France -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction
At the head of mine was a little lieutenant of the reserves, a young
man of twenty, frail and pallid and so weak that after marching a few
kilometers he was out of breath, dragged his feet and usually reached
his destination in an ambulance wagon. The poor little devil! It was
enough to look at him to make him blush, and never did he allow himself
to issue orders for fear of appearing ridiculous. We jeered at him
because of his timidity and weakness, and no doubt because he was kind
and would sometimes distribute cigars and meat supplies to the men.
I quickly inured myself to this new life, carried away by examples
and overexcited by the fever about me. And reading the heartbreaking
reports of our lost battles, I felt myself transported by enthusiasm
which, however, was not mingled with any thought of my threatened
fatherland. We remained a month in Mans for training, to get our full
equipment and to frequent cabarets and houses of ill-fame. At last,
October 3, we started out.
Composed of stray units, of detachments without officers, of
straggling volunteers poorly equipped, poorly fed and more often not
fed at all,--without cohesion, without discipline, everyone thinking
of himself only, and driven by a unique feeling of ferociousness,
implacable selfishness; some wearing police caps, others having silk
handkerchiefs wrapped round their heads; still others wearing artillery
pants and vests of batmen--we were marching along the highways, ragged,
harassed and in an ugly mood.
For twelve days since we had been incorporated into a brigade of recent
formation, we were tramping across the fields like madmen and to no
purpose, as it were. Today marching to the right, tomorrow to the left,
one day covering a stretch of forty kilometers, the next day going back
an equal distance, we were moving in the same circle; like a scattered
herd of cattle which has lost its shepherd. Our enthusiasm diminished
appreciably. Three weeks of suffering were enough for that. Before we
could ever hear the roar of cannon and the whiz of bullets, our forward
march resembled a retreat of a conquered army, cut to pieces by cavalry
charges and precipitated into wild confusion. It was like a panicky
flight in which each one was allowed to shift for himself. How often
did I see soldiers getting rid of their cartridges by scattering them
along the roads?
"What good will they do me?" one of them said. "I don't need them at
all except one to crack the jaw of our captain, the first chance we get
to fight."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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