War The Creator - free ebook by Gelett Burgess

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War The Creator

Gelett Burgess

24 chapters

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24 chapters

WAR~THE CREATOR

WAR~THE CREATOR

BY ~ GELETT BURGESS ~ ~ ~ New York B. W. HUEBSCH 1916 Copyright, 1915, By P. F. Collier &amp; Son, Inc. Copyright, 1916, by B. W. Huebsch War the Creator was first printed in Collier’s . Acknowledgment is made to that weekly for permission to publish the story in volume form. PRINTED IN U. S. A. WAR THE CREATOR...

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I

I

B ECAUSE he was my friend, because he was so lovable, because he suffered much, I want to try to tell the story of a boy who, in two months, became a man. My hero is Georges Cucurou, the son of a shoe-maker of Toulouse. I happened to see him first just before the war began, and not again until after he had been wounded; and the change in him was then so great that I could not rest until I had learned how it had been brought about. Georges is but one of the thousands who have gone into that furna

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II

II

Georges, having commenced his regular three years’ military service in October, 1913, got leave to visit his aunt who was keeping a pension in Paris. How shy and confused he was when I came down to the dining-room that day and surprised him while he was examining his too-faint mustache with great seriousness before the mirror! Charming, I thought him, instantly; a clean, jolly sort of boy, quite too young for that ridiculous soldier’s uniform. His aunt introduced him (with her arm about his shou

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III

III

The French do nothing without a flavoring of sentiment. Rhetoric flowers in the official proclamations; it makes one laugh even to read the textbooks for soldiers, they are so strewn with fine, resounding phrases; and so, of course, it was quite impossible for Coco’s regiment to get away without one of those stirring, gesticulative speeches by the colonel. It was at the Toulouse railway station—parents in tears. The girls gazed admiringly. Gossipy veterans of ’70, seeing themselves reincarnated

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IV

IV

Yet there was a terrible earnestness about it all that sobered them. There was something still more terribly earnest ahead! Every automobile that whizzed past them, coming in hot haste from the front, announced it. Every galloping supply wagon, every crouching motorcyclist in uniform flashing by told the same frantic story: “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! The Germans are almost here! France is in danger!” On those first nights, when Coco’s turn came to stand on sentry duty by the lonely corner of a wood,

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V

V

On the morning of August 21 they crossed the boundary. Hurrahs from the men—they were going forward to conquer! They were going to deliver this brave little country from the barbaric invader who had laid it waste. Coco was thrilled with the nobility of their mission. “ Vive la France! ” he shouted with all the rest; but alas, the approaching thunderstorm soon damped his spirits. The rain poured down in torrents, down the back of his neck and into his shoes. Coming to a halt, they bivouacked in a

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VI

VI

Coco wondered why they had to call on him ; but, well, it had to be done, his duty, and he did it. With a man on either side of him he walked forward gingerly through a field where cows were grazing, nearer and nearer that horrible wood. He didn’t dare look at the ground; as he stumbled on his eyes never left that wood, so deathly still and mysterious. Were there Germans hidden in those trees? It was his duty to find out. Bracques and Lemaitre didn’t falter; so Coco didn’t falter. He kept right

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VII

VII

The nerve-racking, deafening din went on and on without a respite. Bracques was hit in the head—he was a living, breathing horror, his whole jaw gone—one hand plucking at his coat. He lay grotesquely uncomfortable on his back, rolling this way and rolling that way on his knapsack and his tin gamelle and the dozen other accouterments he couldn’t get rid of. A dozen lads he had gone to school with in Toulouse were screaming. One called for his mother again and again, “ Maman! Maman! Maman! ” Most

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VIII

VIII

At last he turned and looked at me with an expression that made me feel guilty enough at having asked. “But that isn’t all, m’sieur; I haven’t told you the worst part yet. Last week his father—François’s father—came here to see me. He asked me if I knew anything about François—how he died. What could I say? Of course I couldn’t tell him. I saw him fall—that’s all I said. And I was glad, then, that I hadn’t done it.... No, I can’t talk about it any more, m’sieur. Don’t ask me to, please!”...

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IX

IX

For two hours the Twentieth Regiment endured the storm of shell. To advance a regiment of infantry like that without artillery support was surely an incredible piece of criminal stupidity. Some one had blundered. But there were many blunders in those early days of the campaign, and the truth hasn’t all come out even yet. One interesting fact, however, did come out; although Coco didn’t hear of it for several days. It was a piece of sublime sentimentality impossible in any other than a French arm

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X

X

It was more than a rout, it was a panic. Into the wood the shells followed them—there seemed to be no escape. Every moment they expected to see the uhlans charging them down. Dodging this way, that way, deafened, shouting over here—over there—the shells dropping to right, to left, as if from the clouds, the men, breathless, exhausted, poured out upon a road, to stagger back almost run over by a clattering battery of guns galloping, too late, galloping toward the firing line. They stopped to pant

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XI

XI

There was no singing, this time. The Twentieth was smarting with the shame of its defeat; it was savage for revenge; but, held in reserve behind the battle line, it had to wait listening to the booming cannon and the crackle of machine guns for an impatient hour—then they were ordered back to Mouzon. At Mouzon, news of a fresh defeat awaited them. The town was now distraught, terror-stricken by the ever-nearing, ever-increasing thunder of the German cannonade. When Georges arrived at midnight, a

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XII

XII

It was a bitter sight for Georges, burning to defend his country. What was the French army good for, anyway, if it couldn’t protect this pretty, innocent little town, so charmingly scattered over the wooded heights of the Meuse? But Mouzon was doomed. Already the sappers with wires and sticks of melinite were blowing up the picturesque old stone bridge. All next day Georges’s regiment, hidden in the woods, watched the shelling of the town; all next night, hungry, soaked with rain, enraged, they

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XIII

XIII

The shells began to fall thicker and faster; the Germans were indubitably near at hand. But where the devil was the regiment? There was no knowing, except that it was pretty sure to be getting away from those harrying shells. Chilled, the boys ran through the dripping woods till they came to a clearing. Here, looking down, they saw the Germans fording the Meuse! But not without trouble; a French battery had got their range, and was playing red havoc with them, slinging shell after shell of well-

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XIV

XIV

The Twentieth Regiment now contained a sad and sorry lot of men, weary, discouraged, shamefaced, and sullen at their double defeat. But when they heard that the army was to retreat still further, and abandon all this rich, flourishing northern country to the invaders without a blow—why, it was incredible! What was the matter? Where were their reënforcements? Only fifteen days ago they had been marching enthusiastically up through the lovely forest of Argonne. Now they were going to retreat into

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XV

XV

During that terrible retreat, Georges, had been a part of a working, fighting machine, tried to his utmost in mind and body. He had been hammered, hammered into shape. Hunger and fatigue had hardened him. Every day his nerves had been getting more tough and strong. If his duty consisted of retreating, digging, sleeping three or four hours a day, going without meat and often Without water or wine, he could do it. On a post card, scrawled in haste from somewhere (no postmark, no date, no indica ti

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XVI

XVI

The camp of Mailly was a busy place. At the aeroplane sheds the biplanes and Blériots were constantly going and coming, circling in the air, or making ready in long rows upon the level field. The vast plain was filled with troops of all sorts in seemingly inextricable confusion: chasseurs, on horseback, in pale blue tunics, the Alpine chasseurs, with drooping blue berets on their heads, and leggings; cuirassiers with their breastplates and long horsehair plumes, and zouaves with embroidered jack

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XVII

XVII

On Wednesday morning another messenger got through with orders to advance. From that corpse-strewn wood there emerged a band of men that might have been taken for theatrical desperadoes. Uniforms in shreds, coats gone, shoes gone, knees sticking through trousers legs, and elbows through sleeves, all plastered with mud to a uniform gray, like khaki; wild-eyed with hunger and reckless now, everyone’s nerves on edge, cursing, weeping, mad, ready for anything except more inaction! Forward! The men,

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XVIII

XVIII

So much Georges told me; more he would not tell, at first, except that he thought the Germans stopped firing at about thirty meters distance, and began to sing the “ Wacht am Rhein .” Now I have always wanted to know the details of a typical bayonet fight—just how the issue is decided, why a Frenchman might not win here, and a German there, and so keep the victory uncertain. That, in fact, was one of the things I went to Toulouse to find out. But, to get any vivid picture of that bloody encounte

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XIX

XIX

When the Twentieth was gathered together for roll call, it was found that there were 150 dead or wounded. Some 300 Germans were stretched upon the ground. But the enemy must be pursued. So forward, with great precautions, to a farm, their headquarters—but it was found to be empty; so here they halted for a rest, the young men still panting with the exertion and excitement of the fight. “I tried to smoke my pipe,” said Georges, “but I had to give it up.” With the artillery still hammering all abo

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XX

XX

Three hours’ rest, and then again forward! At noon, a farm. Halt! Georges was one of the three who went forward, dodging from wall to wall, to reconnoiter. There seemed to be some secret hidden there—the roof was blown off, the windows smashed, devastation everywhere about—but it might still conceal some desperate foe. As he approached the closed door, he saw a stain on the stone step, where a little dark stream of something had dried. He pushed open the door—butchery! More than two hundred Germ

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XXI

XXI

Georges’s story is almost told, now; there remains only the end of his soldiering, which was to be eventful to the last. After following the fighting body for three days, the Twentieth Regiment was ordered into the first line. The Germans, having now retreated to the Aisne, and eastward to the strategic positions long since prepared and mapped by German spies, had made a stand. So on toward Ville-sur-Tourbes Georges marched, the firing every moment getting hotter. They were evidently advancing a

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XXII

XXII

But Georges laughed too soon, he ducked just too late! There was a terrific explosion, and suddenly he felt paralyzed all over—as if by an electric shock. No pain anywhere at first; only a fearful feeling that something dire had happened to him. He was stunned; “sort of upside-down, all over,” he said. Dragging himself out of the shower of dirt, dazed and frightened, he saw that his left foot was covered with blood. Then, a sudden leap of pain! He had a savage burst of anger that he should have

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XXIII

XXIII

At the beautiful Renaissance hospital at Toulouse on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, I found Georges Cucurou lying in the corner of a huge hall—a splendid hall it was of carvings and arches and coffer-vaulted ceiling, all hung with flags. How small his cot looked, there in the corner of that hall, amid paintings and gild ings and magnificent cornices! How strange those nurses looked too—white-swathed matrons in flowing draperies, and nuns with flapping wide white headdresses gliding silently along

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