Stark and still, and wrapped in a groundsheet, Lieutenant Lemière, the commander of the 8th Company, lay at the entrance, his large horn spectacles still on his nose. His men had brought him there. He was shot in the mouth. His younger brother was killed a few months later in exactly the same way.
On the 30th April I handed over to my successor of the 25th Regiment, by whom we were relieved. We made our way to Flers, the rendezvous of the 1st Battalion. Leaving the much-shelled limekilns, “Chez bon temps,” on our left, we went quickly on through the afternoon sunshine along the path to Beaumont. Our eyes rejoiced again in the beauty of the earth. We drew in the intoxicating breath of spring, thankful to have escaped the intolerably crowded confinement of the dugout. With the thunder of the guns in our rear, my sympathies were with the poet:
“Surely the day that God has given
Has better uses than to kill.”
In Flers I found the quarters allotted me in the possession of some staff sergeant-majors, who, under the pretext that they had to keep the room for a certain Baron von X, refused to give it up to me. They failed, however, to reckon with the overstrained nerves of a worn-out front-line soldier. I told my men to smash in the door, and after a brief hand-to-hand engagement, under the eyes of the owner of the house, who, much alarmed, hastened on to the scene in his dressing-gown, we sent the gentlemen flying down the stairs. My batman carried politeness to such lengths that he threw their trench boots after them. After this assault I took possession of the warm bed, surrendering half of it to my friend Kius, who was wandering round without a billet. Sleeping in a bed after so long a time did us so much good that we woke next morning in all our “pristine vigour.”
As the 1st Battalion had come off the lightest in the casualties of the recent days of fighting, we were in excellent trim as we marched to Douai station. From there we went by train to the junction of Busigny. We were to have some days’ rest in Serain, a village in the neighbourhood. The population was friendly, and we had good quarters. On the very first evening the sounds of happy forgathering were to be heard from many of the houses.
These drink-offerings on the morrow of well-fought fights count among an old soldier’s happiest memories. And though ten out of twelve had fallen, still the last two, as sure as death, were to be found on the first evening of rest over the bottle, drinking a silent health to their dead companions, talking and laughing over all they had been through. For dangers past—an old soldier’s laugh. For those to come—a full glass, though death and the devil grin there, as long as the wine was good. Such has ever been the custom of war.
It was the officers’ mess more than all that made me appreciate this. It was here, among the spirits of the undaunted dead, that the will to conquer was concentrated and made visible in the features of each weather-beaten face. There was an element at work here that the very horror of the war underlined and even spiritualized, an element one seldom found among the men with whom one lay in the shell-holes—sporting joy in danger, and a chivalrous impulse to see things out. And to say the least of it, I have never in this much-reviled circle heard one fainthearted word.
My batman came next morning and read me the orders. From these it appeared that I was to take command of the 4th Company. It was in this company, in the autumn of 1914, that Hermann Löns, the Lower Saxon poet, fell.
Against Indians
On the 6th May 1917 we were once more on the march to the now familiar Brancourt, and on the following day we went through Montbréhain, Ramicourt, and Joncourt into the Siegfried line, which we had left just a month before.
The first evening was stormy. Heavy rain pattered down without ceasing on to the flooded ground. Soon, however, a succession of bright, warm days reconciled us to our new station. I enjoyed the wonderful country undisturbed by the white puffs of shrapnel and the leaping cones of the shell-bursts; indeed, I scarcely noticed them. In those years of increased activity the signs of an offensive were as much a part of the spring as primroses and opening buds.
Our lines formed a crescent in front of the St. Quentin Canal. Behind us was the famous Siegfried line. I never could tell why we had to occupy the narrow, unfinished trenches in the chalk, when behind us lay this magnificent line.
The front line wound through an idyllic meadowland shadowed by small groups of trees and beautified now by the tender colours of spring. We could move about with impunity behind and in front of the trench, for our front was protected by a belt of outposts pushed forward to a depth of a kilometre. These posts were a thorn in the enemy’s side, and not a night went by for many weeks that he did not try to dislodge them either by cunning or force.
Our first spell in the line was, however, passed in welcome quiet. The weather was so fine that the men slept out on the grass. On the 14th May we were relieved by the 8th Company and, leaving the burning St. Quentin on our right, proceeded to our rest-place, Montbréhain, a large village that so far had suffered very little from the war and therefore had very comfortable quarters to offer. On the 20th, as company in reserve, we
