Letters of a Soldier
by Annonymous

August 1914

August 6, 1914.

My Very Dear Mother,

These are my first days of life at war, full of change, but the fatigue I actually feel is very different from what I foresaw.

I am in a state of great nervous tension because of the want of sleep and exercise. I lead the life of a government clerk. I belong to what is called the dépôt, I am one of those doing sedentary work, and destined eventually to fill up the gaps in the fighting line.

What we miss is news; there are no longer any papers to be had in this town.

***

August 13.

We are without news, and so it will be for several days, the censorship being of the most rigorous kind.

Here life is calm. The weather is magnificent, and all breathes quiet and confidence. We think of those who are fighting in the heat, and this thought makes our own situation seem even too good. The spirit among the reservists is excellent.

***

Sunday, August 16.

To-day a walk along the Marne. Charming weather after a little rain.

A welcome interlude in these troubled times. We are still without news, like you, but we have happily a large stock of patience. I have had some pleasure in the landscape, notwithstanding the invasion of red and blue.

These fine men in red and blue have given the best impression of their moral. Great levies will be made upon our dépôts, to be endured with fortitude.

***

August 16 (from a note-book).

The monotony of military life benumbs me, but I don’t complain. After nine years these types are to be rediscovered, a little less marked, improved, levelled down. Just now every one is full of grave thoughtsbecause of the news from the East.

The ordinary good fellowship of the mess has been replaced by a finer solidarity and a praiseworthy attempt at adaptation. One of the advantages of our situation is that we can, as it were, play at being soldiers with the certainty of not wasting our time. All these childish and easy occupations, which are of immediate result and usefulness, bring back calm to the mind and soothe the nerves. Then the great stay which supports the men is a profound, vague feeling of brotherhood which turns all hearts towards those who are fighting. Each one feels that the slight discomfort which he endures is only a feeble tribute to the frightful expense of all energy and all devotedness at the front.

***

August 25

This letter will barely precede our own departure. The terrible conflict calls for our presence close to those who are already in the midst of the struggle. I leave you, grandmother and you, with the hope of seeing you again, and the certainty that you will approve of my doing all that seems to me my duty.

 Nothing is hopeless, and, above all, nothing has changed our idea of the part we have to play.Tell all those who love me a little that I think of them. I have no time to write to any one. My health is of the best.

. . . After such an upheaval we may say that our former life is dead.

Dear mother, let us, you and I, with all our courage adapt ourselves to an exis ence entirely different, however long it may last.

Be very sure that I won’t go out of my way to do anything that endangers our happiness, but that I’ll try to satisfy my conscience, and yours. Up till now I am without cause for self_reproach, and so I hope to remain.

***

August 25 (2nd letter).

A second letter to tell you that, instead of our regiment, it was Pierre’s that went. I had the joy of seeing him pass in front of me when I was on guard in the town. I accompanied him for a hundred yards, then we said good-bye. I had a feeling that we should meet again.It is the gravest of hours; the country will not die, but her deliverance will be snatched only at the price of frightful efforts.Pierre’s regiment went covered with flowers, and singing. It was a deep consolation to be together till the end.It is fine of André[1] to have saved his drowning comrade. We don’t realize the reserve of heroism there is in France, and among the young intellectual Parisians.In regard to our losses, I may tell you that whole divisions have been wiped out. Certain regiments have not an officer left. As for my state of mind, my first letter will perhaps tell you better what I believe to be my duty. Know that it would be shameful to think for one instant of holding back when the race demands the sacrifice. My only part is to carry an undefiled conscience as far as my

feet may lead.                             

[Footnote 1: Second Lieutenant André Cadoux, who died gloriously inbattle on April 13, 1915.]

***

August 26

My very Dear Mother

I am very happy by Maurice Barrés’s fine article, ‘l’Aigle et le Rossignol,’ which corresponds in every detail with what I feel.

The dépôts contain some failures, but also men of fine energy, among whom I dare not yet count myself, but with whom I hope to set out. The

major had dispensed me from carrying a knapsack, but I carry it for practice and manage quite well.

The only assurance which I can give you concerns my own moral and physical state, which is excellent. The true death would be to live in a conquered country, above all for me, whose art would perish.

I isolate myself as much as I can, and I am really unaffected, from the intellectual point of view. Besides, the atmosphere of the mess is well above that of normal times: the trouble is that the constant moving and changing drags us about from place to place, and growing confidence falters before the perpetually recurring unknown.

***

August 30.

You do not know the things that are taught by him who falls. I do know.

My little mother, it is certain that though we did not leave yesterday, it is yet only a question of hours. I won’t say to you anything that I have already said, content only that I have from you the approval of which I was certain.

…In the very hard march yesterday only one man fell out, really ill.

France will come out of this bad pass.

I can only repeat to you how well I am prepared for all eventualities, and that nothing can undo our twenty_seven years of happiness. I am resolved not to consider myself foredoomed, and I fancy the joy of returning, but I am ready to go to the end of my strength. If you knew the shame I should endure to think that I might have done something more!

In the midst of all this sadness we live through magnificent hours, when the things that used to be most strange take on an august significance.