A Blue Devil of France: Epic figures and stories of the Great War, 1914-1918. Gustav P. Capart
the priests?"
"No, you idiot, why bring them into it——"
"—they have burned villages, massacred, killed old men, pillaged, robbed——"
"We will repay them—an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth."
"Yes. When we get into their country, we will organize bands. We will have violaters, pillagers—incendiaries——"
"In what category do you want to be, Father?"
A CORPSE BETWEEN THE LINES, THE GREAT DUNE.
May, 1915.
While returning from a night reconnaissance between the lines one of our Zouaves had been killed; his body lay for several days in the sand about forty feet from our first line.
His corporal, a very brave Alsatian, could not look over the parapet without noticing his comrade's body did not shrink fast enough. Morning and night he was seen very pensive, talking to himself, irritable with the men——
Then one day when it was quiet, at full noon, he was seen to leave the trench, a shovel in one hand and a wooden cross in the other. Everyone, breathless, saw him advance slowly, calmly——
At first the Germans fired at him several times, missing him, notwithstanding the fact they were only about ninety feet away. Then they ceased firing to see, no doubt, what this fool was going to do!
He stopped close to the Zouave's body placed his cross on the sand and staidly began to dig a grave——
When he judged it to be deep enough he put the rigid body of his comrade in and began covering him with great shovelfuls of sand. Then he smoothed the tomb, planted the cross and adjusted the red badge of death——[6]
In an impressive moment of silence—for both sides looked on without losing a single movement—they saw him advance to the head of the knoll, his face to the cross, click his heels and give the military salute——
He came back slowly to our lines and jumped briskly into the trench. Immediately he began to pace up and down before his squad back of the parapet, with fixed bayonet, facing the grave his hands had dug.
"Stand at ease!" said he, "listen carefully. My men who fall will not lack a burial nor will they lie in the open air like rotting dogs. Break!"
Fifteen days later a German bullet struck him in the head back of a loophole. He was killed instantly. His comrades interred him in the Zouave cemetery at Nieuport-Baths. They wrote his name on a piece of paper, which they rolled up and placed in a bottle——
THE DEATH OF THE TERRITORIAL, NIEUPORT.
May, 1915.
It has rained all day. Toward nightfall only did rain cease to fall. The sky is gray and heavy, but the air is fresh. The Marines in their dripping oilskins walk to and fro in the trench. The air is so clear that we can see, over there on the horizon, the silhouette of Bruges, with its old houses and high towers.
"It is sad to see you so mirage-like and far away, oh! Bruges the captive, brave city, in all your history you have thirsted for liberty——"
Two hours pass and it is time to rejoin my comrades at the cantonment. But I turn again and again to review the panorama before me.
I come at last to Nieuport. As I enter the principal street, I see going ahead a brave Territorial, who also returns to the cantonment unshaven and unkempt after his long vigil in the trenches. He is completely equipped with all his personal belongings, but is in no hurry. This brave man is leaving the front for good because he is the father of five children. He precedes me some thirty paces and I hasten to catch up with him.
We arrive at the top of the Casino, when, suddenly, a whistling announces the arrival of a shell—explosion, smoke—a jagged piece of metal strikes him in the head and I see the man fall in front of me.
The acrid smoke gags me, but I am quickly at his side. He is dead: fractured skull—his face purple—mouth open—his brains strewn on the pavement——
That night while I am at dinner with my comrades, an orderly comes to say that there is someone outside who wishes to speak with me. In the darkened passageway I scarcely recognize the chaplain of the 16th Territorials, a man very simple and good.
"Lieutenant, you know, without doubt, that we have had one of our men killed but a short while ago. We are going to bury him at sunrise. Unfortunately we have no one to play the organ—Figon is in the trenches—you will be very kind to play something for us."
"Good; you can count on me."
All night long the sight of distant Bruges and the death of the poor Territorial haunt me. I am seated before the piano in our "Villa" where we have installed our entire ménage.
I begin to improvise a melody, sweet and infinitely sad and the theme recurs again and again, developing into a funeral chant—yes, very soon I will play that for him——
Toward dawn a man comes to find me. It is very calm outside and the sector has a sleepy air.
I enter the church where can be seen large breaches in the walls and roof. A coffin hastily constructed, and covered with the Tricolor, red, white and blue, is in the choir, resting on two wooden supports. The organ is at its side, so close, so close, that I see the man's blood, which flows drop by drop, through the boards of the rudely built coffin—a brilliant red spot glistens on the white flagstone.
A few men of the 16th and some stretcher-bearers are kneeling in the nave; others arrive one by one, helmet in hand, without noise——
Scarcely had the service commenced and the priest begun his chant for the dead, than German and French shells screaming, pass over the church, as if they were searching for each other in the air. The shots progressed angrily, followed by their plaintive mewing.
At the offertory, I played the sad melody on the organ I had improvised during the night. I put all my heart and emotion into it. But soon everything seemed to grow dark within me—saw in the distance the towers of Bruges and, close, a coffin and a sheet of blood——
"Dies irae, Dies illa——"
ON PATROL BEFORE ST. GEORGES.
May, 1915.
Before starting out I have taken my automatic pistol out of its scabbard and slipped it in my pocket.
I must go to the other side of the canal to the farm of the "Dead Cow." An ensign from the cruiser X—— accompanies me with a dozen or so men.
Two of my sappers go along to aid the installation over there of an infernal machine. As German patrols reconnoiter the farm it will be a good turn at their game——
As darkness falls we tumble into a boat and cross the evacuation canal. All this is done with marked silence. We creep along revolver in hand. There is no one in the ruins of the farm. The patrol spreads itself around us, and during this interval, with my two poilus, I install the snare for the boches!
The work ended, we fall silently back.
Not a shot!
We have returned to our lines without an incident!
LADY DOROTHY, THE GREAT DUNE.
May, 1915.
We are at table. Major Peigné presides at breakfast of the officers of the 19th Company, 2nd Battalion. The subjects of conversation which recur each day in a sappers' kitchen have been exhausted: progress of work along the sector, effect of the last bombardment, news of the absent ones, criticism of work accomplished by the soldiers, next permissions;[7] then we take up the eternal question, the only one which counts, assuredly, woman.
There