05 - In the Field. In the Field (1914-1915) by Marcel Dupont.

05 - In the Field. In the Field (1914-1915) by Marcel Dupont.  
I have merely tried to make a written record of some of the hours I have lived through during the course of this war. A modest Lieutenant of Chasseurs, I cannot claim to form any opinion as to the operations which have been carried out for the last nine months on an immense front. I only speak of things I have seen with my own eyes, in the little corner of the battlefield occupied by my regiment. 

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter five of In the Field nineteen fourteen nineteen fifteen.
This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in
the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please
visit LibriVox dot org. Recording by F n H. In
the Field nineteen fourteen, nineteen fifteen by Marcel DuPont, Chapter five,

(00:25):
Chapter five, Low Mass and Benediction. One morning in the
middle of September nineteen fourteen, as we raised our heads
at about six o'clock from the straw on which we
had slept, I and my friend F had a very
disagreeable surprise. We heard in the darkness the gentle, monotonous
noise of water falling drop by drop from the penthouse

(00:48):
roof on to the road. Arriving at Pevy the evening before,
just before midnight, we had found refuge in a house
belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul
of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small, bare room,
paved with tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a
sumptuous bed of trusses of straw. The night had been delightful,

(01:09):
and we should have been awakened in good spirits had
it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my friend.
It is raining, said f I could not but agree
with him. Those who have been soldiers, and especially cavalrymen,
know to the full how dispiriting is the sound of
those few words. It is raining. It is raining means

(01:31):
your clothes will be saturated. Your cloak will be drenched,
and weigh at least forty pounds. The water will drip
from your shackow, along your neck and down your back.
Above all, your high boots will be transformed into two
little pools in which your feet paddle woefully. It means
broken roads, mud splashing you up in the eyes, horses,

(01:52):
slipping rains, stiffening your saddle transformed into a hip bath.
It means that the little clean linen you had brought
with you, that precious treasure in your saddle bags, will
be changed into a wet bundle on which large and
indelible yellow stains have been made by the soaked leather.
But it was no use to think of all this.
The orders ran horses to be saddled and squadron ready

(02:14):
to mount at six thirty, and they had to be
carried out. It was still dark. I went out into
the yard after pulling down my campaigning cap over my ears. Well,
after all, the evil was less than I had feared.
It was not raining but drizzling. The air was mild,
and there was not a breath of wind. When once

(02:34):
our cloaks were on, it would take some hours for
the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther end
of the yard, some men were moving about around a
small fire, Their shadows passed to and fro in front
of the ruddy light. They were making coffee, just as
they call it, that indispensable ration in which they soak
bread and make a feast, without which they think a
man cannot be a good soldier. I ran to my

(02:57):
troop through the muddy alleyways, skipping from side to side
to avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared pale and dismal. A
faint smell rose from the sodden ground. Nothing newm on
leftenant were the words that greeted me from the sergeant
who had then made his report. I had every confidence
in him. He had been some years in the service
and knew his business. Small and lean and tightly buttoned

(03:20):
into his tunic, In spite of all our trials, he
was still the typical smart light cavalry non commissioned officer
I knew had already gone round the stables, which he
did with a candle in his hand, patting the horse's
haunches and looking with a watchful eye to see whether
some limb had not been hurt by a kick or
entangled in its tether. In the large yard of the

(03:41):
abandoned and pillaged farm where the men had been billeted,
they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and take
their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion
of insipid lukewarm coffee brought me by my orderly. Then
I went to get my orders from the Captain, who
was lodged in the market square. No word had yet
been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at a

(04:01):
farm in Vadeville, two kilometers off patients. We had been
used to these long waits since the army had been
pulled up before the formidable line of trenches which the
Germans had dug north of Reems. They were certainly most disheartening,
but it could not be helped, and it was no
use to complain. I turned and went slowly up the
steep footpath that led to my billet. Pevy is a

(04:23):
poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a
line of heights that runs parallel to the road from
Reems to Paris. Its houses are huddled together and seemed
to be grouped at the foot of the ridges for
protection from the north wind. The few alleys which intersect
the village climbed steeply up the side of the hill.
We were obliged to tramp about in the sticky mud
of the main road, waiting for our orders. Passing the church,

(04:47):
it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since
the war had begun, we had hardly had any opportunity
of going into the village. Churches we had passed. Some
of them were closed because of the parish priests had
left for the army, or because the village had been
abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for
the artillery and now stood in the middle of the
villages ruins, loftier and more pitiable than the rest. The

(05:09):
church of Pevy seemed to be clinging to the side
of the hill and was approached by a narrow stairway
of grayish stone climbing up between moss grown walls. I
first passed through the modest little churchyard, with its humble
tombs half hidden in the grass, and read some of
the simple inscriptions here lies, here lies pray for him.

(05:30):
The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden
in the turf, and as I walked up it, my
boots brushed the drops from the grass. The damp seemed
to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling,
a fine, persistent drizzle. Behind me, the village was in mist.
The roofs and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.

(05:51):
Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy
door studded with iron nails, and entered the church, and
at once experienced a feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose.
How touching the little sanctuary of Pevy seemed to me
in its humble simplicity. Imagine a kind of hall with
bare walls, the vaults supported by two rows of thick pillars.

(06:13):
The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the gray light to enter.
There were no horrible, cheap modern stained windows, but a
multitude of small, white, rectangular leaded panes. All this was
simple and worn, but to me, it seemed to breathe
a noble and touching poetry. And what charmed me above
all was that the pale light did not reveal walls

(06:35):
covered with horrible color wash we are accustomed to see
in most of our village churches. This church was an
old one, a very old one. Its style was not
very well defined, for it had, no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed, rebuilt,
and repaired by many different generations. But those who preserved
it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering

(06:56):
which disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine,
large stones on which time had left its melancholy impress.
There was no grotesque painting on them to mar their
quiet beauty, and the dim light that filtered through at
that early hour gave them a vague, soft glow. No
pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The stations of the

(07:17):
cross were the only adornment, and they were so simple
and childish in their execution that they were no doubt
the work of some rustic artist. And even this added
a touching note to a harmonious hole. But my attention
was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft
and monotonous murmur coming from the altar. The choir was
almost in darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars

(07:41):
of lighted candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing
a large, white, shadowy form, almost motionless and like a phantom.
At the bottom of the steps, another form was kneeling,
bowed down towards the floor. It did not stir as
I approached. I went towards the choir on tiptoe, very cautiously.

(08:02):
I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a
sacrilege by coming to disturb these two men praying there,
all alone in the gloom of that sad morning. A
deep feeling of emotion passed through me, and I felt
so insignificant in their presence and in the mysterious atmosphere
of that place, that I knelt down humbly, almost timidly,

(08:22):
in the shadow of one of the great pillars near
the altar. Then I could distinguish my fellow worshipers better.
A priest was saying mass. He was young and tall,
and his gestures as he officiated were slow and dignified.
He did not know that some one was present watching
him closely, so it could not be supposed that he
was speaking and acting to impress a congregation. And yet

(08:44):
he had a way of kneeling, of stretching out his arms,
and of looking up to the humble gilded cross in
front of him that revealed all the ardor of fervent prayers.
Occasionally he turned towards the back of the church to
pronounce the ritual words. His face was serious, kindly framed
in a youthful beard, the face of an apostle, with
the glow of faith in his eyes. And I was

(09:06):
surprised to see underneath the priest's vestments the hems of
a pair of red trousers and feet shod in large
muddy military boots. The kneeling figure at the bottom of
the steps now stood out more distinctly. The man was
wearing on his shabby infantry coat the white armlet of
the red Cross. He must have been a priest, for
I could still distinguish some traces of the neglected tonsure

(09:28):
among his brown hair. The two repeated, in low tone
by turns, the words of the prayer comfort, repentance or supplication,
harmonious Latin phrases which sounded to me like exquisite music,
and as an accompaniment in the distance, in the direction
of Saint Theery and berryu Buck, the deep voice of
the guns muttered ceaselessly. For the first time in the campaign,

(09:52):
I felt a kind of poignant melancholy. For the first time,
I felt small and miserable, almost a useless thing, compared
with his two fine priestly figures who were praying in
the solitude of this country church for those who had
fallen and were falling yonder, under shot and shell. How
I despised and upbraided myself at such moments. What a

(10:12):
profound disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life,
its gross pleasures and silly excesses. I was ashamed of
myself when I reflected that death brushed me by every day,
and that I might disappear to day or to morrow
after so many ill, spent and unprofitable days without any effort,
and almost in spite of myself, pious words came back

(10:35):
to my lips, those words that my dear mother used
to teach me on her knee years and years ago,
and I felt quiet delight in the almost forgotten words
that came back to me, forgive us our trespasses, pray
for us poor sinners. It seemed to me that I
should presently go away a better man and a more

(10:56):
valiant soldier. And as though to encourage and blomeles me,
a faint ray of sunshine came through the window Ita
missa Est. The priest turned round, and at this time
I thought his eyes rested upon me, and that look
was a benediction and an absolution. But suddenly I heard
in the alley close by a great noise of people running,

(11:18):
and horses stamping, and voice crying mount horses, mount horses.
I was sorry to leave that little church of Pevy.
I should so much have liked to wait until those
two priests came out to speak to them and talk
about other things than war, massacres and pillage. But duty
called me to my men, my horses, and to battle.

(11:39):
Shortly afterwards, as I passed at the head of my
troop in front of a large farm where the ambulance
of the division was quartered, I saw my abbey coming
out of the barn, with his sleeves tucked up and
his kepi on the side of his head. He was
carrying a large pail of milk. I recognized his clear look,
and had no doubt that he recognized me too, For
as our eyes met, he gave me a kindly smile.

(12:00):
My heart was lighter, and as I went forward, my
soul was calmer. For the last six days we had
been quartered at Montigny se Vessel, a pretty little village
half way up a hill side on the heights, twenty
kilometers to the west of the rooms. There we enjoyed
a little rest for the first time in the campaign.

(12:20):
On our front, the struggle was going on between the
French and German trenches, and the employment of cavalry was impossible.
For all the regiment had to do was to supply
two daily troops required to ensure the connection between the
two divisions of the Army Corps. What a happiness it
was to be able at last to enjoy almost perfect rest.
What a delight to lie down every evening in a

(12:42):
good bed, not to get up before seven o'clock, and
to find our poor horses stabled at last on good
litter in the barns, and to see them filling out
daily and getting sleeker. For our mess. We had the
good luck to find a most charming and simple welcome
at the house of the good Monseigneur Cheverette. What that
kind old gentleman did everything in his power to supply

(13:04):
us with all the comforts he could dispose of, And
he did it all with such good grace and such
a pleasant smile, that we felt at ease and at
home at once. Madame Cheveret, whom we at once called
Maman Cheverete, was an alert, little old lady who trotted
about all day long in quest of things to do
for us. She put us up in the dining room

(13:26):
and helped our cook to clean the vegetables and to
superintend the joints and sweets for gossip. The bold Chaseur,
appointed to preside over our mess arrangements, was a professional
in the culinary art and excelled in making everything out
of nothing. So with the help of Maman Chevert he
accomplished wonders. And the result of it all was that
we began to be envenerated by their delights of this

(13:49):
new capoa, and how thoroughly we enjoyed it. We shared
our eden with two other squadrons of our regiment, a
section of an artillery park and a divisional ambulance. We
prayed Heaven to grant us a long stay in such
a haven of repose. Now one morning, after countless ablutions,
with hot water and a clean shave, I was going

(14:11):
with brilliantly shining boots down the steep footpath which led
to the little house of our good Monsieur Chevaert, when
my attention was drawn to a small white notice posted
on the door of the church. It ran this evening
at six o'clock benediction of the most Holy Sacrament. It
occurred to me at once that this happy idea had
been conceived by the chaplain of the ambulance, for until

(14:34):
then the church had been kept locked, as the young
parish priest had been called up by the mobilization. I
made haste to tell our captain of my comrades the
good news, and we all determined to be present at
the benediction. That evening. At half past five, ourrias were
delighted by music such as we had not been accustomed
to hear for a very long time. In the deepening twilight,

(14:55):
some invisible hand was chiming the bells of the little church.
How deliciously red they were. After the loud roar of
the cannon and the rattle of the machine guns. Who
would have thought that such deep and also such solemn
notes could come from so small a steeple. It stirred
the heart and brought tears to the eyes. Like some
of Choppin's music, these bells seemed to speak to us,

(15:18):
and they seemed to call us to a prayer and
preach courage and virtue to us. At the end of
the shady walk I was passing down, whose trees formed
a rustling wall. On either side appeared the little church
with its slender steeple. It stood out in clear relief,
a dark blue, almost violet silhouette against the purple background
made by the setting sun. Some dark human forms were

(15:40):
moving about and collecting around the low arched doorway. Perhaps
these were the good old women of the district who
had come to pray in this little church, which had
remained close to them for nearly two months. I fancied
I could distinguish them from where I was, dignified and
erect in their old fashioned mantles. But as soon as
I got closer to them, I found I was mistaken.

(16:02):
It was not aged and pious women who were hurrying
to the church door, but a group of silent artillerymen
wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The bells shook
out some solemn notes and seemed to be calling others
to come too, And I should have been glad if
their voices had been heard, for I was afraid the
chaplain's appeal would hardly be heeded, and that the benches

(16:23):
of the little church would be three parts empty. But
on gently pushing the door open, I found at once
that my fears were baseless. The church was in fact
too small to hold all the soldiers who had come
long before the appointed hour, as soon as they had
heard the bells begin. And now I had no fears
about the church being empty. I wondered how I was

(16:43):
going to find a place myself. I stood on the
door step, undecided, on tiptoe, looking over the heads of
all those standing men, to see whether there was any
corner unoccupied where I could enjoy the beauty of the
unexpected sight in peace. The knave was almost dark. The
expense of lighting had no doubt to be considered. For

(17:03):
several days passed, no candle or taper was to be
had for money, and no doubt the kindness of a
motorist of the Red Cross had been appealed to for
the supply of all the candles which lit up the altar.
This was indeed resplendent. The vestry had been ransacked for candlesticks,
and the tabernacle was surrounded by a splendid ariel of light.
All this increased the touching impression I felt on entering.

(17:27):
Against the brilliant background of the choir, stood out the
black forms of several hundreds of men standing looking towards
the altar. Absolute silence reigned over the whole congregation of soldiers,
and yet no discipline was enforced. There was no superior
present to impose a show of devotion. Left to themselves,
they all understood what they had to do. They crowded together,

(17:49):
waiting in silence and without any impatience for the ceremony
to begin. Suddenly, a white figure came towards me through
the crowded ranks of soldiers. He extended his arms in
token of welcome, and I at once recognized the Chaplain
in his surplice. His face was beaming with pleasure, and
his eyes shone behind his spectacles. He appeared to be

(18:10):
supremely happy. This way, monsieur le officer. This way I
have thought of everything. You must have the seat of honor.
Follow me. I followed the Holy Man, who elbowed away
for me up the crowded aisle. He had reserved all
the choir stalls for the officers before the war. They
had been occupied at high mass by the clergy, the choir,

(18:30):
and the principal members of the congregation. He proudly showed
me into one of them, and I felt rather embarrassed
at finding myself suddenly in a blaze of light between
an artillery lieutenant and a surgeon major. The low vestry
door now opened, and a very unexpected procession appeared. In
front of a bearded priest. Walked four artillery men in uniform.

(18:51):
One of them carried a censer and another the incense box.
The other two walked in front of them, arms crossed
and eyes front the whole process and knelt before the
altar with perfect precision. And I saw beneath the priest's
vestments muddy gaiters of the same kind as those worn
by the gunners. At the same time, we heard quite
close to us strains of music which seemed to us

(19:14):
celestial in the dim light. I had not noticed the harmonium,
But now I could distinguish the artist who was enchanting
us by his skill in drawing sweet sounds from a
poor worn instrument. He was an artillery captain. At once
all eyes were turned towards him. We were all enraptured.
None of us dared to hope that we should lift

(19:34):
our voices in the hymns. The organist seemed unconscious of
his surroundings. The candle placed near the keyboard cast a
strange light upon the most expressive her heads. Against the
dark backgrounds of the church. The striking features of a
noble face were thrown into strong relief, a forehead broad
and refined, an aristocratic nose, a fair mustache turned up

(19:56):
at the ends, and notably, two fine blue eyes, which,
without a glance at the fingers of the keys, were
fixed on the vaulted roof, as though seeking inspiration there.
The chaplain, turning to the congregation, then said, my friends,
we will all join in singing O Salataris. The harmonium

(20:17):
gave the first notes, and I braced myself to endure
the dreadful discords I expected from the crowd of soldiers.
Mostly reservist, who I supposed had come together that evening
mainly out of curiosity. Judge of my astonishment. At first
only a few timid voices joined the chaplains. But after
a minute or so a marvel happened. From all those

(20:39):
chests came a volume of sound which I could hardly
have believed possible. Who will say then, that our dear
France had lost her faith? Who can believe it? Every
one of these men joined in singing the hymn, and
not one of them seemed ignorant of the Latin words.
It was a magnificent choir under a lofty vault, chanting
with the fur of absolute sincerity. There was not one

(21:03):
discordant note, not one voice out of tune, to spoil
its perfect harmony. Who can believe that men, many of
them more than thirty years old, would remember all the
words unless they had been brought up in the faith
of their ancestors and still held it. I could not
help turning to look at them in the light of
the candles. Their faces appeared to be wonderfully transfigured. Not

(21:24):
one of them expressed irony or even indifference. What a
fine picture it would have made for a Rembrandt. The
bodies of the men were invisible in the darkness of
the knave, and their heads alone emerged from the gloom.
The effect was grand enough to fascinate the most skeptical
of painters. It soothed and charmed one, and wiped out

(21:44):
all the miseries that the war had left in its wake.
Men like these would be equal to anything, ready for anything,
And I myself should have liked to see a monsieur
Hamas hidden away in some corner of that church. Meanwhile,
the sacred office was at the altar. At any other
time we might have smiled at the sight of that
soldier priest served by choristers of thirty five in uniform.

(22:08):
At that ceremony, it was inexpressibly touching and attractive, and
it was especially delightful to see how carefully and precisely
each performed his function, that the ceremony might not lack
its accustomed pomp. When the singing had ceased, the chaplain
went up to the holy table. In a voice full
of feeling. He tried to express his gratitude and happiness

(22:30):
to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him
to be a brilliant speaker at the best of times,
but on that occasion the worthy man was completely unintelligible.
His happiness was choking him. He tried in vain to
find the words he wanted, used the wrong ones, and
only confused himself by trying to get them right. But
nobody had the least desire to laugh. When to conclude

(22:52):
his address, he said, with a sigh of relief, and
now we will tell twenty beads of the rosary, ten
for the seccess of our arms, and the other ten
in memory of the soldiers who have died on the
field of honor. Hail Mary, full of grace. I looked
round the church once more, and everyone's lips were moving

(23:13):
silently accompanying the priest's words. Opposite us, I saw the
artillery captain take a rosary out of his pocket and
tell the beads with dreamy eyes. And when the chaplain
came to the sentence, Holy Mary, Mother of God, hundreds
of voices burst forth, deep and manly voices full of fervor,
which seemed to proclaim their faith in him who was

(23:35):
present before them on the altar, and also to promise
self sacrifice and devotion to that other sacred thing their country. Then,
after the tantum Ergo had been sung with vigor, the
priest held up the monstrants, and I saw all those
soldiers with one accord kneel down on the stone floor
and bow their heads. The silence was impressive. Not a word,

(23:57):
not a cough, and not a chair moved. I had
never seen such devotion in any church. Some spiritual power
was brooding over the assemblage and bowing all those heads
in token of submission and hope. Good, brave soldiers of France,
how we love and honor you at such moments, And
what confidence your chiefs must feel when they lead such

(24:18):
men to battle. We sat at table around the lamp,
and good Mam and Cheverad had just brought in the
steaming soup. Right away towards the east we heard the
dull roll of the cannon. Good Monsieur Cheverat had just
brought up from his cellar a venerable bottle of his
best Burgundy, and at the invitation of the Captain, he
sat down to drink a glass with us, smoking his

(24:40):
cherry wood pipe and listening with delight to our merry chat.
Gossitt was in his kitchen next door, preparing a delicious
piece of beef alamode, and at the same time telling
the admiring mamman Chevered about his exploits of the past month.
We heard the men in the first troop cracking their
jokes in the yard as they ate their rations and
emptied their annakin of wine under a brilliant moon down

(25:03):
in the valley on the banks of the murmuring vessel.
Songs and laughter floated up to us from the artillery park,
and the village itself, shining under the starlit sky, seemed
bathed in an atmosphere of cheerfulness, courage and confidence. End
of Chapter five recording by f n H. Visit www

(25:24):
dot book Ranger dot co dot uk.