The secret spring

A question that remained unanswered. In October, 1914, the war had not yet become an affair of administration, with a rota of reliefs, leave.... You never knew how long you would stay in bad trenches which you could not make up your mind to improve. It was not worth while. You might have been there a month already, but you would be certain to be moved off before the end of the week.

I felt my way with my stick down the forest path, helped by three feet of light from the puny lantern which a soldier hid under his cloak. It is a trying experience to lead men by unfamiliar paths through a forest at night. Behind you the men, and even the officers, follow like sheep, their one concern being to avoid knocking their noses against the pack of the man in front--their sole horizon--at some sudden stop. The others could think of reliefs, their cards, their homes, anything.... But I was preoccupied solely with the necessity of keeping my sightless column on the right track.

Nothing could be heard but the muffled tramping which wound along indefinitely behind me. The trees made a dark dome above our heads. Every now and then we looked up as we came to a clearing, but the sky was as dark as the vault of foliage.

"Where is Lieutenant Vignerte?"

"At the head, sir."

A hand was placed on my shoulder. It was Vignerte's.

Since our Captain left us after Craonne to command a battalion of another regiment, Raoul Vignerte, senior to me in the service, had been in command of the company. He was a man of twenty-five, slight, with a splendid dark head. Two months of war had done more than ten years of peace could have done to draw us together. We did now know each other before August, 1914, yet we had common memories of those bygone days. I came from Béarn, he from Landes. I had taken German at the Sorbonne. He, two years later, had taken history. Alternately jovial and absorbed, he was always a wonderful company commander. Occasionally the men found him a trifle distant, irresponsible, perhaps, but they liked his calm, soldierly bearing, his never-failing interest in their welfare. Vignerte did not sleep with the men, as I did. But they knew that if he kept his dug-out to himself it was invariably the most dilapidated, straw-less, and exposed he could find.

As far as I was concerned, he left nothing undone to make me forget that, though he was two years younger than myself, he was my superior officer. On my side, glad though I was to have such a comrade to obey, I was even more glad to escape all the responsibilities of a company commander. Strength-returns, discussions with the sergeant-major and the quartermaster, company accounts (though these are reduced to a minimum in the field), would never have been much to my liking. Vignerte, who had not slept one hour a night during the retreat, who had been the last to leave Guise in flames and the first to enter Ville-aux-Bois in ruins, this same Vignerte dealt with the horrible mass of detail with methodical vigour. Every now and then when I saw this charming intellectual wholly absorbed in such sordid duties, I would think: What distraction is he seeking? From what black thoughts is he fleeing?... Then, as if fearing detection, he would come to me with some joke and that day the regiment would know no one more merry and careless.

This evening he was in his dark mood. And why not, with the responsibility of introducing two hundred and fifty men to a new sector? Besides, he might have orders of which I did not yet know.

"Where are we?" he asked.

"Ten minutes more to battalion headquarters," I replied. And, lowering my voice, I queried: "Any news?"

"I believe one company of the battalion is to carry out some operation. But it's not our turn. Besides, I'm going to remain at headquarters. You can carry out the relief without me. I shall come down with the orders a quarter of an hour afterwards."

Blanc-Sablon was indeed a lugubrious spot. On one wall of a ravine rose its shell-riven dwarf forest, with wooded horns and great caves of shadow, while away in front a road, barricaded with tree-trunks, stretched to the village, a few hundred yards off, occupied by the enemy.

The men, hitherto silent, could no longer restrain a hasty comment.

"Good Lord! What a show! Here's a pretty place for you! We always strike a hole like this!"

"Silence!"

In some respects taking over is not unlike the figure of a cotillon. The Company-Commander, each section officer, corporal and man must immediately seek out his opposite number, the company-commander, section officer, corporal or man whose place he has to take.

It was all over in five minutes, soundlessly, of course, or hostile artillery would soon have had this human mass, half of it without cover of any kind, under fire and reduced to pulp.

Silence, comparatively easy to obtain from the incoming party, was nothing like so easy to exact from the departing host. The pleasant prospects of approaching sleep under cover and a few days' "rest" behind the lines loosened their tongues. They could not resist a few words of advice to their successors:

"I'd advise you to keep clear of that loophole. There's a gent over there who doesn't love me. I have had three pots at him today. If he isn't dead he will be wanting his turn. And then ..."

--"SILENCE!"

Truly a vile sector--four, five small posts to be manned, twelve sentries to be found, not to mention patrols. Not much chance of sleep for my poor fellows here.

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye. Thanks for your help."

It was the officer of the out-going company who was moving off. The sound died away in the woods.

It was high time. The moon was already up.