CHAPTER XL
THE VALLEY OF THE DEAD
When I reëntered my hut I found that the young soldier had opened my bed-roll and removed the few little articles that were in it. The bed-roll was arranged for the night on the burlap berth.
“You haven’t enough blankets, sir,” he said. Then he was gone; but in about five minutes he was back again with two thick brown army blankets. After I had thanked him, he looked around to see if he could improve anything before leaving for the night. Not seeing anything, he was just about to open the door when he turned and said: “If old Fritz comes over to bomb us tonight, sir, the safest place for you will be down in the trench. It’s a moonlight night and Fritzy likes to be out in the moonlight.”
There was no bombing that night, but it was so extremely cold that I could not sleep. I spent the night changing from one position to another in the hope of getting warm, but I remained awake till daylight.
About seven o’clock the following morning I heard a fumbling at the latch of my door. I had just finished my prayers. I waited, for I knew the door was not locked; then as the latch was raised the door opened, assisted by the foot of the one entering. First there appeared a large granite iron plate of steaming porridge and a smoky hand holding it, then a granite iron mug of something steaming, and another smoky hand holding it. Then appeared the kindly soldier of the night before, his pleasant face a little begrimed, but smiling, the arm of the hand which held the mug hugging to his side a small earthen jar of sugar with a spoon in it. I went to his assistance and soon we had the things spread out on an upturned ration box which had been the seat. Now it was the table, and the bed was my seat.
“How did you sleep, sir?” asked the soldier. I told him. Then he said he must try to find something to make a stove. He went on to tell me that he and the cook had built one, but that it was not working well. He held up his hands as evidence, and I looked at his face. “The cook is out there now,” he said, “trying to cook the breakfast, and swearing, for there’s more smoke coming out around the stove than there is going up the chimney.”
I poured from the earthen mug a little of the hot diluted condensed milk over the steaming porridge, and the soldier told me to take all the sugar I wanted as there was plenty. He stood beside me for a while waiting to see if I would make any comment on the porridge. I had never been in the habit of eating any cereal at breakfast, but this morning I was very cold and also very hungry. I tasted the porridge; it was hot, piping hot. It tasted slightly of smoke, but that didn’t matter. “It’s fine,” I said.
“Not smoky?” he asked.
I assured him that if it was a little bit smoky it made no difference. He went out again; but I had not quite finished the porridge before I heard another fumbling at the latch, and in a moment he appeared again with another granite iron plate on which were two rashers of bacon and a large slice of toast; in the other hand was a large mug of hot tea.
“Is this dinner?” I asked.
The lad smilingly told me to eat all I could, that when a man loses sleep the best way to make up for it is by a good meal. He picked up the empty porridge plate and the empty mug, leaving the sugar-bowl, and went out again; but in about three minutes he was back with a jar of compound jam, strawberry and gooseberry.
“Has the cook stopped swearing yet?” I asked.
“Yes,” replied the lad, “I told him you said the porridge was good. He knew it wasn’t, and when he saw your empty plate he smiled. He’ll be all right now for awhile.”
“What is the name of this place?” I asked.
“Carency,” he replied, “in the Souchez Valley. Just across the road, on the other side of the valley, is where the sixty thousand French soldiers and civilians were gassed. Their own turpinide gas that they had sent over against the Germans came back on them. The wind had changed. There are some of the victims in the wood that have never been buried. The valley is called Valley of the Dead.”
He went on to tell me of the great battles that had already been fought in the area where we now were. I learned that we were almost at the base of Vimy Ridge.
“What is the difference between a ‘strafe’ and a ‘bombardment?’” I asked him.
“Well,” he said, “a bombardment is usually all thought out beforehand and a lot of preparations are made for it and it usually lasts a long time. A ‘strafe’ is just a firing that might start up any time, and it generally lasts only a few minutes. Sometimes a green hand in the line brings off a ‘strafe’ that might last half an hour with the loss of many lives and the cost of thousands of dollars. The first night in the line every minute or two some fellow thinks he sees some one coming across ‘No Man’s Land’ and sometimes he ‘gets the wind up’ pretty bad and fires. Then old Fritz thinks some one is coming towards him and he fires back; then two or three of our fellows answer, and immediately old Fritz comes back stronger. Then the whole line opens up and the machine-guns begin to rat-tat-tat, and an S. O. S. flare goes up for the artillery, and presently the earth is rocking under a ‘strafe’ and everybody except one wonders who started it all.”
As the lad then began to gather up the empty dishes, I made apologies for having eaten so much; always my breakfast had been just a little bread and jam. His only comment was, “Sorry, sir, I didn’t have a couple of eggs for you.”
Long after he went out I kept thinking of the horrors of war; what catastrophes might transpire through the changing of the wind or through “getting the wind up.”
After I had returned home from the war I was giving a series of lectures in a little town. In one of them I happened to mention the terrible tragedy of the turpinide gas. Many among my audience found it hard to believe that there had been so many victims. The following day the priest with whom I was staying asked me many questions about the Valley of the Dead. A day or two later, as we were sitting in his office, one of his parishioners came in on some business. I was about to leave the room when the priest motioned me to stay.
When the man had finished his business, he looked at me and said: “So you have been to the war, Father?”
I said I had been there.
“Well,” continued the man, who had come a long distance, “I met a lad who was through it all, and he told me he found the gas worse than anything. He said he was in a place, one time, where thousands and thousands had been froze stiff by a strange kind of gas. He said that there was a church there, filled with people sitting in the pews, and the windows were all up, and this gas came right in through the windows and froze all the people in the pews. They’re all there yet, and if you pay a quarter you can see them.”
The man was most serious. I did not dare look at the priest till he had gone. For a moment the priest shook with laughter, then he said to me: “Father, send for that returned man and make him your assistant. He can tell the story much better than you.”
“Well,” I said, “considering that it was France, they might have made the admission fee one franc instead of a quarter.”
However, my story had not been exaggerated.