It may be imagined that this unaccustomed life came very hard on us, particularly as the old soldiers were quite knowing enough to take advantage of us in every possible manner. They brought this habit with them from life in barracks, and in this way added some bitterness to days hard enough already. There was an end to it, however, when we had once been under fire together. The common soldier could not easily swallow the fact that we were volunteers. He took it to be a sort of bumptiousness on our part. I often encountered this notion during the war.
It was not much better when the company was in reserve. Our quarters then were small mud huts covered with branches of fir trees near the Fasanerie or in Hiller wood, where the ground, deep in manure, gave at least the pleasant warmth of a hotbed. Many a time one waked in a puddle inches deep. Though up to now I had known rheumatism only by name, it was not many days before I felt it in every joint through being always wet to the skin. Here, too, the nights were not for sleeping. They were used for deepening the numerous communication trenches.
A ray of light in this scene of dreary monotony was the arrival of the cooker every evening at the corner of Hiller wood. When the lid was taken off the dixies a wonderful smell of beans-and-bacon or something else as delightful was wafted abroad. But here too there was a dark spot: desiccated vegetables, reviled by fastidious gourmets as “wire entanglements” or “damaged crops.”
Under January 6th I even find in my diary the following indignant observation: “In the evening the cooker waddled up and brought a filthy mess, probably stewed up out of frozen turnips.” On the other hand, under the 14th there is the enthusiastic entry: “Wonderful bean soup, four rations, pangs of satiety. We had an eating competition and disputed which position was the best for putting it down. I was for standing to it.”
The days of rest at Orainville were the best. They were spent in having one’s sleep out, cleaning equipment, and training. The company was quartered in a huge barn which had two stepladder stairs as the only way in. We had stoves in spite of the building being full of straw. One night I rolled against one of them, and was only awakened by the attentions of several of my pals who were making violent efforts to extinguish me. To my horror I found that my uniform was badly charred behind, and in consequence I had to go about for a considerable time in a species of frock-coat.
After a short while with the regiment we had pretty well lost the illusion with which we had set out. Instead of the dangers we had hoped for, only mud and work and sleepless nights had fallen to our lot, and the conquest of these called for a heroism that was little to our taste. This continuous exhaustion, too, was in part the fault of the higher command, which had not yet grasped the spirit of modern trench warfare. In a short war of movement the officer both can and must take it out of his men without regard; but in a war that drags on, this leads to physical collapse. The immense number of posts and the continual digging were for the most part unnecessary and even harmful. Trenches are not the first thing, but the courage and freshness of the men behind them. “Battles are won by iron hearts in wooden ships.”
Certainly in the trenches we heard a few bullets whistle, and now and then had a few shells over from the Rheims forts; but these small experiences of war were far beneath our expectations. All the same, we were often reminded of the murderous reality that lay behind these apparently aimless incidents. For example, on the 8th January a shell hit the Fasanerie and killed Lieutenant Schmidt, the adjutant of the battalion.
On the 27th January, in honour of the Kaiser, three hurrahs rang out, and along the whole length of the front “Hail to thee in conqueror’s wreath” was sung to the accompaniment of the enemy’s rifle-fire.
During these days I had a most unpleasant experience which nearly brought my military career to an untimely and inglorious conclusion. The company was on the left flank, and towards dawn, after a night entirely without sleep, I and another had to do double sentry-go in the low-lying ground. Owing to the cold, I had, against orders, thrown my blanket over my head and was leaning against a tree. My rifle was resting on a bush close beside me. Suddenly there was a noise behind me. Out went my hand … the rifle was gone. The officer on duty had slipped up behind me and got hold of it without being observed. As a summary punishment he sent me armed with a pickaxe towards the French posts, about a hundred metres away, a Red Indian idea that nearly cost me my life. For during the course of my remarkable penalty patrol, a patrol of three volunteers crept forward through the rushes and was seen and shot at by the French. One, called Lang,
