The Broken Soldier and the Maid of France | Page 4

Pierre Duval, go on. That is what I am waiting to hear. Be
simple and very frank."
"Well, then, I am from the parish of Laucourt, in the pleasant country
of the Barrois not far from Bar-sur-Aube. My faith, but that is a pretty
land, full of orchards and berry-gardens! Our old farm there is one of
the prettiest and one of the best, though it is small. It was hard to leave
it when the call to the colors came, two years ago. But I was glad to go.
My heart was high and strong for France. I was in the Nth Infantry. We
were in the center division under General Foch at the battle of the
Marne. Fichtre! but that was fierce fighting! And what a general! He
did not know how to spell 'defeat.' He wrote it' victory.' Four times we
went across that cursed Marsh of Saint-Gond. The dried mud was
trampled full of dead bodies. The trickling streams of water ran red.
Four times we were thrown back by the Boches. You would have
thought that was enough. But the general did not think so. We went
over again on the fifth day, and that time we stayed. The Germans
could not stand against us. They broke and ran. The roads where we
chased them were full of empty wine-bottles. In one village we caught

three officers and a dozen men dead drunk. Bigre! what a fine joke!"
Pierre, leaning back upon his heels, was losing himself in his recital.
His face lighted up, his hands were waving. Father Courcy bent
forward with shining eyes.
"Continue," he cried. "This is a beautiful confession--no sin yet.
Continue, Pierre."
"Well, then, after that we were fighting here and there, on the Aisne, on
the Ailette, everywhere. Always the same story--Germans rolling down
on us in flood, green-gray waves. But the foam on them was fire and
steel. The shells of the barrage swept us like hailstones. We waited,
waited in our trenches, till the green-gray mob was near enough. Then
the word came. Sapristi! We let loose with mitrailleuse, rifle, field-gun,
everything that would throw death. It did not seem like fighting with
men. It was like trying to stop a monstrous thing, a huge, terrible mass
that was rushing on to overwhelm us. The waves tumbled and broke
before they reached us. Sometimes they fell flat. Sometimes they
turned and rushed the other way. It was wild, wild, like a change of the
wind and tide in a storm, everything torn and confused. Then perhaps
the word came to go over the top and at them. That was furious. That
was fighting with men, for sure--bayonet, revolver, rifle-butt, knife,
anything that would kill. Often I sickened at the blood and the horror of
it. But something inside of me shouted: 'Fight on! It is for France. It is
for "L'Alouette," thy farm; for thy wife, thy little ones. Wilt thou let
them be ruined by those beasts of Boches? What are they doing here on
French soil? Brigands, butchers, Apaches! Drive them out; and if they
will not go, kill them so they can do no more shameful deeds. Fight on!'
So I killed all I could."
The priest nodded his head grimly. "You were right, Pierre; your voice
spoke true. It was a dreadful duty that you were doing. The Gospel tells
us, if we are smitten on one cheek we must turn the other. But it does
not tell us to turn the cheek of a little child, of the woman we love, of
the country we belong to. No! that would be disgraceful, wicked,
un-Christian. It would be to betray the innocent! Continue, my son."

"Well, then," Pierre went on, his voice deepening and his face growing
more tense, "then we were sent to Verdun. That was the hottest place of
all. It was at the top of the big German drive. The whole sea rushed and
fell on us--big guns, little guns, poison-gas, hand-grenades, liquid fire,
bayonets, knives, and trench-clubs. Fort after fort went down. The
whole pack of hell was loose and raging. I thought of that crazy,
chinless Crown Prince sitting in his safe little cottage hidden in the
woods somewhere--they say he had flowers and vines planted around
it--drinking stolen champagne and sicking on his dogs of death. He was
in no danger. I cursed him in my heart, that blood-lord! The shells
rained on Verdun. The houses were riddled; the cathedral was pierced
in a dozen places; a hundred fires broke out. The old citadel held good.
The outer forts to the north and east were taken. Only the last ring was
left. We common soldiers did not know much about what was
happening. The big battle was beyond our