20 - War by Pierre Loti

Discover the compelling insights of Pierre Loti [Julien Viaud] (1850-1923), a French naval officer and novelist, in War. This captivating work of non-fiction features a selection of letters and diary entries that reveal his thoughts and experiences during the tumultuous times of war. Loti not only reflects on his involvement in World War I but also shares his perspectives on the preparations leading up to the Turkish Revolution of 1923, a significant event that inspired the naming of a famous hill and a beloved café in Istanbul after him. Join us as we explore the mind of a man who witnessed history firsthand. (Summary by Carolin)

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
War by Pierre Lotty, Chapter twenty of War. This is
a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox dot org.
Recorded by Peter Bishop. War by Pierre Lotti, translated by
Marjorie Laurie, Chapter twenty. All souls day with the armies

(00:25):
at the front, second November nineteen fifteen, two or three
days ago. All along the front of the battle begin
the great festival in honor of our soldiers. Graves, no
matter where they lie, grouped around churches in the ordinary village, cemeteries,
ranged in rows with military precision, in little special cemeteries
consecrated to them, or even situated singly at the side

(00:48):
of a road, in a corner of a wood, or
alone and lost in the midst of fields. Everywhere. Seen
from afar off, under the gloomy sky of these November days,
and against the grayish background of the countryside, they attract
the eyes with the brilliant newness of their decorations. Each
grave is decked with at least four fine tricolors, their
flagstaffs planted in the ground, two at the head, two

(01:11):
at the foot, and an infinite number of flowers and
wreaths tied with ribbons. It was the officers and the
comrades of our dead soldiers who subscribed together to give
them all this, and who, sometimes, in spite of great difficulties,
sent to the neighboring towns for the decorations, and then
arrange them all with such pious care, even on the

(01:32):
graves of those of whom little was known, and of
those poor men few in number, whose very names have
perished here in this village were I chance to be
staying in the course of my journey. The cemetery is
built in terraces and forms an amphitheater on the side
of a hill, and the corner dedicated to the soldiers
is high up, visible to all the neighborhood. There are

(01:52):
fifteen of these graves, each with its four flags, making
sixty flags in all. And in the bitter autumn wind
they flutter almost gaily unceasingly. All these strips of bunting.
They wanton in the air, intermingle, and their bright colors
shine out more conspicuously for the matter of that no
three other colours in combination set off one another so

(02:13):
gaily as our three dear colors of France, and these
tombs moreover, have such quantities and quantities of flowers, dahlias,
chrysanthemums and roses, that they seem to be covered with
one and the same, richly decorated carpet during these days
of festival. The rest of the cemetery is also very
full of flowers, but it looks dull and colorless compared

(02:35):
with that corner sacred to our soldiers. It is this
favored corner which is visible at first sight from a
distance from all the roads leading to the village, and
wayfarers would ask themselves what festival can they be celebrating
with all these flags fluttering in the air. Two days
before I remember coming to see the preparations for these

(02:56):
ingenious decorations. Chasseurs, with their hands full of bunches of flowers,
were working there rapidly and thoughtfully. Speaking in low tones
in the distance could be heard, though much muffled, the
orchestra of the incessant battle, in which the magnificent great
voice of our heavy artillery predominated. It seemed like the
muttering of a storm all along the distant horizon. It

(03:18):
was very gloomy in that cemetery under an overcast sky,
whence fell a semi darkness already wintry in aspect. But
the zeal of these chasseurs who were decking the tomb
so well, must yet have solaced the souls of the
youthful dead with a little tender gaiety. And what beautiful
moving masses were sung for them all along the front

(03:39):
on the day of their festival. All the little churches,
those at least that the barbarians had not destroyed, had
been decorated that day with all that the villages could
muster in the way of flags, banners, tapers and wreaths.
And they were too small, these churches to hold the
crowds that flocked to them. There were officers, soldiers, civil population, women,

(04:02):
mostly in mourning, whose eyes under their veils were reddened
with secret tears. Some of the soldiers of their own accord,
desiring to honor the souls of their comrades with a
very special concert, had taken pains to learn the judgment hymns.
The disarray the de profundis, and their voices unskillfully led,
though they were vibrated impressively in the unison of plain

(04:23):
song which the organ accompanied. Indeed, what could better prepare
them for the supreme sacrifice and for a death nobly
met than these prayers, this music, and even these flowers
they sang this morning, these impoverished choristers were a solemn transport. Then,
after Mass, in spite of the icy rain and the
muddy roads, the crowds that issued from each church in

(04:45):
procession betook themselves to the cemeteries in attendance on the
priests bearing the solemn crucifix. And again, as on the
day of the funerals, all the little graves were blessed.
If I record these scenes, it is for the sake
of mothers and wives and families living far from here
in other provinces of France, whose hearts, no doubt grow

(05:06):
heavier at the thought that the grave of some one
dear to them may be neglected and very soon become unrecognizable. Oh,
let them take comfort in spite of the simplicity of
these little wooden crosses. Almost all alike, nowhere are they
cared for and honored so well as at the front.
In no other place could they receive such touching homage,

(05:27):
such tributive flowers, of prayers, of tears. End of Chapter
twenty recording by Peter Bishop