The objection to occupying a trench otherwise so ideal lies in the frequent visits from superior officers, a pleasure very little esteemed in the line. In any case my left wing had no cause to complain of being too safe. It extended nearly to the village of Bellenglise, already seriously nibbled at, and on the very first day one of my men got a shrapnel-bullet wound in the right buttock. When I hastened to the scene of the disaster, he was seated in great content on his left side awaiting the stretcher-bearers, and filling in the time with an enormous slice of bread and jam.
On the 25th May we relieved the 12th Company in Riqueval farm. This farm, formerly a large estate, was occupied in turns by each of the four companies in the line. There were three machine-gun positions at different points in our rear, and these had to be manned by sections in rotation. These strong points distributed behind the line, and covering each other like squares on a chessboard, were the first experiment in an elastic scheme of defence.
The rest of the men were sent forward on working parties every night.
The farm lay 1,500 metres at most behind the front line. Nevertheless the buildings, surrounded by a well-timbered park, were still entirely intact. As there were deep dugouts under construction, there were plenty of men there. The red may-tree avenues in the park and the charm of the surroundings gave our life there something of the cheerful enjoyment which the Frenchman means by his “vie de champagne,” in spite of the nearness to the front. A pair of swallows had nested in my bedroom. Before it was light they started on the noisy business of feeding their brood.
In the evenings I took my stick from the corner and wandered along the narrow paths that went up and down through the hilly country. The neglected fields were scented with wildflowers. Here and there single trees stood by the wayside. In peace time the labourers must often have rested beneath them. They had an air of enchantment, standing alone in the solitude, covered with blossom white or pink or red. It seemed that the war had thrown a heroic and melancholy light over the landscape, and without disturbing its loveliness added a ray to its brightness and a strength to its spell.
It is easier to go into the battle in the midst of such beauties of nature than when surrounded by a dead and cold winter landscape. Somehow, it comes to one quite simply that one’s existence is part of an eternal circuit, and that the death of a single individual is no such great matter.
On the 30th May this idyll came to an end as far as I was concerned, for the command of the 4th Company was taken over again by Lieutenant Vogeley, who had come out of hospital. I rejoined my old 2nd Company, now under the command of a cavalry lieutenant, in the line.
Our front, extending from the Roman road to the so-called Artillery trench, was held by two platoons. The third, with company headquarters, was about 200 metres to the rear behind a small hill. There was a little wooden hut there, too, that I used to occupy with Lieutenant Kius, peacefully relying upon the poor shooting of the English artillery.
One side of it was built into the slope of a little hill facing the enemy; the three others trustingly offered themselves as a mark. Every day, when the morning’s greetings came hurtling across, the following dialogue might be heard between the occupants of the upper and lower bunks:
“That you, Ernst?”
“Hm.”
“They’re shooting, aren’t they?”
“Well, let’s lie where we are a little longer. I think those were the last ones.”
After a quarter of an hour:
“That you, Oskar?”
“Yes?”
“They are not going to stop today. I think that was a shrapnel bullet that came through the wall just now. We’d better get up. That artillery observer fellow cleared out long ago.”
We had always optimistically taken off our boots. By the time we were ready, the shooting had generally left off, and we could seat ourselves happily at the absurdly small table and drink coffee that the heat had turned sour, and light our morning cigars. In the afternoon, in scorn of the English artillery, we used to have sunbaths on a groundsheet in front of the door.
Our cabin was extremely entertaining in other respects too. When one lay in sweet idleness on the wire mattress, gigantic earthworms hung pendulum-wise from the earth wall and shot into their holes with inconceivable rapidity at the least touch. A peevish mole sniffed about from his tunnel and added much to the enlivenment of our prolonged siesta.
On the 12th of June I had to occupy the outpost on the company front with twenty men. It was late when we left the trench and went in the warm evening air by the footpath winding over the undulating ground. Dusk was so far advanced that the red poppies in the untilled fields blended with the vivid green grass to an extraordinarily rich tone.
We strolled silently along over the carpet of flowers. Each man was busy with his own thoughts; our rifles hung from our shoulders; and in twenty minutes we arrived at our destination. In whispers the post was taken over. Silently guards were mounted. Then the men we relieved disappeared into the darkness.
The outpost rested upon a short, steep hill. In the rear a wild and tangled wood melted into the night. It was separated from our steep bank by about a hundred metres of meadow ground. In front and to our right rose two hills over which ran the English lines. There was a ruin on one with the promising name “Ascension farm.” A sunken road
