Once again I have been sent to Reims. My poor, devastated city is even worse than before. I am so sorry to say it. After looking the lady Lucie Maréchal up at her Villa Traverne, only to find there nothing but charred ruins, I discovered through a passerby that they had moved to another house, to the south of the city.
But there, another ruin stood.
In truth I began to panic, thinking of the terrible things that might have happened to the young lady and her family. Though I see the death of my fellow soldiers every day, it is harder to cope with the violence done to civilians.
At long last, and with great relief, I found the lady in question, along with her mother, father, and brother, hiding down in thecrayèresof Pommery. They have taken shelter there, along with so many others, and have made a little niche for themselves into a strange kind of home, under the sign of Dakar.
I don’t quite know how to describe Mademoiselle Lucie Maréchal. The first time I met her, her words and attitude surprised me; she was not the spoiled girl I had expected. But now... she has given up her fine silks for simple muslins, her soft kid shoes for the wooden clogs worn by women who work in the fields. She does not seem embittered, but merely determined. There is a stubborn set to her chin that makes even this battle-weary soldier believe that she will survive and do as she pleases, within the confines of her war-scarred world.
Already the others in the caves look to her for guidance. She forms groups that go out to scavenge for useful items—and to help the wounded—in the rubble after shellings. A little orphangirl named Topette follows her around and sleeps by her side at night.
Many of our brave troops are bunked down in the caves under xxx, mostly French but some British as well. I find myself wishing, fervently, that I could remain here to fight alongside them. At times they become emboldened with champagne, and I find myself fearful that they might bother the young ladies. It is something quite akin to jealousy, though I realize it is not my place.
The tunnels have been extended far out under the vines on the hillsides. Into No Man’s Land, a hell of trenches and soot, shell holes andséchoirs. That the vines survive the gas and bombardment is a testament to [unreadable], and, I like to think, to the spirit of theRémois.
Please always know I think of you withle coeur toujours chaud.
Respectfully,
Émile Legrand
July 5, 1915
My dearmarraine,
Many of my battalion have been dropped not by bullets but by disease. I think the flies have something to do with it, as well as the heat and the still-unburied bodies. There seem to be millions of flies here in xxx, and they are all over everything. Put a cup of tea down without a cover and it is immediately covered; when you open your mouth to speak or to eat, in they pop. It is a gruesome sort of game.
Where we are now must have been a “No Man’s Land” because there are no houses or buildings of any kind to be seen, and except for the flies, the only living things are rats and lizards and occasionally brave little canaries.
You asked about our rations. We get plenty of bully beef and army biscuits, but bread and fresh meat have become a luxury, and it is not possible to buy anything. Last winter flour was in such short supply that bread was being made with dried ground turnips, but it was better than nothing. Once, a few weeks ago, aboulangerie roulanteappeared; you cannot imagine the jubilation to have a few slices ofpain au levain! I believe I will never again take such things for granted.
Lately we have been fed on pea soup with a few lumps of horse meat, if we’re lucky. I don’t complain, as I know the kitchen staff eats the same as we do, and theirs is not an easy job. Not long ago one cook was hit by a sniper while out scouting for nettles and dandelion greens to add a little flavor to the soup.
I find the worst part is that the kitchen staff has only two large vats, in which everything is prepared, and here in xxx it is difficult to wash our bodies, much less the dishes. Thus everything we eat tastes of something else; our tea often smells like potatoes and onions.
When last I visited Reims, Lucie took me to a little café that had been set up underground, in the caves. There were little tables, and we all seemed to be taking part in a play, as though we were outside at a sidewalk café. We shared a tea cake and some champagne; the cake was stale and made of something other than flour—it is best not to wonder—but it was ambrosia nonetheless. The champagne shimmered like the nectar of the gods, as always.
And the lovely Lucie, sitting before me, was like an angel from heaven (a very determined, stubborn angel) that has been assigned to purgatory for some unspoken sin, trapped beneath the earth, within the caves.
Yours with all affection and respect,
Émile Legrand
Chapter Twenty-five
Lucie
When first we landed in our underground lair, the overwhelming feeling was one of relief. But that did not last long.
Soon enough I came to understand that the gravest danger was no longer the shells that dropped—though they sometimes shook us even deep within the cave—but the prodigious degradation of spirit.
There are soldiers billeted in their own sections of thecrayères; they have extended the tunnels so they can travel for many kilometers into No Man’s Land without ever exposing themselves to the outside world.
Though they do not live among us, their military presence means that the world at large has learned about the pitiable, braveRémoisliving underground. Journalists and sometimes even politicians and famous performers appeal to the military authorities for special passes to come visit the strange and remarkable “underground cities” that now house the populace of Reims under the celebrated champagne houses of Clicquot, Taittinger, and Pommery.
It feels more and more like we are, indeed, living in Alice’s wonderland, that we have fallen down the rabbit’s hole.
I care less about visiting dignitaries than I do about my own stomach. When the dangerous zone is relatively clear, the soldiers are able to bring in food and other necessities. Occasionally presents arrive from concerned citizens in sections of France relatively untouched by war, and some by admirers from faraway parts of the world: One year the children were sent new shoes, and another time thousands of cut flowers filled the caves, lending us their garish colors and heavenly scents for a few days.
