A Blue Devil of France: Epic figures and stories of the Great War, 1914-1918. Gustav P. Capart
in the courtyard of a house, scooping out a funnel-shaped crater thirty feet in diameter. A Marine discovered the base of the projectile: a 420![3]
A comrade who helped him carry it said:
"They are foolish if they think they can kill our admiral with a 420, and also be sure that St. Anne of Brittany will curse their German God!"
A TELEGRAM FROM ATTILA, NIEUPORT-BATHS.
March, 1915.
Returning from the Great Dune after several days, Captain Perroud and myself stop before the old Nieuport-Baths' station. It is in a pretty state. We enter the ruins and have penetrated as far as the office of the Passenger Agent, all in a tumult, papers scattered everywhere——
Sealed telegrams are seen on the floor, and, it is strange, they have not excited the curiosity of the plunderers, for these latter would have found some fastidious reading. I confess, what concerned me was the desire to open some of them to see what persons could have said at the moment of evacuating Nieuport-Baths.
The first was addressed to an English woman, "Mrs. Smith, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It said: "Things are beginning to get worse where you are. Nevertheless, do whatever you think best. Smith."
I opened the second telegram:
"Mademoiselle Y——, Regina Hotel, Nieuport-Baths." It was dated Ostend, October, 1914, and read: "Here there is absolute safety. Come at once. Many kisses! Attila."
Among all this tragedy and desolation here, above all, was the final comedy. I folded the telegram and placed it in my pocket.
Some weeks later I was dining in Paris at the home of Madame L——, wife of a professor in the Conservatoire; I had as my dinner partner the great artiste, Suzanne Desprès.
Target practice at Sardine Cans, before St. Georges.
After having told a thousand details of our life in the trenches, some frightful enough, others sad, the moment had arrived to inject a note of gaiety into the sombre tableau which I had sketched for them—I drew forth Attila's telegram.
A cry escaped my partner. "Mlle. Y——, she was one of my company in the Théâtre de l'Œuvre!"
"And Attila?"
"He is the Director of the Théâtre des Galeries St. Hubert, in Brussels and well known in Paris!"
Attila's telegram has been safely delivered to Mlle. Y——, who, this time, will not complain of the remissness of the telegraph company, but perhaps, of her own indiscretion.
TARGET PRACTICE AT SARDINE CANS, BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
March, 1915.
The Marines have found a way to divert German rifle fire from our loopholes in the trenches.
They have tied a number of empty sardine cans on the ends of sticks and fixed the latter firmly in the parapet, at which the boches shoot continually.
Since then "Fritz" spends his spare time in trying to knock them down; our losses have perceptibly diminished.
MASKED BALL, NIEUPORT-BATHS.
March, 1915.
Less than a mile from the enemy——
Rifle balls whistle to-night through the streets oftener than usual; there is a certain amount of nervousness in the sector.
But these wandering bullets will not thwart the soirée we have planned with some officers of the First Zouaves: a masked ball in the Casino!
We found plenty of odd and strange bits of apparel among the ruined villas; and our masked ball took on an odd appearance with the extraordinary costumes. The toubib[4] clipped his flowing mustaches and wore a lady's gown—he was good to look at! Young and fair, as he is, one had to regard him closely not to be deceived. Major Peigné was naturally taken for a "chicken" and there was much rivalry for a few moments, I swear it!
Degove with his old straw hat and battered valise was a scream, while Ricard, in his uniform of a Belgian officer of the First Empire, was absolutely funny——
The strident singing of bullets kept on——
We had a great time that night!
THE BEAUTIFUL PARISIAN PRINCESS,
THE GREAT DUNE.
March, 1915.
We are going to install an electrical machine on the right bank of the river Yser. My men are bringing the heavy box in which it was transported. With its timbers protruding from each end, which makes the carrying less difficult, the gray covering looks more like a sedan chair.
And I think of a pretty princess taking her daily promenade along the edge of the water, which is unusually beautiful——
The weather, alas, is very bad, and the men are tired. The first rays of the spring sun have not come to warm the earth. In fact my poilus have more the air of carrying a funeral urn.
"Hey," I shouted, addressing them, "what would you say if you had a beautiful Parisian Princess in that box?"
"What would I say," returned an old corporal, "what would I say? I would say nothing, but I would put her in my bunk to warm my feet, and you fellows could battle among yourselves!"
LA CORVÉE, THE GREAT DUNE.
April, 1915.
The rumble of the surf and the noise of the big guns do not sound well together.
This trench is bad to-night—the shifting sand obstructs my progress.
It is the time when the tide ceases to rise and the Territorials begin their work.
The trench is empty. No, there is someone sitting on the sand. At his side is a frame shelter made of ammunition boxes. He is alone. I imagined the boy had lost his way.
"Where have you been?"
"I dunno."
"Where are you going?"
"Over there."
"Who are you with?"
"With the others."
Not another word.
"Who are you?"
"I'm the whole damned army!"[5]
A STRAYED LETTER, THE GREAT DUNE.
April, 1915.
I came accidentally in the trench, among a lot of leaves, upon a letter from a girl. It was almost covered by the sand.
"It is very lonesome, here, without you," it ran, "I think of you night and day, on the farm, in the fields, always. How wonderful it would be to clasp you in my arms, very, very tightly. I hope a baby will come. If it is a boy we will make him a strong poilu like yourself—if it is a girl we will call her VICTORY—and you see how beautiful the little one—our little one—will be. I will work a bit harder to bring her up well——"
A PERPLEXED CHAPLAIN, THE GREAT DUNE.
April, 1915.
A group of Zouaves have thrown themselves upon the sand. They are discussing animatedly German atrocities and cruelties in the invaded region.
The soldier-chaplain, seated by their side, says nothing, but contents himself with gazing steadily into the sand at their feet.
"Those cutthroats over