Complete Text (Part 4)

tins. " I've got one, too,' said the lieutenant. 'I'll give it to you, as well as this bread that I've saved. There are twenty of you: you will divide each tin in four parts and eat it, with a little piece of bread for each. It isn't much, but it will sustain you a while longer.* "While the men were doing as he said and making the division, the lieutenant went off a little way and sat down by himself. He even put his head in his hands, and I real- ised that it was so he shouldn't see us eat. He was pale as pale; I went and stood be- fore him and presented arms. " 'Well, what more do you want?' he asked impatiently. " 'Excuse me, lieutenant, but you counted up all wrong; we're not twenty.' " 'How do you mean — not twenty?' " 'No, lieutenant, we're twenty-one, and I'll not touch this portion unless you'll take half.' IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 53 "The officers have lots of feeling some- times; it's extraordinary. I saw large tears on my lieutenant's face, yet he wouldn't ac- cept it from me. That was a little too much for me, I can tell you. But when he saw that he was making me furious, and that in truth, as I had told him (for I am pig- headed) I would not eat anything, he changed his mind abruptly, and said to me: " 'Sit down there. Thanks. We'll eat together.' "Imagine if I was not proud to sit there at mess with my lieutenant !" COMRADES I STOP before Number 67, a vigorous co- lonial, who took part in an heroic charge. He received four balls in the legs and was left on the battlefield, when two Prussians came and robbed him, saying cynically: "We won't kill you if you'll let us take everything and not cry out." 54 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL Your money or your life — "highway rob- bers"— one title more to give those who al- ready are called assassins of priests and women and children, burners of churches. After these cowardly thieves had gone, the French soldier worked himself by his elbows as far as a rather isolated cabin, where he found five other comrades still more gravely wounded than himself. They lived there four days, weak from loss of blood, trem- bling with fever. Each evening, under cover of the darkness, the colonial left the house, crawling. He used to go and shake the ap- ple trees in the garden and bring back to his comrades any apples that he had succeeded in shaking down. They had only rain water to drink. Finally, when two of the wounded seemed like to die, the soldier I speak of took upon himself the task of going out in search of help. "I said to the others," he told me, " 'If no one comes, my friends, you'll know that I've got my reckoning.' Then I slipped out IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL $$ in the wood. I met two Prussian sentinels, and I stayed two hours stock still, waiting until they should be asleep or go away a lit- tle distance; then I went on again. I must have made six kilometres before I found a French soldier again, and how many times I felt as if I could not go another inch I My arms stuck in the mud, or caught themselves in the brambles. I'd hardly strength left to work them free. Oh, it's not so easy to manage without legs I And then I must say really, for four days, I'd had nothing but green apples and water in my stomach. But at last they succeeded in saving my com- rades; that was the main thing." He laughed several times quite carelessly in telling me this tragic story; but his face was serious and moved when he mentioned "the comrades." One cannot help seeing how much this word means to them. "I must say that we were happy every- where with the comrades," concluded Number lo in finishing the story of priva- 56 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL tions and hardship that he had endured. Another time I was passing some fruit to one of them, who reached out to take it eagerly — for they were not spoiled in the matter of desserts — then stopped himself suddenly : "It would be better if you passed it round first among the comrades, madame," he said. "There might be some of them sicker than I am. I'll take some if there's any left." A young soldier told me the story of the retreat, alas, from D : "We had to run steadily for four days and five nights, never stopping more than five minutes at a time. The Germans were so near us that we could not hear our commands for the whistling of their bullets, and our officers had to give their orders by motions. I was as well off as any one could be, for I can run fast. All of a sudden the man next me got wounded in the foot, and fell, crying out 'Help I' Of course I couldn't leave him there to be taken by the Boches. Two of us grabbed him IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 57 by the shoulders and dragged him along with us. But from that moment it was much more difficult for us to get ahead. To tell the truth, some spirit must have been watch- ing over us, or we never should have gotten out at all." Some spirit watching over them! Does not the victorious, invisible shadow of the warrior saint escort our armies^ "Sword in hand, eyes alight, France in their hearts" — always as it used to be. One needs no excuse to congratulate our soldiers on their devotion to their "chums." It's quite natural that they should help each other, isn't it — under the fire of the Ger- mans, as much as in their villages — more, much more than in the villages; — for under the fire of the Germans, the egotism of every day, the absorbing preoccupations and self- interests of daily life, disappear, and nothing is left to them but the noblest traits of the French character. That character is capable of running the supremest risks for the sake 58 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL of comradeship that may have seemed a lit- tle vulgar before, but which is now saintly and heroic. Perhaps the most elevated phase of this character, and at the same time the most pro- foundly human one, shows in this other story by the same soldier: "One day the Boches were in flight," he said. "We were pursuing them with the bayonet in some woods. I had my eyes on one of them particularly. He was fat and heavy and was getting tangled up all the time, while as for me, I jumped easily over obstacles. (Do you see this image of the two races'?) I caught him up at last, and with one lunge buried my bayonet in his back. It pierced him clear through. Oh, I felt badly: it was the first — the first man ever, I hope you believe me, that I had killed with my own hand. I was looking round for a second when I heard something stirring in a thicket. I threw myself at it, my bayo- net fixed; but a dying, wailing voice cried at IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 59 me: 'Comrade! Comrade of France I' Now this is a word, as we know perfectly well, that is often used as a trick; but what can you do? When they call you comrade like that, it's impossible, you can't make up your mind to kill them. This time I did right. It was really a dying man, dying in agony even, I'm quite sure. He held out his hands to me and they were already cold. I shook them and called him too, 'Comrade.' Then I yelled to a quarter-master sergeant to give him a drink. Myself I preferred to go on and not wait. France comes first — doesn't it?" What moves you most when you hear such stories, what forces the tears into your eyes, is the touching lack of self-conscious- ness in these lads. They were so far from thoughts of war three months ago, yet now to-day they speak quite naturally the lan- guage of epic poetry. France is forever the land of miracles. . . . 6o IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL ENGAGED I KNOW now whence comes that expres- sion of secret joy, that reflection of inner light that glows on the face of Number 17, even when his suffering is the most cruel. I ought not perhaps to say it, for it's a sweet secret that has been confided to me, but Num- ber 17's engaged. Oh, how this Marie of his, this rustic inhabitant of our mountains, is beloved I I think few women can ever have received letters more touching, or more filled with deep and delicate tenderness than hers. These letters indeed are Pierre's main occu- pation now. He takes advantage of his pos- tal frank and writes two of them each day. He really has to make up for lost time, hasn't he"? The soldiers knew how to deny them- selves the thoughts — such tender thoughts — of their Maries during their hard cam- paigning, and this fiance, too, though his heart was full of love, became in duty bound IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 6l a terrible warrior, a dealer of death. But, at present, on his hospital bed, where there is nothing to do but suffer, let the dear thought of her, full as it is of sweetness and promise, come back to him. Let it come back! Every thought is for her, and he in- deed is veritably hers. For him Marie's shadow is always there; she is part of the least scene, the greyest hours of this hos- pital life. He declared to me — in a low voice, as always when he speaks of her — that he never gets tired of her. "Even when I don't write to her I think of her." For he can't be distracted from her a single min- ute; in one way or another he must occupy himself with the thought of her always. Truly a rare sentiment blossoms in this hon- est and simple heart that has given itself so profoundly. Many fine ladies perhaps might envy Marie, and Marie, later, if she can understand, will thank the terrible war that has made her cry so hard. She will not marry a simple peasant now, but a hero, one 62 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL of those, to be sure, who were "French by first choice," to use the fine expression of Mr. Barres. Despite the obscure way of life to which this young man will go back, it will always be true that his actions, at a given moment, might have inspired Virgil or Homer. In all ranks of society the sad betrothed women of to-day will be very proud on the day the soldiers shall come home. I know some of them already who, though living yet in this uncertain, menac- ing hour of peril, bring a valiant coquetry into play. It's very touching to see the youth of France, at an age when happiness is their right, rise so easily to such heights of sacrifice. But patience! They will be paid back too in happiness. The day of home-coming will strike deep into their in- most hearts. Separated by death's danger, their beings will stir anew for one an- other with never-to-be-forgotten sentiments. Their affections, steeped in this fortifying bath of heroism and renunciation, will IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 63 spring up again enriched with devotion and deeper tenderness. Number 17 feels this, when he writes to his dear Marie: "You see, Marie, I loved you a great deal; but I think that I should not have known, except for the war, how to love you the way I do now." There is never a questionable ex- pression or gross allusion in these soldier's letters written by a farmer's son. Each one repeats the same rather naive expressions of tenderness. He puts them in every time without ever varying them. It is true in this way monotony becomes a quality. You feel the extreme pleasure that Pierre under- goes in writing his sweetheart's name as often as possible: "My dear love, I re- ceived your letter yesterday with such great pleasure. I believed you had forgotten me. And then I said to myself. Or she is sick, or she has had too much to do for the wounded. Dear Marie, you tell me you'd like to be near me so as to take care of me. Oh, how glad I should be if you could come; 64 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL if I could see you there near my bed, like the Sister. And we'd talk of the old times." (He is twenty-three and she twenty-one: it's true they've been engaged five years.) "Thank you for the photograph; your sister is carrying out her promise very well. You'd think it was one of the pictures you see in the illustrated magazines. You must ex- cuse me, please, if my letters are badly writ- ten— in bed, you know, it isn't so easy to write. You, oh, indeed, you write very well! It's a pleasure to read your letters. Follow your own ideas about the muffler; what you like will always please me. Marie, I long to hear more news still from you. It seems to me I can read your next letter already. Make it a very long one, so I have to take two hours to read it. And that piece of a rose from your house that you sent me! Marie! "My dear beloved one, I should like to write you long, interesting letters, the way IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 65 you write me, but I see nothing here in bed. My foot continues to enjoy good health, better and better all the time. You think I suffered, but that's nothing, as long as I can walk, and haven't got to tell you, 'Marie, I'm infirm; I can't support a wife; we can't think of getting married any more.' Oh, if I'd had to talk to you like that — think a bit, Marie! I can assure you that I never cried down there, but that I've cried more than once in my bed thinking of that. However, I'd have said it to you just the same, for I should not have wanted you to live in pov- erty on my account. "When I received your letter yesterday at four o'clock. Sister Gabrielle was near my bed, and so I showed it to her, and she said to me, 'You must be very happy; she's writ- ten you a long one.' I answered her: 'She always writes me like that !' She told me to send you her kind regards, and to say that you are very good. You write me that you 66 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL are well again; I hope it's really true. Take care now. It's very cold. Above all things, you mustn't be sick. "You ask me how many there are in my room? Sixty-five and the oldest of them is twenty-nine. Don't distress yourself. I'll get well, and in a little while we shall be together again. What a happy day that will be for us, Marie! I can't believe it. At night, when I can't sleep, I say to myself quite low: " 'I shall see her soon, I shall see her soon !' And sometimes I am sorry to see the daylight come, because then it isn't so quiet, and I am less at peace to think of you. When we two are alone I'll tell you what I suffered, and you'll tell me it's impossible. Never- theless it's true; but it isn't worth while talking about it yet. You ask if I had for- gotten you; you know well I hadn't, only duty must be done. Even if I wanted to forget you, Marie, my heart couldn't do it, because I love you. IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL 67 "You tell me it gives you pleasure to write me long letters, to keep me happy; and I, oh, I'm so happy when I read them. I see you always have things to tell me. That shows me that you think with me^ and I can say, too, that I always think with you. You tell me that you dreamed about me. I, — well, five nights ago I dreamed about you, and I didn't dare write you about it. I see that you tell me and so I'll tell you, too. Marie, you know what dreams mean? Do you want me to tell you"? Each day I read your letters two and three times; that way I know them almost by heart, for the night, when there isn't enough light to read by. Soon there will come the happiness of seeing each other again, dear well-beloved. Still another time, I love you, Marie.'* SEEN AT THE RAILWAY STATION During the mobilisation the railway sta- tion at X was the scene of many laud- 68 IN A FRENCH HOSPITAL able and quite special instances of devotion. People sat up there day and night to wait for the trains of soldiers and revictual them. Orders came in every minute, by telephone, by telegraph, brief orders such as these: "Coffee for five hundred soldiers in two hours; sixty dinners for this evening; new dressings for a sanitary train," etc., etc. A society woman, serving as improvised cook and hospital nurse, executed most of these curt and various directions, and never even