Comrades in courage

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COMRADES IN COURAG

Class BooL

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II "I'd like to see you make me shut up!"

He is a queer figure of a man. His face is thin and already shows the traces of age. His figure is frail and bowed, his manner abject but cunning, and he talks in a pretentious tone with many gestures :

"A man ought to have rights, even here."

"You have the right to kill a Boche, old grandmother!"

*'Be silent; you struck him. Let him speak."

"My Captain," begins the other, "if you let these young fellows act like this, it means a revolution in the trenches. At least, I can understand that we ought not to quarrel because, after all, we are here only to share the same miserable fate."

"We are here for France," the adjudant cries at him, rolling his eyes in a terrible manner.

"Come," says the Captain, wishing to close the incidfent, "shake hands and go back to your places."

As the men go out I turn curiously toward the adjudant who will not permit anybody to say that his lot here is a miserable one.

"You have been hard on the old man."

"It is his own fault if I have. I know

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these lawyers, they are always thinking of their rights, never of their duties."

He goes on with his theme, enlarging the scope of his discussion. He paints for us in bold but truthful colours a picture of average French society in the villages and countryside before the war. Although, in peace time, a man of humble situation, a modest shopkeeper on the public square of a small county-seat, his observation and judgment are excellent. His type demonstrates how well true wisdom will always be preserved among the common people. After escaping the snares of life, morality to them is represented by what they remember of their early religious instruction.

He goes on to tell how these heroes, who to-day are ready to die with a firm heart, faced duty as civilians in time of peace. His exact words are not necessary; his meaning will suffice.

First he tells us the programme for an honest man of the working class in the cities : Know your craft well enough to do it with pleasure; have simple tastes that you may be able to satisfy them fully; raise good children in the affection of whom you may find a refuge in the great hours of life.

Our citizens, however, have substituted what they consider a better programme: Work as little as possible because it is fatiguing; on the other hand, demand as high wages as possible because it is good to feel the coins jingling in one's pocket. Spend your money upon yourself alone and, for that reason, have no children. Insist upon your right to live your own life, to seek pleasure always, to loaf and to spoil everything, including your work, yourself, your family, and your country. As for duty, don't consider it !

Second, the country people: they are still economical and hard working like their fathers, but with a greed which in them takes the place of every virtue. Unlike true sons of the soil they are incapable of working for the sake of posterity and, for example, never plant trees because the profit to be derived from them is too distant. On the contrary, they cut down those planted by their ancestors in order that their children may have money to spend in the city. They have neither religious faith nor respect for womanhood. They never sit down for a moment of quiet rest at home. They are simply beasts of burden, and if you talk

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of duty, these born slaves who voluntarily accept the vilest servitude, will laugh sarcastically and tell you that they are free men and do not want to be bound by moral laws.

Of the upper classes, represented to him by his officers, our critic says nothing, but it is easy for me to continue his thought. Aristocrats, bourgeois, people of position, all those that we arbitrarily call the governing class, what is their real value? The majority of the men are pleasure-seekers, elbowing themselves forward in search of some slight advantage, and the women merely dolls. The former gain wealth, it does not matter how, and their companions dissipate it in thin air. When it becomes a question of public good, toward which they should have the most sacred ideas of duty since it concerns everybody, one finds these people either utterly indifferent or calculating. It is proverbial that the masses never elevate the wisest to power. With us at times it seems as if they actually chose the least worthy in order to prevent domination. To be sure one gets a servant of the people in this fashion, but it is our country that pays.

IS

Come, join me in the trenches and then look at these workmen, these country

?eopIe, these middle- and upper-class men. 'here they stand in front of us, gun in hand, half buried in the mud. This time they are doing their duty, and all of them at the same time. What are they thinking about? The war has changed them profoundly. It has made good soldiers of them as well as good men. Will the miracle last forever?

The adjudant says yes. I do not agree. I do not think that we shall necessarily be better when we return to our homes, but I think we shall be in a condition to become better, that is the important thing. Force has restored to us the right notion of duty. It has not yet definitely established us in the habit of well doing, but it will make us apt to follow if we are shown new ways. The eternal truths will be explained by new masters. Prophets will raise themselves against the preachers of revolution and the doctrines of the sovereign rights of the individual, and this time their voices will be heard. These intellectual leaders of a wiser France exist at present, but they are almost alone in the desert. The war will

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have increased the courage and power of those who survive. My vision pierces the walls of this trench shelter in which I sit, and I perceive in the distance the era that is coming, when they will find willing listeners, not only among the intellectual elite — a majority of whom has already been with them for a long time — but even in the hearts of our most distant villagers.

It is the same with people as with children. It does not suffice to show them the right path, it is necessary actually to lead them by the hand. Precepts without the proof of experience are vain. After the harsh trials of this war the lessons of the wise will be understood. We shall have weighed in particular the worth of two words, until now very unjustly valued. Formerly we wrote the word "Duty'' with a capital, but contented ourselves with its abstract contemplation. On the other hand, we claimed an enormous number of rights. The war has taught us to reverse these words. I recognize in "Right" our safeguard against all, but I see before me each day — each hour — an enormous number of duties.

Right and duty, if we are able to neglect reality itself — that is to say human frailties and weaknesses — ^would be deserving of equal honour, for they correspond and link together naturally. But in fact the word "right'' is a dangerous word, full of temptation and injustice when put in the mouths of the masses. Here among us it has been put to flight by the whistle of the shells.

Indeed there is no doctrine of social revolution,no fomenter of disorder and trouble, which does not find contradiction each day in our trenches. For example : equality, that renowned right of each to be equal to everyone else, the attainment of which is often accomplished only by envy, hatred, and destruction of everything. Here in the field, concerning equality we only know our common wretchedness in meeting death, which unceasingly strikes without regard to rank or worth. If you are jealous of your fellowmen, if you desire to be treated equally with them, come up here to this "fire-trench'' where injustice is unknown, where no one is too proud to seek protection when he hears the whistle of an approaching shell, where the most that anyone can offer is a few inches of mortal flesh to the German

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lead. Equality under fire? Surely; but for the rest, each man has a different rank, according to his merit. It is necessary to send out a party for patrol to-night. Who will volunteer? Ten men step forward. From that moment these men are the acknowledged superiors of the others in the ranks. Inequality, Respect; two new ideas to our people, but we will accustom ourselves to them.

In civil life one may obtain almost every privilege by the power of money. Here at the front money is of no value. The prestige of glory has replaced that of gold. Admiration of others, which elevates the soul, has been substituted for envy which degrades it. The divine joys and honours to be gained from the war are proportionate to the degree of individual valour, intelligence, physical strength, devotion, and heroism. According to your merit you will win these rewards amidst the ungrudging applause of your comrades. The same men who, in the democracy of peace, were at one another's throats, here become comrades in the fray. Loyalty, good humour, and confidence have been reestablished by the brotherhood of arms. Laughter, that splendid sign of physical and moral health, reigns supreme amidst all the degrees of the regimental hierarchy. Hatred subsides, and even religion receives the homage that is its due.

It IS as if a magic wand had been used to set everything right. Formerly we were surfeited with sensations, and our chief forces were expended in the pursuit of pleasure. Now the best part of our time is spent in digging ditches, no matter whether it rain or shine, and the sole privilege accorded us is that we may choose either a pick which loosens the earth, or a shovel which throws it aside. Previously we needed a thousand comforts, yet now, for so many months that we can hardly remember the number, we have slept with the mice, either upon bare ground or straw. Best of all, we do it with a song upon our lips, and when the hour comes for repose we enjoy triumphant slumbers.

In reviving national hatred, the enemyhas united both our living and our dead. Tradition, which formerly was ridiculed, has taken for us a new grandeur and beauty. Republican ministers, who formerly remembered the history of France no further

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back than 1793, since the war, have repeatedly and solemnly inspired their listeners by calling upon such monarchical names as Saint-Louis, Du Guesclin, and Jeanne d'Arc. We used to mock at authority, order and discipline, but since the outbreak of the war we have seen that Germany, with the aid of these same instruments, almost succeeded in defeating us. Now we have the satisfaction that comes from doing our duty. The duty is an evident one and we enjoy the sensation of seeing our way clearly. In fulfilling our glorious mission we find such joys that we wish to publish them to the winds.

What shall we say when we return to our homes after the war? Some will be disagreeable boasters. Others will be more modest, but nevertheless will desire that the trials they have borne so valiantly be appreciated at their true value and that no one dispute the character and the beauty of their sacrifice. Inculcated with the supreme value of devotion to their country, they will insist that those about them profess the same cult. They will demand praise, not for themselves, but for the virtues they have practised, and this will make two or three million instructors in duty in our towns and villages.

So all of us who daily look upon the face of Death and school ourselves to regard its redoubtable figure unwinkingly; all of us who survive, will return from the field of honour with the habitude and pride of service.

Assuredly duties will not be so simple in time of peace as in time of war. We shall often find them even more difficult on account of their obscurity. We shall be assisted at that time by the wonderful recollections of our days of glory. One does not always adopt heroism with good grace, for it implies not only a passive readiness to accept death, to remain day and night for hionths under its constant menace, but also the active seeking of it in moments of dreadful violence, approaching it with a song on the lips, and hailing its coming with exaltation — not for the sake of glory but because it is what one ought to do. After all, it does not matter how much of resignation enters into the spirit of willingness in which one makes the sacrifice.

I remember in the month of September, shortly after the Battle of the Marne, a

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general came to inspect the regimental aepot of the territorial army in the region where I was stationed. His mission was particularly to examine the officers and to obtain an estimate of their spirit. He had left the battlefield where he had just received his promotion to his present rank only a few hours earlier. The fumes of powder still lingered about him. He walked down the line of non-commissioned officers on parade in the courtyard and to each put this question:

"Do you request to be sent to the front?"

" I am ready to go when my turn comes, sir," these warriors invariably replied.

"Bah!" said the great chief, "you speak like cowards."

This remark roused great feeling among those poor devils. They had not comprehended the correct sense of duty in the opportunity that was offered them of contributing in a more active manner to the national safety. The right to await their turn, that was their idea. Little by little these same men have left their "depot," are serving to-day in the trenches, and conducting themselves well. Many times they have gaily endured nameless suffering.

They go where they are told, and reflect no farther. It is not absolutely necessary that the law be understood so long as it is recognized and obeyed. They are the mass and follow their leaders.

Among these leaders I find two types: First, the fiery soldier who is actuated by his love for France. He has an understanding of the different degrees of obligation and, no matter how tenderly he cherishes his home, his country comes first. A certain group of characteristics is common to each member of this class. A man of this type always serves the public interest before his own, even when, unlike the present time, the duty is not such an important one. With such a mentality, a man is always a fervent student of history and politics. He knows the past of his country and reveres all its glories. He seriously considers its present destiny and the men who are its guardians. When war comes it is a personal affair. I love this type, which is common enough, and it is toward it that by nature I most readily incline. I do not feel that I deserve great merit in doing my duty as a soldier, but if it were not for that wonderful vision of France which sustains and ani-

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mates me, I think I should be greatly deserving of it. When I hear people say that our frontier will be extended to the Rhine, I am filled with a profound joy as if those lost provinces were to be returned to me in person. Inspired by such thoughts it is not difficult to give my soul to my country, and when it shall be necessary I will also give my body.

I do not know whether the second type is more rare; at any rate, I find it infinitely attractive. Among my companions there is one who personifies it in a charming manner. You may see him sauntering along the trench in his heavy boots, a tall youth with his coat hanging open and an old military cap perched upon a thick shock of flaxen hair. With his abrupt gestures and boisterous manner you would think him too bad a character ever to have become even a corporal. He meets some of the men; I can't hear what he says to them, but they leave him with a hearty burst of laughter. One of them shouts :

"My Lieutenant, you always make us laugh."

Yes, he is a lieutenant, this soldier so young, so thin, so merry. He has even commanded his company since that sad day in September, 1914, when his captain was killed. His face is pleasingly frank and with a nose as big as was that of Henry IV, and there is a fine down straggling upon his lip. He blushes like a girl, in spite of a fiery voice. His angers are short-lived; he gesticulates, and his laugh is neverceasing. He is attending to his country's business here with all his heart, but his eyes are not dazzled like mine by the captivating image of France. He sees another more austere to whose cult he devotes his fervour; that of duty. When he left his mother in tears he did not argue about the origin and the consequences of the war, nor was he consoled by the thought of a triumphant revenge; an honest man in all the acts of his life, he was that day honest as usual. The law commanded him to be a soldier; he obeyed and went. The sacrifice was hard, consequently of rare value. Shame to the coward who would attempt to depreciate it.

The men who have come among us, more or less willingly, in the end become accustomed to think like their chiefs. According to his character, each man chooses one or

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the other type as his model. They are benefited, so are we, and all is well.

Before the month of August 19 14 I often asked myself whether we should ever experience these noble joys which are so necessary to stimulate mankind. The war has brought them all to us.

Behold ! I am able to return to the banalities of the present which, as I began this train of thought, made me feel that I was witness to a sacrilege. I can remain care-free even while watching the enemy. I am improving without knowing it and the brave men around me are doing the same. However, should Glory, of whom I ask nothing personally, come some evening of battle to crown one of us with her light, I shall bless the beautiful visitor and ask her to pardon me because to-night in my trench I have preferred, to her radiant face, one graver and less accustomed to the smiles of men : that of duty.

II

Hhe Excavators

COME, Monsieur le territorial^ we must hurry!"

It is night, the rain is falling. The commandant brandishes his stick and with it taps the shoulder of a large man who hesitates in front of a ditch. At this stimulus the soldier jumps across and tumbles on the other side, face forward in the mud. Awkwardly he picks up his shovel, his woollen muffler, and his blanket. He struggles to his feet, takes a step, and is at once lost to sight in the darkness. Another follows and takes the same formidable jump.

For ^ long time I have been watching them from the bottom of the hoyau which they are crossing. They are a company of territorials from the south of France, the ''Midi!' To-night they are to make a new system of fortifications in front of our trenches. Already the patrols are out in front, well forward, to protect the working party. A section of engineers has come to trace out and execute the more technical part, the actual excavation will be done by these old men who are slowly and awkwardly trying to jump the ditch under the watchful eye of the commandant.

Commandant V is a gallant gentleman and I have no fear that his cane did more than caress the shoulder of that citizen from Beziers. But it is not a moment for gentleness. It is all in the day's work, and the Germans are only a few yards away. It is annoying to have these old men make so much trouble about such a trifle as jumping from one bank of earth to another! But the poor fellows can do no better.

Theirs is a hard duty. What can they do in this young men's war.? Renew their youth perhaps. I know some who, in spite of their forty years, have the hearts of adolescents. But others come, dragging limbs which are heavy and numb, and with souls that are fast asleep. Before the war they were living among their vineyards in distant sunlit provinces. Here is one, for example,

COMRADES IN COURAGE who kept a shop and who was comfortably growing prosperous. Here is another who was a man of reputation in his village and who won renown by his skilful play at manille* Now they spend their nights in the mud and their hours of repose on the straw behind the lines. Their work, like that of criminals, commences only when the night has fallen and they never labour by light of day. No more golden wine in tinkling glasses; they now take their liquor at one gulp, shudder, and talk of something else. For tools they have their choice between shovel and pick. To be sure, each one has his gun, but for months it has been of use only as an extra burden upon his back.

To-night I cannot help pitying them a little. The rain is falling in torrents; one can hardly see two paces ahead. I have been able to see their attitudes — funny or pitiful — only because from below the muggy sky forms a background.

But the picture changes, the last territorial has crossed the opening, and I see above me two shadows of a different type. They are the officers wrapped in their

*Manille is a game played with cards. 30 waterproofs. I recognize the Commandant by his erect figure, his brusque utterance, and his precise gestures. He is speaking in a low tone, but his voice has lost none of its warmth:

*'Mon petity do your work quickly, but do it well ; and don't forget that I shall be interested in watching you."

I cannot recognize the other, but he seems very young. Suddenly a German star shell shoots up and bursts into light. Doubtless the men exposed in the open have thrown themselves flat on the ground for concealment, but these officers absorbed in their conversation remain standing. I distinguish the features of the second man. His face is thin and clean shaven. Glasses surmount a small, straight nose with smiling lips beneath. Frankness and intelligence are written on his forehead and energy at the point of his chin.

At the sight of this graceful figure I forget for an instant the war and its miseries. I can picture this youth at the annual ball of the Polytechnique^ extending the courtesies of the school to some pretty Parisienne in exactly the same graceful manner as that with which he now converses with his chief. As an officer of engineers it is his duty to go out in the open in front of our lines and at the risk of his life, to supervise this work. He is bearing two grave responsibilities which disquiet him much more than the thought of his personal danger: first, the execution of his task and, secondly, the safeguarding of the lives of all those older men.

In speaking of this young officer of whose fate I am ignorant I would like to mention the admiration that we soldiers of the infantry feel for our comrades of the engineers. They form a magnificent branch of the army service; their work is always for others and is accomplished often at the cost of suffering and terrific loss without the redeeming feature of the ability to fight back. They die while bridging a stream that the infantry may push forward in the direction of glory. We boast of being at the front, but they carry the war even in advance of the front. It is useless to classify merit for every man here is doing his best, but these engineer-soldiers are wonderful examples of fearlessness. Their entire army of carpenters, locksmiths, mechanicians, and wheelwrights exercises its various crafts

3^ under fire with admirable deliberation. I would also like that a part of the nation's gratitude should go to those good territorials who, although the post was not one of their seeking, have certainly become the faithful auxiliaries of the engineers.

Trench warfare has condemned us all to the work of digging. We are the foremen of labour gangs and our soldiers merely labourers. Still, we of the active branches of the service have the joy of guarding our pits as soldiers, once these pits are completed. On the other hand, the territorials dig trenches and go away. In the early days of the war entire regiments of the territorial army were employed in the burial of the dead — men and horses. Now they dig ditches for the living. Is it any more pleasant?

To-night they are really having their troubles. It is humiliating to be required to run and jump, fall quickly on one's stomach, and get up without showing one's stiffness when a man is beginning to feel his advancing years. To dig a ditch is one thing, but to get out of it with agility is another. The eyes of these men are no longer like those of boys of twenty, nor are their hearts like those of the youngsters of the class of "15" who despise death. On such an inky night as this they are uneasy. Where are the Boches ? Are they not Hkely to shoot from such close range? The more youthful soldiers who are doing guard duty guess at their anxieties and have a little sport at their expense:

"'You know, old man, this is a pretty dangerous spot!"

"Are they near?"

"Who?"

"The Boches."

"Don't worry about the Boches, they are at least thirty metres from here."

"Thirty metres! Impossible!"

The old man is horrified, but all the same a secret pride takes possession of him. When he goes back home he will be able to say that he has worked within thirty metres of the Germans. Half trembling and half content, he resumes his digging and wallowing in the mud.

As for my men and me, we certainly did not come to fight with shovels, but we have gaily accepted our unexpected destiny. We are in love with duty; we welcome it, no matter what form it takes.

One is surprised, however, to find how much joy one gets in digging a really good trench. I will tell you about one, a masterpiece, of which we were truly proud. I will try to be modest but without promising to succeed.

We were ordered to trace in front of the trench which my section occupied, a gallery one hundred and fifty metres in length, extending from our line straight toward the Boches. What is it for? That was a mystery. Two days later we were to learn that it was the route for an attack. That evening my mind was obsessed with one idea : to advance a trench one hundred and fifty metres in a perfectly straight line. The words "perfectly straight'' amazed me. I ran to the telephone:

"Hello! Commandant, must the line be perfectly straight?"

"Yes, absolutely. Hurry, for you must finish in two nights."

We had, at this point, a completed section of trench forty metres long leading forward to a listening post. After a consultation with my officers we decided to utilize this and extend it one hundred and ten metres farther. We climbed out of the trench and started off toward the German line, counting the paces. We experienced an emotion different from those we usually feel when out on skirmishing or patrol duty. At such a time a man is waging war, he can use prudence or aggression, can reconnoitre and retreat. This night we were going out into the unknown much as Christopher Columbus went toward America. Only a few days earlier our trenches had been pushed forward and we did not as yet have definite information as to the distance separating us from the enemy. We had the feeling that we might, at any moment, run into his barbed-wire entanglements.

As we advanced, I posted my two companions at different points to make my return easier, and I counted off the last forty paces alone. I had a curious feeling. There was absolutely no noise, and the darkness was so complete that I could not even tell where to place my feet. Suppose the Germans had heard us and prepared an ambuscade! I might run against them or actually tread upon their bodies! When at last I had measured what seemed to me to be the hundred and ten paces, I added two more, either for the sake of my conscience or purely in bravado — I do not know which — and stuck my cane into the ground.

From that moment this was conquered ground. To win it, it had been necessary to master an emotion. All of us would now be able to walk along this line without a thought of danger. That danger still existed, still was great, but no longer would we be conscious of it.