The Ordeal by Fire: By a Sergeant in the French ArmyBerger, Marcel
General
The Ordeal by Fire: By a Sergeant in the French Army
Berger, Marcel
Soldiers -- Fiction; World War, 1914-1918 -- France -- Fiction
There were many complaints during those weeks, about the delay in
the postal service. With us--I can only state the fact--it worked
adequately, no, admirably. I have described how the baggage-master
caught us up, the day after "Spincourt." By some knack, or lucky
chance, we saw him arrive twice more during the week, trotting
cheerily along behind his lean mare. He was a good sort, and related
his adventures, which others might have called feats of prowess.
How many times had he just missed being killed, wounded, or taken
prisoner! These were reliable accounts: his cart had been riddled, and
the splinter of a shell had pulverised one of his post-bags one day.
Neither he nor his beast had ever been touched.
The second mail brought me a letter from my father. He knew at last; he
had had official information. It was a grave and sorrowful missive. His
affection and hope were centred entirely upon me, he assured me. In his
manlike way of expressing himself, where there was not one unnecessary
word, I discovered traces of an attachment which I had formerly refused
to recognise.
And this added page--was from the poor little widow. After leaving St.
Mihiel, which was threatened, she reached Paris just in time to be
greeted by the abominable news. She was bearing up in the face of the
terrible shock. I had dreaded collapse and prostration for her. And now
no one could help admiring her, shining with resolute determination
in her affliction--two little children to bring up--the sense of her
duties! How I should have liked to go to her and take her hands and
say: "I mourn with you, my sister. If I live, dispose of me as you
will!"
* * * * *
What a transport of delight I was thrown into by these appearances of
the baggage-master. Jeannine, with divine consideration, had written
to me again without waiting for my reply, which might be delayed, she
said, by so many chances. In future she intended to write me a line
almost every day. A line! That meant long, affectionate epistles. Two
reached me at once, then three together, the second time.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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