Part 30 (1/2)

Not a week pa.s.sed without some priest being cited in the Order of the Day.

”Corporal Delabre Alphonse (priest of the diocese of Puy) and Private Miolane Antoine (priest of the diocese of Clermont) belonging to the 292nd Regiment of Infantry, distinguished themselves throughout the battle by an untiring gallantry and devotion, going to collect the wounded in the line and afterwards spending their nights in a.s.sisting the wounded and dying.”

That is one notice out of hundreds which I had in official doc.u.ments.

”M. l'Abbe Martin,” says another, ”having been wounded in the hand by a bursting sh.e.l.l, remained at his post in the line of fire, prodigal in his help to the wounded and in his consolations to the dying.”

The Abbe Bertrand, vicar of St. Germain de Coulamer, was mobilized on the outbreak of war, and for his gallantry in the field promoted successively to the ranks of sergeant, sergeant-major, sub- lieutenant, and lieutenant. He fell on November 4 at the battle of Audrechy, leading his men to the a.s.sault. A few days before his death he wrote: ”I always look upon this war as an expiation, and I am proud to be a victim.” And again: ”Oh, how cold the rain is, and how severe the weather I For our faith in France I have offered G.o.d to let me be wet and soaked to the very bones.”

The story of the Abbe Armand, in the 14th battalion of the Cha.s.seurs Alpins, is that of a hero. A simple man, he used to open his heart to his rough comrades, and often in the trenches, under sh.e.l.l-fire, he would recite the Psalms in a clear voice so that they could hear him.

On November 17, to the south of Ypres, his company was selected to hold a dangerous position, swept by the heavy guns of the Germans and near the enemy's trenches. All day until the evening the priest and his comrades stayed there, raked by a hideous sh.e.l.l-fire. At last nearly all the men were killed, and on his side of the emplacement the Abbe Armand was left with two men alive. He signalled the fact to those below by raising three fingers, but shortly afterwards a bullet struck him so that he fell and another hit him in the stomach. It was impossible to send help to him at the time, and he died half an hour later on the tumulus surrounded by the dead bodies of his comrades.

They buried him up there, and that night his loss was mourned, not without tears, by many rough soldiers who had loved the man for his cheeriness, and honoured him for the simple faith, which seemed to put a glamour about the mud-stained uniform of a soldier of France.

There were scores of stories like that, and the army lists contained the names of hundreds of these priest-soldiers decorated with the Legion of Honour or mentioned in dispatches for gallant acts.

The character of these men was filled with the spirit of Christian faith, though the war in which they sacrificed their lives was an outrage against Christianity itself. The riddle of it all bewilders one's soul, and one can only go groping in the dark of despair, glad of the little light which comes to the trench of the battlefield, because men like these still promise something better than hatred and blood, and look beyond the gates of death, to peace.

10

Not all French soldiers are like these priests who were valiant with the spirit of Christian faith. Side by side with the priest was the apache, or the slum-dweller, or the peasant from the fields, who in conversation was habitually and unconsciously foul. Not even the mild protest of one of these priests could check the flow of richly imagined blasphemies which are learnt in the barracks during the three years'

service, and in the bistros of the back streets of France from Cherbourg to Ma.r.s.eilles. But, as a rule, the priest did not protest, except by the example of keeping his own tongue clean. ”What is the use?” said one of them. ”That kind of thing is second nature to the men and, after all, it is part of my sacrifice.”

Along the roads of France, swinging along to dig a new line of trenches, or on a march from a divisional headquarters to the front, the soldiers would begin one of their Rabelaisian songs which have no ending, but in verse after verse roam further into the purlieus of indecent mirth, so that, as one French officer told me, ”these ballads used to make the heather blush.” After the song would come the great game of French soldiers on the march. The humorist of the company would remark upon the fatigued appearance of a sous- officier near enough to hear.

”He is not in good form to-day, our little corporal. Perhaps it has something to do with his week-end in Paris!”

Another humorist would take up the cue.

”He has a great thirst, our corporal. His first bottle of wine just whets his whistle. At the sixth bottle he begins to think of drinking seriously!”

”He is a great amourist, too, they tell me, and very pa.s.sionate in his love-making!”

So the ball is started and goes rolling from one man to another in the ranks, growing in audacity and wallowing along filthy ways of thought, until the sous-officier, who had been grinning under his kepi, suddenly turns red with anger and growls out a protest.

”Taisez-vous, cochons. Foutez-moi la paix!”

All this obscenity of song and speech spoils the heroic picture a little, and yet does not mean very much in spite of its outrageous heights and depths. It belongs to the character of men who have faced all the facts of life with frank eyes, and find laughter in the grossest humours without losing altogether the finer sentiments of the heart and little delicacies of mind which seem untarnished by the rank weeds which grow in human nature. Laughter is one of the great needs of the French soldier. In war he must laugh or lose all courage. So if there is a clown in the company he may be as coa.r.s.e as one of Shakespeare's jesters as long as he be funny, and it is with the boldness of one of Shakespeare's heroes--like Bened.i.c.k--that a young Frenchman, however n.o.ble in his blood, seizes the ball of wit and tosses it higher. Like D'Artagnan, he is not squeamish, though a very gallant gentleman.

11

The spirit of D'Artagnan is not dead. Along many roads of France I have met gay fellows whose courage has the laughing quality of that Musketeer, and his Gascon audacity which makes a jest of death itself.

In spite of all the horrors of modern warfare, with its annihilating sh.e.l.l-fire and the monstrous ruthlessness of great guns, the French soldier at his best retains that quality of youth which soars even above the muck and misery of the trenches. The character of a young lieutenant of artillery, who came to fill the place of a poor fellow killed at the side of his caisson, is typical of innumerable soldiers of France. He presented himself with a jaunty good humour, made a little speech to his battery which set all the men laughing, and then shook hands with them one by one. Next day he knew each man by name, used the familiar ”thee” and ”thou” to them, and won their hearts by his devil-may-care manners and the smile which came from a heart amused by life. Everything was a joke to him. He baptized his four guns by absurd nicknames, and had a particular affection for old ”b.u.mps,” which had been scarred by several sh.e.l.ls. The captain called this young gentleman Lieutenant Mascot, because he had a lucky way with him. He directed the aim of his guns with astounding skill. A German battery had to s.h.i.+ft very quickly five minutes after his first sh.e.l.l had got away, and when the enemy's fire was silenced, he would call out, ”Don't chuck any more,” to the telephone operator.

That was his way of ordering the cease-fire.