with planks, covered with beams and roofed with earth.[3] It was dark as an oven. It was entered by an opening so narrow that my pack could not pass, and to get to this door, if one could call it a door, one had to perform prodigies from the roadside onwards to avoid being bogged up to the knees. There was a little straw on the floor, and the furniture consisted of a chair.

There we were going to take up our residence, my seven men and I—Dhuic, Laroche, Ponnery, Bobet, Thiérard, Emmanuel and that terrible-looking fellow Hurel, with his vulture’s face and insane alcoholic eye. I can see him now at the bottom of the trench, his face emerging from a sheep-skin coat which made him look more than ever like a wild beast. “If the Bosches catch sight of you,” an unindulgent comrade said to him, “they will certainly clear out in double-quick time.”

We got here from Nieuport at four o’clock in the morning. The regiment was closed up and the men stumbled at each step over the débris of houses, which littered the road. Dead silence reigned, and the cold north wind of early morning made our eyes water. No shells or bullets were flying, but we heard from time to time the noise of tiles falling from some roof or the din of a falling skirt of wall. Star shell were being used, and each time they lit up the country they made us jumpy, for we presumed that they would be followed by a shell only too well placed.

Day dawned, and I came cautiously out of my hole to have a look at the country. The human imagination never, I imagine, has conceived, nor ever can picture, anything sadder or more desolate than what I saw. I found myself on the road leading from Nieuport to Saint-Georges at a point almost equally distant from both of these remains of towns. The banked-up road meandered over an immense muddy plain, necked with pools of grey water, now frozen. Nieuport was on my right. From here I could not see a single house which was, I won’t say intact, but only damaged by the bombardment. It was a heap of gutted buildings, crumbling walls and twisted and broken trees. On my left was Saint-Georges, in if anything worse state. Nothing remained but a pile of stones, and one would never have supposed that a village had once existed there.

By the side of my trench there was a freshly made grave, that is to say a square of mud surmounted by a white cross. The cap of a marine lay by its side. I picked it up; it was full of brains. The poor fellow must have been killed on this very spot, and yesterday probably, mown down perhaps by that same shell which had pierced two neighbouring trees with its murderous fragments.

As I re-entered my trench the sharp clatter of our batteries disturbed the air. They were placed quite near us, and well hidden, for I could see nothing of them. I supposed that this was the opening of the ball and that the enemy’s reply would not be long in coming. Some of my men had come out. I made them get back again quickly, and treated Hurel to a kick from behind. The men become as quiet as sheep when there is danger about. One of them warmed me some coffee on a solid fuel spirit-lamp, and another let me make a pillow of his abdomen.

25th January, 1915.—We were relieved at 5 o’clock and returned safe and sound to Nieuport. I found the cellar transformed, thanks to Clère and Hénon; there was a light, a table covered with a cloth and some crockery. They had looted these things from the town, and I did not find fault with them for doing so, for these articles were safer where they were than in the ruins exposed at any moment to squalls of shell.

The bombardment had kept on increasing until past midday. It was dangerous to go outside. Every half-hour I made a round to make the men get back into their cellars. We made some tea, but the water came from the Yser, which was carrying down dead bodies, and the tea smelt of death. We could not drink it.

The ration cart arrived to an accompaniment of shells. We did not take long to unload it.

26th January, 1915.—At midday a French aëroplane flew over the dunes. It was bombarded at times, and it let fall some silver trails which sparkled in the sky like the scales of fish.[4]

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To-night we buried a dragoon belonging to the 16th, who had been killed some days before in the course of a reconnaissance. The body was already at the cemetery, covered with earth, and we brought the coffin, carried by two soldier grave-diggers. It preceded, by some paces, the silent cortège formed by the Captain, M. Chatelin, the priest, two non-commissioned officers and myself. We crossed the canal bridge a little before midnight.

A sentry, petrified by cold, asked us for the countersign, which was given, and we went on our way, avoiding the white patches of moonlight which might have betrayed our presence.

The rusted gate of the cemetery creaked lamentably as we entered onto the holy ground that the shells had failed to respect. They had hollowed monstrous and gaping graves that yawned under our feet, laying bare, completely or partially, the skeletons and corpses. A stiff north wind was blowing, bending the slim shrubs and agitating the grass and the rotten crosses as in a danse macabre. It was the devil of a night, and I admit that we all shivered, preferring the risks of a charge in full daylight to this sinister and furtive work. Every two or three minutes a star shell traced a lovely curve of diamonds in the sky, and, instinctively, we put our heads down in silence. Four men dug the grave. We uncovered the poor body, which had been covered with a thin layer of earth. It had been wrapped up in sacking, like the big quarters of beef that are unloaded from the supply carts when rations are given out.

It was the most lamentable thing I have ever seen.

Everything was hurried through in a few minutes. The coffin was too big. The Captain put into it an envelope containing the name of the soldier who was going to rest there between the lines, and who would be crooned to sleep by the noise of shells.

The wind shook the surplice of the priest who recited the prayers, and I heard only a confused murmur of odd phrases, for the wind carried off the rest. We had to hurry, for the quiet moments were rare, and we returned through the dark deserted streets in impressive silence.

Nieuport, 29th January, 1915.—To form an exact idea of what this very peculiar war is like one must have lived the twenty-four hours that I have just passed through—a bitterly cold winter’s day and night.

We set out to occupy the first line trenches at 4 o’clock. The night was clear and frosty, and the stars glittered like splinters of ice. A clear and cold moon lit up the immensity of the ravaged and desolated plain, making the ice glitter, silhouetting the traitorous and dangerous ruins, betraying our position by the glint from our bayonets, while the frost-bound ground conducted sound to a great distance.

As far as the post from which the second-line trenches were commanded the road was good and the distance easy; but from there onwards the carrying out of reliefs became hazardous. We marched in single file, holding our bayonets in our left hands to prevent them from knocking against our rifles, raising our feet and going on tiptoe, as in a sick-room. The road became atrociously bad, it being impossible to repair it owing to the nearness of the enemy. Nothing was wanting, ruts, holes, fencing wire, overturned fencing posts, etc. The squadron occupied some trenches on the right. These were arrow-shaped, and were the nearest trenches to the enemy.

Seventeen of us held the main trench, and in an adjacent one were two marines with a small pom-pom trench gun. These were called trenches; in reality they consisted of sloping beams laid against an embankment of stones and sand-bags. We had to crawl into them, and, once in, we were condemned to immobility. We could not even sit down without bending our heads. Little by little the cold took hold of us, beginning with our feet, and we felt as if we were transformed into blocks of ice.

The wind brought us a suggestive odour, which mingled with the smell of rotting litter on which we were lying. We felt inclined to vomit. Day came and brought the need for absolute immobility. It was impossible to risk oneself outside the trench, even flat on one’s belly, until night-time. M. Chatelin and I shivered side by side, and inspected the horizon through field-glasses. On the left we saw some suspicious smoke, and the same distance off, on the right, we found the explanation of the stink we had smelt on our arrival. A score of German corpses were there, caught between their barbed-wire entanglement and ours, and destined to rot there for an undetermined period. They were in all sorts of poses and horribly mutilated. Some bodies were without heads, some heads and arms were lying separated and all the bodies were in convulsive postures. A number of crows were disputing their bodies, as were some half-wild cats, which refused the meat we offered them—a pretty sight indeed; happily there were no French bodies amongst them.

The artillery opened the ball about eight o’clock. We were almost in the middle, and well below the trajectory of the shells. We saw some shells strike their target—some farms, that fell to pieces—but many missed. That, however, was of no account.

From the direction of Lombaertzyde a sudden thunder resounded, and for the whole of the afternoon the earth was shaken by a bombardment which nothing could describe. To represent it one must think of a furious sea, an express at full speed, lowing of cattle, cat-calls, creakings; one must think of a mixture of all these sounds forming a sort of savage harmony. In the rays of the rising sun Lombaertzyde was crowned with plumes of black and white smoke, made by the bursting shells.

Nothing else happened till evening. The night was less monotonous, for, in spite of the pitiless moonlight, one could go out. We looked on with much interest at a raid by two aëroplanes, which marked down an enemy’s trench and a supply convoy with luminous bombs. An instant afterwards the “75’s” hit hard. Towards midnight seven shots were let off from the listening post. I said to myself, “At last, here comes the attack.” I shook up my men, benumbed with cold and sleep; but dead silence again fell.

It was freezing hard enough to split stones. Over a surface of several kilomètres the newly formed ice cracked and made one think that an advance was taking place. Little Duval, in a moment of hallucination, fired on the dead bodies, mistaking them for skirmishers.

From time to time an imperceptible breeze distinctly brought us the sound of the enemy at work. We heard the blows of mallets, used doubtless to consolidate his wire entanglements. I made our freezing men do the same.

M. Chatelin and I walked up and down or made reconnaissances simply for the sake of keeping on the move. On the plain I stumbled on the body of a dragoon between two frozen pools. His head was wrapped up in hay, but he was frozen so hard that we could not move him. I tried to lift him by his belt, but it broke in my hands. Two cats, a white one and an Angora, seemed annoyed at being deranged. Oh, the horror of it!

Décatoire had his feet frost-bitten and was unable to walk. M. Chatelin and I returned to the trench, and, huddled up one against the other, we passed the remaining hours of that trying night in shivering.

At five o’clock the 5th Chasseurs relieved us.

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24th February, 1915.—It snowed last night. The trenches are white and my “poilus” are cold. And so am I! A man of my section has just been wounded in the head by a bullet which ricochetted off a bayonet. But, generally speaking, the Germans leave us in peace.

Six o’clock.—My trench has been demolished in part by a “105.” We shall have to work all night to repair it.

26th February, 1915.—Under cover of fog I left my shelter and had some wire entanglements made. The men were able to work without drawing fire. Per contra a German patrol came exploring, counting on the fog for concealment. Having arrived opposite Règues’s section, they must have lost their way and pitched straight on to us. We hit three of them. All the morning, fifty mètres off, we saw them wriggling and raising their legs, and we heard them crying out. It was impossible to go to bring them in, the Germans would have fired on us. One of them signalled that he was ready to surrender. He put up his hands and cried, “Kamarad, Kamarad,” so he can’t be badly wounded. We could see him rise, unbuckle his belt and throw off his pack. My men, very pleased, were ready to receive him with open arms, but he regained his own lines at a bound. We let off a salvo, but the “Kamarad” had already disappeared. The two others kept on wriggling like worms.

2nd March, 1915.—I am occupying a new sector, not nearly so good as the first; trench fallen in, full of water, communications difficult, no comfortable command post; I sleep on the hard ground in the cold. My predecessor, when giving me my instructions, warned me that for two days past we had been badly shelled.

3rd March.—At 8.30 the first shell, a “105,” came over and pitched some mètres from my post. I was almost thrown out of the dug-out; earth and mud flew in all directions, and shell fragments fell with a sharp noise. Some moments after a second one came over, then a third and then, for three-quarters of an hour, they fell without ceasing.

All the shells fell on my left. The men were a little pale in face of this form of danger, against which there is nothing to be done. After a quarter of an hour the trench became untenable, the shelters, the parapets, the dug-out, were all tumbling down. Sometimes the shock and the displacement of air threw us in bunches one against the other.

I remained at the command post until the next dug-out was knocked to pieces, burying a man under the ruins. I then caused the whole section to be evacuated, except by a watcher, and I asked hospitality from a 2nd lieutenant of machine-guns.

At last the storm calmed down and I sent everyone back to his place. The trench was a veritable timber yard, and rifles and mess tins littered the ground. The parapet by the side of my shelter was knocked down level with the ground, leaving a gaping opening that we must repair to-night.

Six o’clock.—After the tension of such a morning I heard with pleasure the cry of “Stand to your arms.” Each man flew to his rifle; they too, I think, were pleased. I had gone back to see my comrade the machine-gunner, but it did not take me long to cover the thirty or forty mètres of trench which separated me from my men.

How good a thing it was to hear this crackle of rifle fire after the disquieting row of the “105’s”! “Stand to the machine-gun.” I saw with pleasure the four men at their gun, and I admired the graceful movement of the man who crouched to fire and who, unconsciously, assumed the posture of an animal ready to spring. Unfortunately the enemy were not “for it.” At our first shots the Germans got back into their trenches.

27th March.—We arrived yesterday in the second line, or rather in reserve. The huts are in a pine wood, surrounded with ridges. We arrived by moonlight. The bullets passed high and struck the tops of the trees. These huts are in the form of a redskin’s wigwam, made of earth and sacking. To-day we went hunting with revolvers and we killed a rabbit! We cooked it ourselves and enjoyed it for dinner.

28th March.—The enemy leaves us in peace. Not a shell, not the least little “77.” We went hunting again and brought back a pheasant. After supper Maugenot and I intend to go and play cards with Captain Lametz, a little in front of our trenches. We must cross a glacis in front of the ridge; the bullets come over there head high. We slipped along the edge of the wood to take advantage of the lie of the land; and then all at once we said, “So much the worse,” and we crossed the field at its widest part. We jumped the parapet of an old trench and we arrived at the 1st company. Captain Lametz has his post buried in a wood. We played, seated cross-legs on the ground, by candlelight. The rest of the post were asleep, rolled up in blankets. The moonlight peered into the dug-out each time that the wind blew aside the canvas of the tent. In coming back Maugenot and I were almost stopped by bullets, chance bullets, be it understood, which fell with regularity and in disconcerting abundance, often, as they struck the ground, hitting some shell fragments which would ring like glasses knocked together.

To save time Maugenot suggested taking a short cut, and he succeeded in entangling us in an inextricable network of barbed wire. It was too late to draw back, we had to jump and crawl. We arrived, however, at the hut safe and sound, but our great-coats were badly torn.

29th March.—A man had been killed some little time ago. While I write I am looking at the cortège which has brought him back. The body, a little bent, is carried on an improvised stretcher by four men and is wrapped up in the canvas of a tent, tinted red where it has touched his wound. The little procession advances with difficulty in the narrow communication trench, and every two or three steps a drop of blood falls and stains the ground like a star, brown-red, and the cortège may be traced by these as far as the grave.

6th May: In the first line.—We relieved the 256th in the first-line trenches near Mazingarbe, on the road to Lens. That relief by a reserve regiment confirmed the rumour of an offensive. As we passed through Nœux-les-Mines and Mazingarbe even the civilians said to us, “Sure enough you are going to attack, aren’t you? See to it that you push them back once and for all!”

7th May.—The great moment, so long expected, has come. To-morrow the 10th Army is going to attack on the Lille-Arras front. My battalion is to advance straight forward with Hill 70 for objective on this side of Loos. I made a reconnaissance of the sector. To-night I am going to inspect the German barbed-wire entanglements with Stivalet. I am quite calm and very well prepared; my only fear is that I may do badly and commit some fault. That the men will go forward, I am sure. My battalion forms the first line, the 2nd and the 3rd come next, then the 125th and the 68th line regiments, while the 256th and the 281st are on the right and left and are to converge to a point.

Two o’clock p.m.—The French guns are beginning to shell the enemy. The batteries are landing shell just in front of our trench and so near that I am beginning to think that there must be an error in the range. The mere fact of having to wait is a torture, to know nothing and to say, “Is it to be in five minutes, this evening or to-morrow?” My heart beats hard and my throat is dry. I would give anything for the order to attack, for I know that then I should at once recover my calm.

The four sections have orders to advance to their front towards the Lens road, to take the German trenches and then make for Hill 70 by way of Loos. I distributed some asphyxiating bombs, hand grenades to my section, and little bags containing cotton previously soaked in a bisulphite and which must be dipped again into lime water at the last moment and introduced into the mouth and nostrils to neutralise the effects of asphyxiating gas.

Four o’clock.—The shelling is still going on, but it has lost the unheard-of violence with which it started. The remainder of the guns are to arrive to-night and consequently the attack cannot take place before to-morrow.

Everyone is at work; the Engineers are making steps and finishing saps; Artillerymen walk about in the communication trenches with range-finders with which they accomplish mysterious rites, asking me politely to move as I am in the way. Officers of all battalions are reconnoitring the sector, and the men are sewing bits of white canvas on their packs so that they may be recognized at a distance by our artillery. One would say that a costume play was in course of being mounted and that the last preparations were being made for the opening performance.

At ten minutes to nine I returned to my command post. I examined my revolver carefully, took off my tunic and put my money and my papers in my trousers pocket. I slipped my cloak on over my shirt, put my revolver in the inside pocket and I got out of the trench. I gave a last warning to my men not to fire, even if they heard firing.

Stivalet was there; we got over the parapet at nine o’clock exactly, and we had chosen a bit of known ground between two chevaux de frise. It was very dark; scarcely had we started than a star shell lit up the sky. We threw ourselves flat on the ground on our faces. I felt the wet grass and moist soil on my cheeks and on the palms of my hands. I listened to my breathing and I could not feel the beatings of my heart. I was perfectly calm.

For two or three minutes we groped our way across the wire of the chevaux de frise. When we had passed it we came on an old network of rusted barbed wire all broken up by shell fire, and our feet and cloaks got entangled in it. We crawled on our hands and knees and each time that a star shell burst we threw ourselves flat, as before.

The critical moment had arrived. Stivalet hailed me in a low voice, “This is a rotten trip we are making.” He whispered in my ear, “It is too dark, we shall see nothing.” I said to him, “All right, you stay here, I am going farther on.”

I crawled on alone. I felt perturbed at being alone in the black night with all these rifle muzzles pointed at me. I was at the mercy of a flare. I went on as well as I could, without a sound, trying to blend with the ground. I went on for I don’t know how long or how far. Then I looked up and I saw the German entanglements close beside me. I distinctly heard talking going on; unfortunately I did not understand a word of it. There was no object in delaying further, my mission was over. I had seen their defences; they were only chevaux de frise, united by barbed wire. As I turned, two rockets went off and crossed. I thought that I was lost and I stayed still with my head on my arms and my face to the ground, biting the grass; but nothing happened; not a shot was fired.

I started off then to crawl with a speed which astonished myself, using my feet, shoulders and elbows to help me along. I arrived at the spot where I had left Stivalet, and in no time we had jumped back into our trench. My clothes were so caked with mud that they stuck to me like a jersey. I made a report to Maugenot, whom I found asleep. On the table of the dug-out was a note from the Major. The attack was to take place to-morrow. The day would be given over to a minute reconnaissance of the sector, and everything would be ready for the attack, to take place probably during the night of the 8th-9th.

8th May, 1915.—Unless counter-ordered the attack is to take place to-morrow at six in the morning, after four consecutive hours of shell fire. There are a thousand guns behind us, one for every fifty mètres of terrain to be battered.

Nothing happened during the morning. New bombs were given out, and each man was to have at least one. From two in the afternoon the artillery corrected its shooting, which is equivalent in ordinary times to a very violent bombardment.

From my parapet I followed the phases of this correction. The redan on the Lens road blew up at two o’clock; the defences before my trench were knocked to bits. At this moment, 6.40, the artillery fired a little short. The men in the trench could not get on with their dinners; they were covered with earth and little bits of steel, and the water fatigue had some splinters sent among them—two men of the 5th were wounded.

I have got for my section 7 asphyxiating bombs, 9 Beszzi bombs, 48 hand grenades and 5 terrible chedite bombs, which I have primed myself, and of which I intend to carry two.

What a carnage is being prepared for to-morrow! I remembered the prophecy of Father Johannes, “Only the great princes and the great captains will be buried; there will be so many dead and wounded that the bodies will be burnt on pyres whose flames will mount to the skies.”

9th May, 1915, 4.30 a.m.—I am ordered to line up my men. A company of Engineers has joined us in order to excavate a communicating trench as soon as we have cleared out. Far away on the left—probably from the English lines—the guns are firing without interruption. It sounds like a hoarse roar.

5.15 and no order to attack has been received; it seems long in coming.

The guns were still thundering on the left, but ours were silent. I would give a lot to know!

Seven o’clock.—Orders have come; we are to attack at 10 o’clock precisely. There is to be no signal; all our watches have been synchronised. We are all to start together from our trenches at the same time. We shelled the enemy violently for an hour, but, as that was too little, we are going to shell them again from 9 to 10. The big winged bombs made a thunderous din; we could see them rise in the air like shuttlecocks and fall lightly to earth again. They looked as though they were going to rebound, but they burst at once, each like a miniature volcano in eruption.

For the second time I was astonished to find myself so calm. I could not realise that in so short a time (what are two hours?) there was going to be a wild rush, a hand-to-hand fight, hideous and disfigured corpses everywhere, and perhaps death for me. I had only the fixed idea that everything was going well. I was acutely conscious that I was responsible for the lives of fifty men.

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