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 WAR




 WAR




 BY

 PIERRE LOTI




 TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
 MARJORIE LAURIE


 [Illustration]


 PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
 J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
 1917


 COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

 _Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
 The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._


 TO MY FRIEND

 LOUIS BARTHOU, P.L.




CONTENTS


                                                          PAGE

     I. A LETTER TO THE MINISTER OF MARINE                   9

    II. TWO POOR LITTLE NESTLINGS OF BELGIUM                12

   III. A GAY LITTLE SCENE AT THE BATTLE FRONT              18

    IV. LETTER TO ENVER PASHA                               28

     V. ANOTHER SCENE AT THE BATTLE FRONT                   34

    VI. THE PHANTOM BASILICA                                53

   VII. THE FLAG WHICH OUR NAVAL BRIGADE DO NOT YET
        POSSESS                                             68

  VIII. TAHITI AND THE SAVAGES WITH PINK SKINS LIKE
        BOILED PIG                                          80

    IX. A LITTLE HUSSAR                                     85

     X. AN EVENING AT YPRES                                 95

    XI. AT THE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE BELGIAN ARMY    111

   XII. SOME WORDS UTTERED BY HER MAJESTY, THE QUEEN OF
        THE BELGIANS                                       127

  XIII. AN APPEAL ON BEHALF OF THE SERIOUSLY WOUNDED IN
        THE EAST                                           139

   XIV. SERBIA IN THE BALKAN WAR                           148

    XV. ABOVE ALL LET US NEVER FORGET!                     151

   XVI. THE INN OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN                      157

  XVII. FOR THE RESCUE OF OUR WOUNDED                      174

 XVIII. AT RHEIMS                                          177

   XIX. THE DEATH-BEARING GAS                              192

    XX. ALL-SOULS' DAY WITH THE ARMIES AT THE FRONT        205

   XXI. THE CROSS OF HONOUR FOR THE FLAG OF THE
        NAVAL BRIGADE                                      211

  XXII. THE ABSENT-MINDED PILGRIM                          219

 XXIII. THE FIRST SUNSHINE OF MARCH                        242

  XXIV. AT SOISSONS                                        265

   XXV. THE TWO GORGON HEADS                               299




WAR




I

A LETTER TO THE MINISTER OF MARINE


CAPTAIN J. VIAUD OF THE NAVAL RESERVE, TO THE MINISTER OF
MARINE.

 _Rochefort, August 18th, 1914._

SIR,

When I was recalled to active service on the outbreak of war I had hopes
of performing some duty less insignificant than that which was assigned
to me in our dock-yards.

Believe me, I have no reproaches to make, for I am very well aware that
the Navy will not fill the principal role in this war, and that all my
comrades of the same rank are likewise destined to almost complete
inaction for mere lack of opportunity, like myself doomed, alas! to see
their energies sapped, their spirits in torment.

But let me invoke the other name I bear. The average man is not as a
rule well versed in Naval Regulations. Will it not, then, be a bad
example in our dear country, where everyone is doing his duty so
splendidly, if Pierre Loti is to serve no useful end? The exercise of
two professions places me as an officer in a somewhat exceptional
position, does it not? Forgive me then for soliciting a degree of
exceptional and indulgent treatment. I should accept with joy, with
pride, any position whatsoever that would bring me nearer to the
fighting-line, even if it were a very subordinate post, one much below
the dignity of my five rows of gold braid.

Or, on the other hand, in the last resort, could I not be appointed a
supernumerary on special duty on some ship which might have a chance of
seeing real fighting? I assure you that I should find some means of
making myself useful there. Or, finally, if there are too many rules and
regulations in the way, would you grant me, sir, while waiting until my
services may be required by the Fleet, liberty to come and go, so that I
may try to find some kind of employment, even if it be only ambulance
work? My lot is hard, and no one will understand that the mere fact that
I am a captain in the Naval Reserve dooms me to almost complete
inaction, while all France is in arms.

 (_Signed_) JULIEN VIAUD.

 (PIERRE LOTI.)




II

TWO POOR LITTLE NESTLINGS OF BELGIUM


 _August, 1914._

One evening a train full of Belgian refugees had just entered the
railway station of one of our southern towns. Worn out and dazed, the
poor martyrs stepped down slowly, one by one, on to the unfamiliar
platform where Frenchmen were waiting to welcome them. Carrying with
them a few articles of clothing, caught up at haphazard, they had
climbed up into the coaches without so much as asking themselves what
was their destination. They had taken refuge there in hurried flight,
desperate flight from horror and death, from fire, mutilations
unspeakable and Sadic outrages--such things, deemed no longer possible
on earth, had been brooding still, it seemed, in the depths of
pietistic German brains, and, like an ultimate spewing forth of primeval
barbarities, had burst suddenly upon their country and upon our own.
Village, hearth, family--nothing remained to them; without purpose, like
waifs and strays, they had drifted there, and in the eyes of all lay
horror and anguish. Among them were many children, little girls, whose
parents were lost in the midst of conflagrations or battles; aged
grandmothers, too, now alone in the world, who had fled, scarce knowing
why, clinging no longer to life, yet urged on by some obscure instinct
of self-preservation. The faces of these aged women expressed no
emotion, not even despair; it seemed as if their souls had actually
abandoned their bodies and reason their brains.

Lost in that mournful throng were two quite young children, holding each
other tightly by the hand, two little boys, evidently two little
brothers. The elder, five years of age perhaps, was protecting the
younger, whose age may have been three. No one claimed them; no one knew
them. When they found themselves alone, how was it that they understood
that if they would escape death they, too, must climb into that train?
Their clothes were neat, and they wore warm little woollen stockings.
Evidently they belonged to humble but careful parents. Doubtless they
were the sons of one of those glorious soldiers of Belgium who fell like
heroes upon the field of honour--sons of a father who, in the moment of
death, must needs have bestowed upon them one last and tender thought.
So overwhelmed were they with weariness and want of sleep that they did
not even cry. Scarcely could they stand upright. They could not answer
the questions that were put to them, but above all they refused to let
go of each other; that they would not do. At last the big, elder
brother, still gripping the other's hand for fear of losing him,
realised the responsibilities of his character of protector; he summoned
up strength to speak to the lady with the brassard, who was bending down
to him.

"Madame," he said, in a very small, beseeching voice, already
half-asleep, "Madame, is anyone going to put us to bed?"

For the moment this was the only wish they were capable of forming; all
that they looked for from the mercy of mankind was that someone would be
so good as to put them to bed. They were soon put to bed, together, you
may be sure, and they went to sleep at once, still holding hands and
nestling close to each other, both sinking in the same instant into the
peaceful oblivion of children's slumbers.

One day long ago, in the China Seas during the war, two bewildered
little birds, two tiny little birds, smaller even than our wren, had
made their way, I know not how, on board our iron-clad and into our
admiral's quarters. No one, to be sure, had sought to frighten them, and
all day long they had fluttered about from side to side, perching on
cornices or on green plants. By nightfall I had forgotten them, when the
admiral sent for me. It was to show me, with emotion, his two little
visitors; they had gone to sleep in his room, perched on one leg upon a
silken cord fastened above his bed. Like two little balls of feathers,
touching and almost mingling in one, they slept close, very close
together, without the slightest fear, as if very sure of our pity.

And these poor little Belgian children, sleeping side by side, made me
think of those two nestlings, astray in the midst of the China Seas.
Theirs, too, was the same trust; theirs the same innocent slumber. But
these children were to be protected with a far more tender solicitude.




III

A GAY LITTLE SCENE AT THE BATTLE FRONT


 _October, 1914._

At about eleven o'clock in the morning of that day I arrived at a
village--its name I have, let us say, forgotten. My companion was an
English commandant, whom the fortunes of war had given me for comrade
since the previous evening. Our path was lighted by that great and
genial magician, the sun--a radiant sun, a holiday sun, transfiguring
and beautifying all things. This occurred in a department in the extreme
north of France, which one it was I have never known, but the weather
was so fine that we might have imagined ourselves in Provence.

For nearly two hours our way lay hemmed in between two columns of
soldiers, marching in opposite directions. On our right were the English
going into action, very clean, very fresh, with an air of satisfaction
and in high spirits. They were admirably equipped and their horses in
the pink of condition. On our left were French Artillerymen coming back
from the Titanic battle to enjoy a little rest. The latter were coated
with dust, and some wore bandages round arm and forehead, but they still
preserved their gaiety of countenance and the aspect of healthy men, and
they marched in sections in good order. They were actually bringing back
quantities of empty cartridge cases, which they had found time to
collect, a sure proof that they had withdrawn from the scene of action
at their leisure, unhurried and unafraid--victorious soldiers to whom
their chiefs had prescribed a few days' respite. In the distance we
heard a noise like a thunderstorm, muffled at first, to which we were
drawing nearer and yet nearer. Peasants were working in the adjoining
fields as if nothing unusual were happening, and yet they were not sure
that the savages, who were responsible for such tumult yonder, would not
come back one of these days and pillage everything. Here and there in
the meadows, on the grass, sat groups of fugitives, clustered around
little wood fires. The scene would have been dismal enough on a gloomy
day, but the sun managed to shed a cheerful light upon it. They cooked
their meals in gipsy fashion, surrounded by bundles in which they had
hurriedly packed together their scanty clothing in the terrible rush for
safety.

Our motor car was filled with packets of cigarettes and with newspapers,
which kind souls had commissioned us to carry to the men in the
firing-line, and so slow was our progress, so closely were we hemmed in
by the two columns of soldiers, that we were able to distribute our
gifts through the doors of the car, to the English on our right, to the
French on our left. They stretched out their hands to catch them in
mid-air, and thanked us with a smile and a quick salute.

There were also villagers who travelled along that overcrowded road
mingling in confusion with the soldiers. I remember a very pretty young
peasant woman, who was dragging along by a string, in the midst of the
English transport wagons, a little go-cart with two sleeping babies. She
was toiling along, for the gradient just there was steep. A handsome
Scotch sergeant, with a golden moustache, who sat on the back of the
nearest wagon smoking a cigarette and dangling his legs, beckoned to
her.

"Give me the end of your string."

She understood and accepted his offer with a smile of pretty confusion.
The Scotchman wound the fragile tow-rope round his left arm, keeping his
right arm free so that he might go on smoking. So it was really he who
brought along these two babies of France, while the heavy transport
lorry drew their little cart like a feather.

When we entered the village, the sun shone with increasing splendour.
Such chaos, such confusion prevailed there as had never been seen
before, and after this war, unparalleled in history, will never again be
witnessed. Uniforms of every description, weapons of every sort, Scots,
French cuirassiers, Turcos, Zouaves, Bedouins, whose burnouses swung
upwards with a noble gesture as they saluted. The church square was
blocked with huge English motor-omnibuses that had once been a means of
communication in the streets of London, and still displayed in large
letters the names of certain districts of that city. I shall be accused
of exaggeration, but it is a fact that these omnibuses wore a look of
astonishment at finding themselves rolling along, packed with soldiers,
over the soil of France.

All these people, mingled together in confusion, were making
preparations for luncheon. Those savages yonder (who might perhaps
arrive here on the morrow--who could say?) still conducted their great
symphony, their incessant cannonade, but no one paid any attention to
it. Who, moreover, could be uneasy in such beautiful surroundings, such
surprising autumn sunshine, while roses still grew on the walls, and
many- dahlias in gardens that the white frost had scarcely
touched? Everyone settled down to the meal and made the best of things.
You would have thought you were looking at a festival, a somewhat
incongruous and unusual festival, to be sure, improvised in the vicinity
of some tower of Babel. Girls wandered about among the groups; little
fair-haired children gave away fruit they had gathered in their own
orchards. Scotsmen in shirt-sleeves were persuaded that the country they
were in was warm by comparison with their own. Priests and Red Cross
sisters were finding seats for the wounded on packing-cases. One good
old sister, with a face like parchment, and frank, pretty eyes under her
mob-cap, took infinite pains to make a Zouave comfortable, whose arms
were both wrapped in bandages. Doubtless she would presently feed him as
if he were a little child.

We ourselves, the Englishman and I, were very hungry, so we made our way
to the pleasant-looking inn, where officers were already seated at table
with soldiers of lower rank. (In these times of torment in which we
live hierarchal barriers no longer exist.)

"I could certainly give you roast beef and rabbit _saute_," said the
innkeeper, "but as for bread, no indeed! it is not to be had; you cannot
buy bread anywhere at any price."

"Ah!" said my comrade, the English commandant, "and what about those
excellent loaves over there standing up against the door?"

"Oh, those loaves belong to a general who sent them here, because he is
coming to luncheon with his aides-de-camp."

Hardly had he turned his back when my companion hastily drew a knife
from his pocket, sliced off the end of one of those golden loaves, and
hid it under his coat.

"We have found some bread," he said calmly to the innkeeper, "so you can
bring luncheon."

So, seated beside an Arab officer of _la Grande Tente_, dressed in a
red burnous, we luncheon gaily with our guests, the soldier-chauffeurs
of our motor car.

When we left the inn to continue our journey the festival of the sun was
at its height; it cast a glad light upon that ill-assorted throng and
the strange motor-omnibuses. A convoy of German prisoners was crossing
the square; bestial and sly of countenance they marched between our own
soldiers, who kept time infinitely better than they; scarcely a glance
was thrown at them.

The old nun I spoke of, so old and so pure-eyed, was helping her Zouave
to smoke a cigarette, holding it to his lips rather awkwardly with
trembling, grandmotherly solicitude. At the same time she seemed to be
telling him some quite amusing stories--with the innocent, ingenuous
merriment of which good nuns have the secret--for they were both
laughing. Who can say what little childish tale it may have been? An
old parish priest, who was smoking his pipe near them--without any
particular refinement, I am bound to admit--laughed, too, to see them
laugh. And just as we were going into our car to continue our journey to
those regions of horror where the cannon were thundering, a little girl
of twelve ran and plucked a sheaf of autumn asters from her garden to
deck us with flowers.

What good people there are still in the world! And how greatly has the
aggression of German savages reinforced those tender bonds of
brotherhood that unite all who are truly of the human species.




IV

LETTER TO ENVER PASHA


 _Rochefort, September 4