I try to think of pleasant things: of Lucie’s face, the clicking of her mother’s knitting needles. I think of the scent of the lavender sachets the good lady makes for those too sensitive to the acrid smells of the caves. I remember the scent of the ointment Lucie made for me, concocted of rosemary and thyme. But of course, any mental transport I can achieve is soon overrun by my hideous reality.
At present we are billeted in a ramshackle barn, and negotiate a sea of mud to get in and out. We have no boards, so sleep on straw on the wet ground. Fires are not allowed and atnight the cold cuts through our winter fur coats. We huddle together like puppies in an attempt to keep warm and, I believe, to hear the beat of another human heart.
Lately in the trenches we have stood knee-deep in water for days at a time, our gum boots filling with water and offering little relief. With every moment we all fear the dreaded trench foot; many so afflicted lose their feet and legs altogether.
xxx found ourselves under assault, and as it was impossible to make any advance in our quarter, I dug myself in and awaited events. It was a horrible suspense; I recited poetry to myself, but it hardly calmed me. As the hours passed with aching slowness, I seemed to be the only man untouched; all around me were dead and wounded. Being personally acquainted with each man made the loss that much worse.
In fact, it’s wrong to call them men, as they are mostly boys. Rémy xxx is quite fit and, now, the only pal I have left in the platoon. We have been resting since getting information about the xxx but by all reports we shall be up again soon.
No rest for the wicked, as they say; if true, we must surely be a wretched lot.
Within two days we were back out digging trenches at night when theBocheslet us have it for five hours with trench mortars and gas shells. We wore our masks to protect from the poison, but two poor souls were hit directly with the gas shells and dropped just that easily. Another eight were put out by mortars in the first ten minutes, reducing our number from twenty-two to ten.
The sights and smells are awful, as the bodies of thepoiluslie just as they fell during the advance. It is impossible to stop and bury them. Also there are a dozen dead horses in the mud, killed by shell fire while bringing up ammunition for the guns.
As we started forward again, one young boy fell at my side. I heard him call,“Maman!”as he dropped. Then on the other side a boy of eighteen had both legs blown away at the knee. I bound up his wounds as best I could and ran with him on my back to the nearest dressing station.
“Émile,” I heard him say as we neared the medics, “don’t leave me, will you, pal?” And with that he was gone. I became so enraged I do believe I went a little mad. With the next advance I ran amok in the enemy’s trench and with rifle, bayonet, and mortars took the lives of at least twenty Huns. My savage rage has earned me a medal.
I hope you understand, my dearmarraine, that I write this last not with the least bit of pride, but with a dull, trembling fear for my own humanity.
Your war godson and doomed friend,
Émile Legrand
May 18, 1917
Dear Mrs. Whittaker,
In the midst of horror come strange tales—some strange enough even for our beloved Monsieur Edgar Allan Poe, I do believe. A British engineer who spoke very decent French told me a story, and I wonder if it might be true.
There was intense fighting, and many of his comrades had fallen from bullets and gas when, out of the mist, walking across No Man’s Land, came a figure. The man walked straight through the poison cloud, though he wore no mask. Indeed, he was clad in the uniform of the British Royal Army Medical Corps.
The engineer remembered that the stranger spoke English, but with what seemed to be a French accent. He carried a bucket of clear liquid and on his belt hung a number of tin cups. As he joined the men down in the trench he began filling the cups and passing them out to the soldiers, urging them to drink.
The engineer said the potion was almost too salty to swallow, but he and his friends obeyed the stranger. When the gas cloud had blown over and things calmed down, they found that not a single one of the soldiers dosed with the elixir suffered injury from the gas. No explanation for the strange visit could be given, and the Royal Medical Corps claimed they knew of no such man. But thousands died or were gravely injured in that terrible attack, save the soldiers who took the cup from the stranger.
Do you believe it? It seems it could hardly be true. But I have to say that sometimes there seems to be a strange pause—not in the shooting or shelling, because that is unceasing. But sometimes it feels that all the noise quiets, and I wait, scarcely breathing, for something. It seems to be long minutes, but it might be mere seconds. And then it comes—invisible, intangible, but nevertheless very real. Something comes to that place of desolation, stops a moment beside me, comforting as a mother placing her hand on a child’s head, and then it passes on again.
I know you are not a priest, my dearmarraine, but I believe you are a wise woman who does not suffer fools. Do you think what I see and feel could possibly be real?
Could it be a spirit or a sign, do you think? Or could it be that the desire for godly interference is so strong that it affects our eyes and ears?
How do the angels stand it? I wonder.
As always, I am your affectionate
Émile Legrand
?The next morning Rosalyn encountered André as she left theChambre Chardonnay.
“Bonjour,”said Rosalyn.
“Bonjour, madame.”André hesitated, as though he wanted to say something more.
Rosalyn waited.
“I lost a brother, when I was a teenager.” André spoke slowly in French, as though to make sure she could understand. “He was killed in a car accident.”
