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 GARDNER AND SUTHERLAND’S
CHROMOSOME ABNORMALITIES
AND GENETIC COUNSELING

2
OXFORD MONOGRAPHS ON MEDICAL GENETICS
General Editors:
JUDITH G. HALL PETER S. HARPER LOUANNE HUDGKINS EVAN EICHLER CHARLES J.
EPSTEIN (DECEASED 2011) ARNO G. MOTULSKY (RESIGNED 2011)

1. R. B. McConnell: The genetics of gastrointestinal disorders

2. A. C. Kopéc: The distribution of the blood groups in the United Kingdom
3. E. Slater and V. A. Cowie: The genetics of mental disorders
4. C. O. Carter and T. J. Fairbank: The genetics of locomotor disorders
5. A. E. Mourant, A. C. Kopéc, and K. Domaniewska-Sobezak: The distribution
of the human blood groups and other polymorphisms
6. A. E. Mourant, A. C. Kopéc, and K. Domaniewska-Sobezak: Blood groups and
diseases
7. A. G. Steinbert and C. E. Cook: The distribution of the human immunoglobulin
allotypes
8. D. Tills, A. C. Kopéc, and R. E. Tills: The distribution of the human blood
groups and other polymorphisms: Supplement I
10. D. Z. Loesch: Quantitative dermatoglyphics: Classification, genetics, and
pathology
11. D. J. Bond and A. C. Chandley: Aneuploidy
12. P. F. Benson and A. H. Fensom: Genetic biochemical disorders
13. G. R. Sutherland and F. Hecht: Fragile sites on human chromosomes
14. M. d’A Crawfurd: The genetics of renal tract disorders
16. C. R. Scriver and B. Child: Garrod’s inborn factors in disease
18. M. Baraitser: The genetics of neurological disorders
19. R. J. Gorlin, M. M. Cohen, Jr., and L. S. Levin: Syndromes of the head and
neck, third edition
21. D. Warburton, J. Byrne, and N. Canki: Chromosome anomalies and prenatal
development: An atlas
22. J. J. Nora, K. Berg, and A. H. Nora: Cardiovascular disease: Genetics,
epidemiology, and prevention
24. A. E. H. Emery: Duchenne muscular dystrophy, second edition
25. E. G. D. Tuddenham and D. N. Cooper: The molecular genetics of haemostasis
and its inherited disorders
26. A. Boué: Foetal medicine
27. R. E. Stevenson, J. G. Hall, and R. M. Goodman: Human malformations
28. R. J. Gorlin, H. V. Toriello, and M. M. Cohen, Jr.: Hereditary hearing loss and
its syndromes
29. R. J. M. Gardner and G. R. Sutherland: Chromosomes abnormalities and
genetic counseling, second edition
30. A. S. Teebi and T. I. Farag: Genetic disorders among Arab populations
31. M. M. Cohen, Jr.: The child with multiple birth defects
32. W. W. Weber: Pharmacogenetics

3
33. V. P. Sybert: Genetic skin disorders
34. M. Baraitser: Genetics of neurological disorders, third edition
35. H. Ostrer: Non- Mendelian genetics in humans
36. E. Traboulsi: Genetic factors in human disease
37. G. L. Semenza: Transcription factors and human disease
38. L. Pinsky, R. P. Erickson, and R. N. Schimke: Genetic disorders of human
sexual development
39. R. E. Stevenson, C. E. Schwartz, and R. J. Schroer: X- linked mental
retardation
40. M. J. Khoury, W. Burke, and E. Thomson: Genetics and public health in the
21st century
41. J. Weil: Psychosocial genetic counseling
42. R. J. Gorlin, M. M. Cohen, Jr., and R. C. M. Hennekam: Syndromes of the head
and neck, fourth edition
43. M. M. Cohen, Jr., G. Neri, and R. Weksberg: Overgrowth syndromes
44. R. A. King, J. I. Rotter, and A. G. Motulsky: Genetic basis of common
diseases, second edition
45. G. P. Bates, P. S. Harper, and L. Jones: Huntington’s disease, third edition
46. R. J. M. Gardner and G. R. Sutherland: Chromosome abnormalities and genetic
counseling, third edition
47. I. J. Holt: Genetics of mitochondrial disease
48. F. Flinter, E. Maher, and A. Saggar- Malik: Genetics of renal disease
49. C. J. Epstein, R. P. Erickson, and A. Wynshaw-Boris: Inborn errors of
development: The molecular basis of clinical disorders of morphogenesis
50. H. V. Toriello, W. Reardon, and R. J. Gorlin: Hereditary hearing loss and its
syndromes, second edition
51. P. S. Harper: Landmarks in medical genetics
52. R. E. Stevenson and J. G. Hall: Human malformations and related anomalies,
second edition
53. D. Kumar and S. D. Weatherall: Genomics and clinical medicine
54. C. J. Epstein, R. P. Erickson, and A. Wynshaw-Boris: Inborn errors of
development: The molecular basis of clinical disorders of morphogenesis,
second edition
55. W. Weber: Pharmacogenetics, second edition
56. P. L. Beales, I. S. Farooqi, and S. O’Rahilly: The genetics of obesity syndromes
57. P. S. Harper: A short history of medical genetics
58. R. C. M. Hennekam, I. D. Krantz, and J. E. Allanson: Gorlin’s syndromes of
the head and neck, fifth edition
59. D. Kumar and P. Elliot: Principles and practices of cardiovascular genetics
60. V. P. Sybert: Genetic skin disorders, second edition
61. R. J. M. Gardner, G. R. Sutherland, and L. C. Shaffer: Chromosome
abnormalities and genetic counseling, fourth edition
62. D. Kumar: Genomics and health in the developing world
63. G. Bates, S. Tabrizi, and L. Jones: Huntington’s disease, fourth edition

4
64. B. Lee and F. Scaglia: Inborn errors of metabolism: From neonatal screening
to metabolic pathways
65. D. Kumar and C. Eng: Genomic medicine, second edition
66. R. Stevenson, J. Hall, D. Everman, and B. Solomon: Human malformations
and related anomalies, third edition
67. R. Erickson and A. Wynshaw-Boris: Epstein’s inborn errors of development:
The molecular basis of clinical disorders of morphogenesis, third edition
68. C. Hollak and R. Lachmann: Inherited metabolic disease in adults: A clinical
guide
69. V. P. Sybert: Genetic skin disorders, third edition
70. R. J. M. Gardner and D. J. Amor: Gardner and Sutherland’s chromosome
abnormalities and genetic counseling, fifth edition

5
 GARDNER AND SUTHERLAND’S

Chromosome Abnormalities and

Genetic Counseling
FIFTH EDITION

R. J. McKinlay GARDNER
ADJUNCT PROFESSOR
CLINICAL GENETICS GROUP
UNIVERSITY OF OTAGO, DUNEDIN, NEW ZEALAND

David J. AMOR
LORENZO AND PAMELA GALLI CHAIR
UNIVERSITY OF MELBOURNE
VICTORIAN CLINICAL GENETICS SERVICES
MURDOCH CHILDREN’S RESEARCH INSTITUTE
ROYAL CHILDREN’S HOSPITAL, MELBOURNE, AUSTRALIA

6
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Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press

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acquirer.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Gardner, R. J. M., author. | Amor, David J., author.
Title: Gardner and Sutherland’s chromosome abnormalities and genetic counseling / R. J. McKinlay
Gardner, David J. Amor.
Other titles: Chromosome abnormalities and genetic counseling | Oxford monographs on medical
genetics ; no. 70.
Description: Fifth edition. | Oxford ; New York : Oxford University Press, [2018] |
Series: Oxford monographs on medical genetics ; no. 70 | Preceded by Chromosome abnormalities
and genetic counseling / R.J. McKinlay Gardner, Grant R. Sutherland, Lisa G. Shaffer. c2012. |
Includes bibliographical references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017034126 | ISBN 9780199329007 (hardcover : alk. paper) | ISBN
9780199329021 (epub)
Subjects: | MESH: Chromosome Aberrations | Genetic Counseling
Classification: LCC RB155.7 | NLM QS 677 | DDC 616/.042—dc23 LC record available at
https://lccn.loc.gov/2017034126

This material is not intended to be, and should not be considered, a substitute for medical or other
professional advice. Treatment for the conditions described in this material is highly dependent on
the individual circumstances. And, while this material is designed to offer accurate information with
respect to the subject matter covered and to be current as of the time it was written, research and
knowledge about medical and health issues is constantly evolving and dose schedules for
medications are being revised continually, with new side effects recognized and accounted for
regularly. Readers must therefore always check the product information and clinical procedures
with the most up-to-date published product information and data sheets provided by the
manufacturers and the most recent codes of conduct and safety regulation. The publisher and the
authors make no representations or warranties to readers, express or implied, as to the accuracy or
completeness of this material. Without limiting the foregoing, the publisher and the authors make
no representations or warranties as to the accuracy or efficacy of the drug dosages mentioned in the
material. The authors and the publisher do not accept, and expressly disclaim, any responsibility for
any liability, loss or risk that may be claimed or incurred as a consequence of the use and/or
application of any of the contents of this material.

7
 This book is dedicated to Jocelyn, Geoffrey, and Craig, their
parents, and all other families who seek our “chromosomal
advice.”

Jocelyn and Geoffrey (with lamb) have a partial trisomy for

chromosome 4 long arm, and Craig, the youngest, had a 46,XY
result on amniocentesis. Their father is a translocation carrier (see
Fig. 5–1, lower). Craig, since married, came to the genetic clinic

8
for confirmatory advice about his low genetic risk.

9
Heredity
Inescapably, this is me—the diagnosis
is cause for anger at those
who brightly say we choose our destinies.
There is no store
of courage, wit or will
can save me from myself and I must face
my children, feeling like
that wicked fairy, uninvited
at the christening, bestowing on my own,
amidst murmurs of apprehension, a most
unwanted gift—that
of a blighted mind. No one
could tell me of this curse when I
was young and dreamt of children
and the graces they would bear. Later,
it seemed that a chill morning
revealed deeper layers
of truth. For my romancing
there is a price to pay—
perhaps my children’s children
will pass this tollgate after me.
My grandmothers gaze down from their frames
on my wall, sadly wondering.
—Meg Campbell

Dear DNA
In real life you’re just
a tangle of white filaments
captured in a test-tube,
and your first photo is not flattering:
grey smudges like tractor tracks,
or a rusty screw. Yet
many say you are beautiful.
Online for a night
with a hundred fantastic portraits

10
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and I’m head over heels
In love with you, DNA,
bewitched by your billions
coiled in my cells, transcribing,
replicating, mutating.
I see your never-ending dance.
A length of twisted ladder
briefly unwinds,
both strands duplicate,
each copy drifts away
on its secret mission
to make a thought, feel sunshine,
or digest this morning’s porridge.
Two winding parallel threads,
a tiny tangle of gossamer
designing my life.
DNA, you are astonishing
and I am yours truly.
—Winifred Kavalieris

Genes pass on our kind

But our selves are transmitted
In words left behind.
—J. Patrick Gookin

Curiosity is a virtue, perhaps an unsung and undervalued virtue, which

should be the energizing fuel to the thinking geneticist.
—Willie Reardon

Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?

Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
—T. S. Eliot

11
 PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION

Chromosomal disorders have been, and will always be, with us; that is a
given. What is changing is our ability to recognize and detect them:
detection both in terms of the subtlety of abnormalities and of the means
we can use to find them. Classical cytogenetics has now well and truly
given way to “molecular karyotyping,” and this has been the extraordinary
development of the early twenty-first century. Readers will now be as
accustomed to molecular nomenclature in defining a segment, such as
chr5:1-18,500,000, as they had been to the classical description,
5p14.1→pter.
The very small deletions and duplications which molecular karyotyping
can now reveal have become familiar to the clinicians and counselors who
see patients and families in the clinic. A large number of these are now on
record, many attracting the nomenclature “copy number variant”: Some
are very well understood, others becoming so, and yet quite a few—
variants of uncertain significance, the acronym “VOUS” in daily parlance
—whose roles in human pathology are imperfectly appreciated. Many are
not in the same mold as the deletions and duplications of classical
cytogenetics, in which the single defect sufficed to cause a particular
phenotype, and always did so: We now need to take account of the concept
of incomplete penetrance, with some microdeletions or duplications not, of
themselves, always leading to an abnormal phenotype. Apparently
clinically normal parents may carry the same alteration as their child with
an abnormal phenotype. Digenic, or “two-hit,” mechanisms may now
require consideration. These were not formerly notions much entering into
the assessment of chromosomal disorders; discussion apropos in the clinic
presents a new challenge.
The number of “new” del/dup syndromes increases almost with each
issue of the clinical genetic journals. We include a mention of a
considerable number of these here (Chapter 14), not intending to create an
encyclopedic resource per se but believing that such a record may provide
a useful first point of contact when these cases are encountered in the
clinic. Copy number variants of uncertain significance, on the other hand,
we mostly take only a broad rather than a detailed view (Chapter 17); the

12
reader will need to consult other repositories for fuller information, as their
interpretations evolve.
The new (or now, established) laboratory methodologies blur the
boundaries between what might have been regarded as the classic
chromosomal abnormalities and Mendelian conditions. Some disorders
recorded as being due not only to segmental deletion/duplication affecting
a single locus but also to point mutation at that locus we continue to treat
as “chromosomal”; and for most, their place in this book is secure. But one
major category, the fragile X syndromes, are now seen as essentially
Mendelian disorders, their historic cytogenetic-based nomenclature
notwithstanding, and they no longer claim their chapter.
Peripheral blood and skin have been the tissues in common usage for
chromosome analysis, with an increasing role for cells got from the
convenient and painless “spit sample.” Prenatal diagnosis has been based
on amniocentesis and chorionic villus sampling, but latterly blastomeres
from early embryos, and fetal DNA in the maternal circulation, have
become targets for testing. Now we can anticipate the potential for whole
genome analysis to be applied to the prenatal diagnosis of the classic
aneuploidies, from a simple maternal blood sample, and this would widen
such testing very considerably. Questions such as these raise ethical issues,
and a literature on “chromosomal ethics” is accumulating.
As we have previously written, however marvelous may be these new
ways to test for chromosomes, the concerns of families remain essentially
the same. We may reproduce here the final paragraph of the Preface of the
first edition of this book, from 1989, as valid now as then:
Families pursue genetic counseling in an effort to demystify the mysterious.
If they did not want to “hear it all,” they would not bother with genetic
counseling. Families want an honest evaluation of what is known and what is
unknown, a clear explanation of all possibilities, both good and bad, and a
sensitive exploration of all available information with which they can make
knowledgeable decisions about future family planning. Thus, Bloch et al.
(1979) succinctly convey the essence of why people go to the genetic
counselor. We hope this book will assist counselors in their task.

Dunedin R.J.M.G.
Melbourne D.J.A.
February 2018

13
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

We thank John Barber, Rachel Beddow, Amber Boys, Cyril Chapman,

Jane Halliday, Jan Hodgson, Caroline Lintott, Nicole Martin, Belinda
McLaren, Fiona Norris, Mamoru Ozaki, Mark Pertile, Jenny Rhodes,
Sharyn Stock-Myer, and Jane Watt for their critical advice. We
acknowledge Lisa Shaffer, who was a co-author of the previous edition,
and much of whose work has flowed over into this edition. We have made
much use of the ideograms created by Nicole Chia. The length of the
Reference list, and the frequency with which we acknowledge, in legends
to figures, the courtesy of colleagues whose work we use, speaks for the
debt we owe to our colleagues in clinical cytogenetics worldwide.
Belatedly, R.J.M.G. thanks Ngaire Adams and Dianne Grimaldi, whose
need for chromosomal teaching at Dunedin Hospital in the 1980s provided
the germination for writing this book. We have appreciated the wise
guidance, and the patience and forbearance of Oxford University Press,
from Jeff House when this book made its first appearance, through to Chad
Zimmerman and Chloe Layman in this fifth edition. R.J.M.G. thanks his
wife Kelley for her patient help, once again, in document management;
and the front cover art, and most of the new illustrations in this edition,
have been drawn, or redrawn, by her.

14
 CONTENTS

PART ONE: BASIC CONCEPTS

1. Elements of Medical Cytogenetics
2. Chromosome Analysis
3. The Origins and Consequences of Chromosome Pathology
4. Deriving and Using a Risk Figure

PART TWO: PARENT OR CHILD WITH A CHROMOSOMAL

ABNORMALITY
5. Autosomal Reciprocal Translocations
6. Sex Chromosome Translocations
7. Robertsonian Translocations
8. Insertions
9. Inversions
10. Complex Chromosomal Rearrangements
11. Autosomal Ring Chromosomes
12. Centromere Fissions, Complementary Isochromosomes,
Telomeric Fusions, Balancing Supernumerary Chromosomes,
Neocentromeres, Jumping Translocations, and Chromothripsis
13. Down Syndrome, Other Full Aneuploidies, Polyploidy, and the
Influence of Parental Age
14. Autosomal Structural Rearrangements: Deletions and
Duplications
15. Sex Chromosome Aneuploidy and Structural Rearrangement
16. Chromosome Instability Syndromes

PART THREE: CHROMOSOME VARIANTS

15
17. Normal Chromosomal Variation

PART FOUR: DISORDERS ASSOCIATED WITH ABERRANT

GENOMIC IMPRINTING
18. Uniparental Disomy and Disorders of Imprinting

PART FIVE: REPRODUCTIVE CYTOGENETICS

19. Reproductive Failure
20. Prenatal Testing Procedures
21. Chromosome Abnormalities Detected at Prenatal Diagnosis
22. Preimplantation Genetic Diagnosis

PART SIX: DISORDERS OF SEX DEVELOPMENT

23. Chromosomal Disorders of Sex Development

PART SEVEN: NOXIOUS AGENTS

24. Gonadal Cytogenetic Damage from Exposure to Extrinsic Agents

APPENDICES
A. Ideograms of Human Chromosomes, and Haploid Autosomal
Lengths
B. Cytogenetic Abbreviations and Nomenclature
C. Determining 95 Percent Confidence Limits, and the Standard
Error

References
Index

16
 PART ONE
BASIC CONCEPTS

17
 1
ELEMENTS OF MEDICAL
CYTOGENETICS

CHROMOSOMES WERE first seen and named in the late nineteenth

century. Chromosome is a combination of Greek words meaning colored
(chrom) body (soma); the word was coined by the illustrious German
anatomist Heinrich Wilhelm Gottfried von Waldeyer-Hartz. It was early
appreciated that these brightly staining objects appearing in the cell
nucleus must be the “stuff of heredity,” the very vessels of our genetic
inheritance. Most observers had concluded, in the earlier part of the
twentieth century, that the human chromosome count was 48. It was not
until the 1950s, due to technical advances, and in particular the use of a
hypotonic solution to swell the cells, giving an uncluttered view of the
chromosomes, that Joe Hin Tjio and Albert Levan could recognize that 46
was the correct number. This discovery spurred research into conditions in
which a chromosomal cause had hitherto been suspected, and in 1959 (“the
wonderful year of human cytogenetics”) came the first demonstrations of a
medical application of the new knowledge, with practically simultaneous
discoveries of the chromosomal basis of Down syndrome, Klinefelter
syndrome, and Turner syndrome (Lejeune et al.1 1959; Jacobs and Strong
1959; Ford et al. 1959); these were followed soon thereafter by the
recognition of the other major aneuploidy syndromes. Harper (2006)
records the history, and the personalities behind the history, in his book
First Years of Human Chromosomes—a book that should be read by every
student of medical cytogenetics with an interest in how their discipline
came to be. Harper points out that the practice of genetic counseling came
into its own essentially upon the basis of these chromosomal discoveries:
So to speak, geneticists now had “their organ.”
“Colored bodies” became an especially apt derivation with the
development of various different staining techniques in the 1980s and
1990s, showing different parts of chromosomes in many different colors,

18
whether true or computer-generated false colors. The images produced by
this kaleidoscopic karyotyping could be rather beautiful. Black-and-white
photographs were less splendid but often sufficed (Figure 1–1). Albeit that
molecular methodologies have substantially taken over from classical
cytogenetics, and providing a different view of the genetic material, the
word chromosome will surely last forever.

FIGURE 1–1 The appearance of banded chromosomes, from a classical

cytogenetic study.

Chromosomal Morphology
Chromosomes have a linear appearance: two arms that are continuous at
the centromere. Reflecting the French influence in the establishment of the
cytogenetic nomenclature, the shorter arm is designated p (for petit), and
the longer is q (variously explained as being the next letter in the alphabet,
a mistyping of g (for grand), for queue, or as the other letter in the formula

19
p + q = 1). In the early part of the cell cycle, each chromosome is present
as a single structure, a chromatid, a single DNA molecule. During the cell
cycle, the chromosomes replicate, and two sister chromatids form. Now
the chromosome exists as a double-chromatid entity. Each chromatid
contains exactly the same genetic material. This replication is in
preparation for cell division so that, after the chromosome has separated
into its two component chromatids, each daughter cell receives the full
amount of genetic material. It is during mitosis that the chromosomes
contract and become readily distinguishable on light microscopy.
Blood and buccal mucosal cells are the tissues from which DNA is
extracted in routine chromosome analysis. From blood, the nucleated
white cell is the tested component for microarray analysis, and in classical
cytogenetic analysis, it is the lymphocyte. Buccal mucosal cells and white
blood cells2 are obtained from a saliva sample. The chromosomal status of
each small sample is taken as representative of the constitution of
(essentially) every other cell of the body. In the case of invasive prenatal
diagnosis, the cells from amniotic fluid or chorionic villi are the source
material; these tissues are assumed (with certain caveats) to represent the
fetal chromosomal constitution. Noninvasive prenatal diagnosis exploits
the presence of fetal blood cells and DNA in the maternal circulation.
The 46 chromosomes come in 23 matching pairs and constitute the
genome. One of each pair came from the mother, and one from the father.
For 22 of the chromosome pairs, each member (each homolog) has the
same morphology in each sex: These are the autosomes. The sex
chromosome (or gonosome) constitution differs: The female has a pair of
X chromosomes, and the male has an X and a Y chromosome. The single
set of homologs—one of each autosome plus one sex chromosome—is the
haploid set. The haploid number (n) is 23. The haploid complement exists,
as such, only in the gametocytes (ovum and sperm). All other cells in the
body—the soma—have a double set: the diploid complement (2n) of 46. If
there is a difference between a pair of homologs, in the sense of one being
structurally rearranged, the person is described as a heterozygote.
The chromosomes are classically distinguishable on the basis of their
size, centromere position, and banding pattern. The centromere may be in
the middle, off-center, or close to one end—metacentric, submetacentric,
and acrocentric, respectively. The chromosomes are numbered 1 through
22, and X and Y, and are also assigned to groups A through G, according
to their general size and the position of the centromere. The diagrammatic
representation of the banding pattern is the ideogram (Appendix A). The
numbering is based on size, largest to smallest (to split hairs, this order is

20
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neighed and whinnied. No one—not even our officers—knew whither
we were bound, and the engine-driver himself said that he didn't
know, but that he was to receive orders on the way.
The Territorials guarding the line greeted us as we passed by holding
out their rifles at arm's length. We waved our whips in answer.
"Morning, old chap!"
"Good luck to you, boys!"

Rheims. First the canal, then a glimpse of the town, and then open
country again, with fields of ripe corn yellow in the morning sun.
There were only a few sheaves to be seen. The crops were standing
almost everywhere, motionless in the heat, casting golden lights on
the gently rolling hills and quiet beauty of the countryside. I felt as
though I could not see enough of it. In a few days, perhaps, I
should no longer be able to see the splendour of the sun-kissed corn
and the gorgeous mantle it throws over the symmetrical slopes of
the harvest-land like a drapery of old lace lightly shrouding a
graceful Greek form.
The train rolled slowly on towards Verdun. In each village, from the
gardens adjoining the railway-line, girls and children threw kisses to
us. They threw flowers, too, and, whenever the train stopped,
brought us drinks.
It was already dusk when, after passing the interminable sidings and
platforms of Verdun, with its huge bakeries installed under green
awnings, the train finally came to a standstill at Charny. We had
been travelling for more than thirty hours. Before we had finished
detraining it was quite dark.

II. APPROACH MARCHES

WE were crossing the Meuse. The sun had gone down and the
river, winding its way between its reedy banks and marshy islands in
the afterglow of the crimson western sky, looked as though it was
running with blood. To-morrow, or perhaps the day after, the
appearance may have become reality. I do not know why these
blood-red reflections in the water affected me so much as this last
moment of the evening, but so it was.
Night fell—a clear night, in which I uneasily sought for searchlights
among the stars. By the wayside, in one of the army cattle parks,
countless herds lay sleeping. The country would have been
absolutely still and silent had it not been for the muffled rumble of
our column as we marched along. The last reflections of the daylight
and the first beams of the moon, just rising in the east, were welded
together in a weird, diffused light.
We were marching eastwards, and, as the road skirted the dark
mass of a steep hill, the moon rose clear ahead over the gloomy
pine-trees, which stood out like silhouettes on the horizon. Soon the
battery entered a dark wood, where the drivers had difficulty in
finding the way. Nobody spoke. Occasionally the moon peeped
through the trees, and showed up a horseman. It almost seemed as
if the yellow light threw off a palpable golden powder; the brasswork
of the equipment and the tin mugs of the men shone as though they
were gilded. One man passed, then another, and the shadows, clear
cut on the road, seemed to form part of the silhouettes of the
horsemen and magnify them. Of the rest of the column, lost in the
night of the forest, nothing could be seen.
We had been told that the enemy was not far off, somewhere in the
plain stretching beyond the hills. At every cross-roads we were afraid
lest we should take the wrong turning and find ourselves in the
German lines. Besides, this first march of the campaign, at night-
time, had something uncanny about it which scared us a little in
spite of ourselves.
The column came to a halt just outside a village. Troops were
camping on both sides of the road, and lower down, in one of the
fields a gloomy artillery park had been formed. Despite the hour—
nearly midnight—the heat was oppressive, and the stars were lightly
veiled by a thin mist. The bivouac fires cast flickering shadows of
soldiers in varying stages of undress, some of them naked to the
waist.
A little farther on, in a meadow where the 10th Battery was already
encamped for the night—men and horses lying in the damp grass—
we parked our guns.
We had to lie on the bare ground, and between drivers and gunners
a competition in cunning at once arose as to who was to have the
horse-cloths. Most of the men stretched themselves out under the
ammunition wagons and guns, where the dampness of the night
was less penetrating. But I was still on stable duty, and had to keep
watch on the horses, which were tied side by side to a picket-line
stretched between two stakes. The animals not only kicked and bit
each other, but their collars kept getting loose, and one or two,
succeeding in throwing them off, ambled off into the fields. I spent
the night in wild chases. One little black mare in particular led me a
dance for several hours, and I only caught her at last by rustling
some oats in the bottom of a nose-bag.
Grasping my whip, and wet up to the knees with dew, I had surely
fulfilled my task as stable-picket conscientiously.
Monday, August 10
At 3 a.m. the grey shadow of a dirigible passed overhead beneath
the stars. Friend or enemy?
At daybreak the park began to stir. Men draped in their rugs
emerged from between the gun-wheels and from underneath the
limbers and stretched themselves, yawning. We set about digging
hearths and fetching wood and water, and before long coffee was
steaming in the camp kettles.
On the Verdun road infantry regiments—off to the firing-line no
doubt—were already defiling, the long red-and-blue column rippling
like the back of a huge caterpillar. The battalions were hid, for a
moment, by the cottages and trees of the village. But farther ahead,
on the corn-clad slopes of the hills, one could just distinguish, in
spite of the distance, the movements of troops marching on the thin
white ribbon of a road.
We waited for the order to harness.
The meadow in which we had camped for the night sloped down, on
the one side, into marshy ground watered by a stream issuing from
a mill and running through the rank grass, and was bounded on the
other by a rampart of wheat-sheaves. To the east a high hill of
symmetrical contour, covered with yellow barley and tawny wheat,
gave one the impression of a golden mountain shining in the sun.
Behind the horses tied together in parallel lines the harness made
black patches in the grass. Some of us had slept there under our
rugs. Saddles, propped up on their pommels, served as pillows to
the men, who, half undressed, with bare chests, slept soundly. I
would willingly have slept too, for I was tired out with running about
all night, but I could not help thinking of my mother, and of the
anxiety the news of the hecatombs of Alsace must have caused her.
She had no idea of my whereabouts and would be certain to think
that I should be in the thick of any fighting in progress.
On the road columns of artillery succeeded the regiments of the line.
It was nine o'clock, but so far no sound of battle had yet reached us.
A driver, shaking his rug, woke me, and I started up. In my turn I
roused Déprez, who was sleeping near me. Was it the guns? No, not
yet.
Officials news came that the Alsace army, whose headquarters were
at Mulhouse, had been defeated by the French in a great battle at
Altkirch. The beginning of the Revenge!... But there was talk of fifty
thousand dead....
Held spellbound by a sort of magnetic fascination Déprez and I
riveted our gaze on the lofty line of hills to the east which stood
between us and Destiny. Yonder were others like ourselves, masses
of men in the plains and in the woods, men who would kill us if we
did not kill them.
Overcome by the heat, I allowed my thoughts to dwell on these and
similar reflections, and in vain endeavoured to banish from my mind
the horrible picture of the fifty thousand men lying dead on the
fields of Alsace. Eventually I fell asleep.

They have just killed, by means of a revolver-shot behind the ear, a

horse which had broken its leg. The carcass is going to be cut up,
and the best portions distributed among the battery detachments.
There seems no likelihood of going into action to-day.

The soup-kettles had been put on the fires. On the side of the hill,
where the corn stood in sheaves, the men were building straw huts
in which to pass the night.
As the sun sank, damp vapours began to rise from the stream and
the marshy ground adjoining it. Side by side on our bed of straw
Déprez and I, booted and spurred, our revolver holsters bruising our
hips, fell asleep with our faces upturned to the stars, which seemed
to shine more brightly than usual in the eastern sky.
 Tuesday, August 11
Shortly after dawn we were ready to start. Some of the 130th
Infantry had arrived at the next village, called Ville-devant-
Chaumont, to take up their quarters there. Pending the order to
advance I entered into conversation with a little red-haired foxy-
faced sergeant:
"Ah," said he, "so you're from Mayenne.... Well, I don't know
whether many of the 130th will ever get back there.... There was a
scrap yesterday.... Slaughter simply awful!... My battalion wasn't
touched, but the two others!... There are some companies which
don't count more than ten men, and haven't a single officer left....
It's their machine-guns which are so frightful.... But what the devil
can you expect? Two battalions against a whole division!"
"But why didn't the third battalion join in?"
"Blessed if I know.... You never know the reason of these things."
And he added:
"Some of our chaps were splendid.... Lieutenant X, for example....
He jumped up, drew his sword, and opening his tunic he shouted to
his men: "Come on, lads!..." And he was killed on the spot.... The
flag?... That was taken by the enemy, retaken by one of our
captains, and then again captured. Finally, a chap with a good-
conduct badge got hold of it, and managed to hide it under a bridge
before he died. One of the sections of the 115th found it there....
And then the artillery came up at last.... Three batteries of the 31st.
They soon made the blighters clear off.... They abandoned two
batteries, what's more!"

Orders came to unharness. What a heat! Transparent vapours rose

from the ground and made the horizon quiver. From time to time we
heard the muffled sound of the guns but more often we mistook the
noise of the carts on the road for firing. Fleecy white clouds forming
above the crests of the hills gave one the impression of shells
bursting. For a moment their appearance was most deceptive.
I saw one of the men of the 130th coming back from the firing-line
in a wretched condition, without cap, pack, or arms. It seemed
wonderful that he should have managed to drag himself so far. With
staring, frightened eyes he looked nervously from one side to the
other. The gunners surrounded him as he stood there, with bent
shoulders and hanging head, but he only answered their questions
by expressive gestures.
"Done for!" he murmured. "Done for!"
We couldn't hear anything else. His lips kept moving:
"Done for!... Done for!"
Down he flopped in the middle of us, and immediately fell asleep, his
mouth wide open and his features contracted as if with pain. Two
gunners carried him into a neighbouring barn.
I heard to-day that a priest of Ville-devant-Chaumont had been
arrested on a charge of espionage and sent to Verdun.
We availed ourselves of our leisure in order to wash our linen and
have a bath in the river. Then, stretched naked on the grass, we
waited until the sun had dried our shirts, socks, and underlinen,
which lay spread out around us.
Wednesday, August 12
The French are fond of heroic legends. I have now found out the
truth about the affair in which two battalions were said to have been
cut up, and there is not the least resemblance to the highly coloured
yarn of the little fox-faced sergeant.
On August 10 the officers of the 130th had not the slightest
suspicion that the enemy were so close. A few men were taken by
surprise as they were going down to the river, unarmed and half
undressed. Immediately afterwards the fight began, and the 130th
defended themselves bravely against superior numbers, at first
without any support from the artillery, which, having received no
orders, remained in its quarters. At last three batteries of the 31st
arrived and succeeded in repelling the German attack. We were the
victors.
As for Lieutenant X, who, according to the sergeant, had been killed
as he stood bare-chested encouraging his men to attack, it appears
that, in reality, he fell into the river called the Loison. The chill of the
water, together with the excitement of the first brush with the
enemy, set up congestion, but he is now reported to be perfectly fit
again. That is fortunate, for he is a valuable officer.
Several of his men, charging too soon, also fell into the river, which
flows right across the fields between very low banks. There they
remained as if entrenched, with the water up to their waists, and
fought as best they could. The flag of the 130th was never even
taken out of its oil-skin case.
The whole day was spent in sleeping, cooking, and in bathing in the
river. Some of the drivers with their teams were told off to transport
the wounded of the 130th to Verdun.
When night fell we stretched ourselves out on the grass under the
clear sky and sang in chorus until we gradually fell asleep.
If only those we have left behind anxiously waiting for news could
have heard us!
Thursday, August 13
To-day some of the 130th brought back a grey German military coat,
a pair of boots, a Uhlan's helmet, and a sort of round infantryman's
cap, looking like a small cheese. These spoils were hung up in a
barn, and attracted a crowd of gunners. They belong to a sergeant-
major who was proudly exhibiting them to the spectators, calling
special attention to a small rent in the back of the coat.
"That's where the bullet went in that did for old Steinberg," said he.
"His name's marked inside.... See?"
And he drew himself up, beaming.
Friday, August 14
We had started off again at dawn, and now stood waiting for orders.
The Captain had sent the battery forward down the lane leading to
the main road to Verdun. The horses splashed about in the water
running out from a drinking-trough hard by, and spattered us
liberally with mud. After waiting till the sun was well up, we
unbridled and gave the teams some oats.
Reserve regiments of the Army Corps began to file by—the 301st,
303rd, and 330th. The men were white with dust up to the knees.
Stubbly beards of eight days' growth darkened their faces and gave
them a haggard appearance. Their coats, opened in front and folded
back under their shoulder-straps, showed glimpses of hairy chests,
the veins in their necks standing out like whipcord under the weight
of their packs. These reservists looked grave, resolute, and rather
taciturn.
They swung by with a noise like a torrent rushing over pebbles, the
sight of our guns bringing a smile of pleasure to their faces. The
foremost battalions climbed up the hill. There were so many men
that nothing could be seen of the road, nor even of the red
breeches. The moving human ribbon scintillated with reflections cast
by kettles, shovels, and picks.
We had filled our water-bags, and some of the soldiers, as they
streamed past, replenished their drinking tins from them. Then they
strode on, their lips glued to the brims, restraining the swing of their
step in order not to lose a drop of the precious liquid.
At last the battery moved on. But it was only to camp at Azannes,
about a mile south-east of Ville-devant-Chaumont, where we were
hardly any nearer to the enemy. On the road a continual cloud of
dust was raised by guns and wagons, motors full of superior officers,
and squadrons of cavalry escorting red-tabbed Staffs. The horses
were smothered in it, and our dark uniforms soon became grey,
while our eyebrows and unshorn chins looked as if they had been
powdered. Paris motor-omnibuses, transformed into commissariat
wagons, put the final touch as they lumbered by, and left us as
white as the road itself.

"Limber up!"
"What?"
"Limber up, quick now, come along!"
The order was repeated by the N.C.O.'s, and the Captain, who
passed us spurring his horse, said simply:
"We are going into action."
Then, followed by the gun-commanders, trumpeters, and battery-
leaders, he set off at a gallop.
We passed through Azannes, where we were to have camped. It is a
wretched-looking village, full of manure-heaps, and composed of
low-built cottages eloquent of the fact that here no one has thought
it worth while to undertake building or repair work of any kind. It is
not that the surrounding country is barren, but the perpetual threat
of war and invasion has nipped all initiative in the bud. The poorer
one is the less one has to lose.
After passing Azannes the column lapsed into silence. The road
skirted the cemetery, in the walls of which the infantry, at every few
yards, had knocked loopholes through which we caught glimpses of
graves, chapels, and crosses. At the foot of the walls lay heaps of
rubble and mortar. Farther on, near the edge of a wood, the field
had been seared by a narrow trench, covered with lopped-off
branches bearing withered leaves, and showing up against the fresh
green grass like a yellow gash.
In front of the trench barbed wire had been stretched. The enemy,
therefore, was presumably not far off.
Amid the monotonous rumble of the carriages we tried to collect our
thoughts. The prospect of the first engagement brought with it an
apprehension and dread which clamoured for recognition in each
man's mind. There is no denying the fact.
The battery rolled on its way through a large wood. The road,
almost blindingly white in the midday sun, formed a striking contrast
to the arch-shaped avenues of sombre trees, whose green plumes
towered above us at a giddy height.
By the side of the road stood a horse with drooping head and the
viscous discharge due to strangles running from his nostrils; he did
not even budge as the guns and wagons thundered on their way. It
seemed almost a miracle that the bones of the poor beast's
haunches had not broken through his skin. His flanks, heaving
spasmodically, seemed to meet behind his ribs, as if they had been
emptied of flesh and entrails. He was a pitiful sight. In the shade of
a bridle-path yet another abandoned horse was still browsing.
Between two clumps of trees lay a pond bordered by reeds and
rushes, its surface shimmering like a silver mirror—an effect which
was heightened by the dark woodlands in the background. In the
distance the magnificent line of lofty hills which had hidden the
horizon from us at Ville-devant-Chaumont, and which we had now
flanked, formed an azure setting to the picture. On one side of the
road stood a farmhouse. In a small paddock near the flood-gates of
the pond we saw a freshly dug grave in the shade of an elder-bush.
A cross, roughly fashioned out of a couple of branches tied together,
was planted in the newly turned soil, and a ruled leaf torn out of a
pocket-book, stuck on to some splinter of the wood, bore a name
roughly written in pencil.
On emerging from the forest our batteries, which up to then had
been in column of route, rapidly deployed down the side of a long
valley, half hidden by the oat-crops, through which infantry, whose
presence could only be guessed, caused ripples to flow like those
raised by a puff of wind on still water.
Where was the enemy? What were these positions worth, and from
what point could they be observed? Was the infantry on ahead
protecting us? In a fever of excitement we formed up in battery in a
neighbouring meadow. The limbers retired to the rear and took
cover in the woods. Bréjard at once ordered us to complete the
usual protection afforded by the gun-shields and ammunition
wagons by piling up large sods of turf which we hacked up with our
picks. As far as the eye could reach stretched the motionless oats,
like masses of molten metal under a sky of unbroken blue. As the
gun-layers could not find as much as a tree or sheaf to serve as an
aiming point we had to plant a spade in front of the battery. I should
not have suspected the strength of the artillery—more than sixty
guns—waiting for the enemy in this field, had I not seen the
batteries take up their positions, and had it not been for the
observation-ladders upon which, perched like large black insects on
the points of so many grass-blades, the gun-commanders were to be
seen surveying the land to the north-east.
We were ready for action, and lying behind our guns awaited the
word "Fire!" No sound of battle was audible.
A gunnery officer brought some order to the Captain, and the latter,
waving his képi, signalled for the limbers to be brought up.
"Hallo! What's up now?"
"We're off," answered Bréjard, who had overheard the orders.
"Aren't the Germans coming then?"
"I don't know. That officer told the Captain that after this the fourth
group would be attached to the seventh division."
"Well, and what then?"
"Well, the fourth group has got to go."
"Where?"
"Probably to camp at Azannes."
Rather disappointed at having done nothing we returned westwards
by the same road, bathed in an aureole of crimson light cast by the
setting sun.
The horse with the strangles was now lying down in the ditch. He
was still breathing, and from time to time tossed his head in order to
shake off the wasps which collected in yellow clusters round his eyes
and nostrils.
We encamped at Azannes, and the horses, tethered under the plum-
trees planted in fives, wearied by the march, the dust, and the heat,
let me rest and dream away my four hours' duty.
The night was clear, illuminated by the Verdun searchlights which
stretched golden fingers into the sky. A magnificent mid-August
night, scintillating with constellations and alive with shooting stars
which left long phosphorescent tails behind them.
The moon rose, and with difficulty broke through the dense foliage
of the plum-trees. The camp remained dark except for occasional
patches of light on the grass and on the backs of the horses as they
stood sleeping. My fellow-sentry was lying at the foot of a pear-tree,
wrapped in his greatcoat. In front of me the plain was lit up by the
moon, and the meadows were veiled in a white mist. Both armies,
with fires extinguished, were sleeping or watching each other.
Saturday, August 15
I was helping Hutin to clean the gun.
"Well, Hutin, war's a nice sort of show, isn't it?"
"Well, if it consists in fooling about like this till the 22nd September,
when my class will be discharged, I'd rather be in the field than the
barracks. We've never been so well fed in our lives! If only that
lasts!..."
"Yes, provided it lasts! Only, there are Boches here."
"Who cares?"
"And then, we don't get many letters."
"No, that's true; we don't get enough," said Hutin with some
bitterness, viciously shoving his sponge through the bore.
And he added:
"And as for the letters we write ourselves, we can't say where we
are, nor what we are doing, nor even put a date. What is one to
write?"
"Well, I simply say that it is fine and that I am still alive."

Always the same silence along the lines. That has lasted for days
now. What can it mean? For us, pawns on the great chess-board,
this waiting is agonizing, and stretches our nerves to that painful
tension which one feels sometimes when watching a leaden sky,
waiting for the storm to break.
To-day I saw General Boëlle, whose motor stopped on the road quite
close to our camp.
He is a man with refined features, of cheerful expression, still
youthful-looking despite his white hair and grizzled moustache.

The classic popularity of war trophies has not diminished. Quite a

crowd collected round a cyclist who had brought back from
Mangiennes two German cowskin bags and a Mauser rifle.

It is astonishing how quickly instinct develops in war. All civilization

disappears almost at once, and the relations between man and man
become primitively direct. One's first preoccupation is to make
oneself respected. This necessity is not implicitly recognized by all,
but every one acts as if he recognized it. Then again, the sense of
authority becomes transformed. The authority conferred on the
Captain by his rank diminishes, while that which he owes to his
character increases in proportion. Authority has, in fact, but one
measure: the confidence of the men in the capability of their officer.
For this reason our Captain, Bernard de Brisoult, in whom even the
densest among us has recognized exceptional intelligence and
decision under a great charm of manner and invariable courtesy,
exercises, thanks to this confidence, a beneficial influence upon all.
And yet his actual personality, as our chief, makes little impression
upon one at first. Captain de Brisoult never commands. He gives his
orders in an ordinary conversational tone; but, a man of inborn tact
and refinement, he always remains the Captain, even while living
with his men upon terms of intimacy. It is hard to say whether he is
more loved than respected, or more respected than loved. And
soldiers know something about men.
In the rough masculine relations between the artillerymen among
themselves there nevertheless remains a place for great friendships,
but they become rarer. The ties of simple barrack comradeship either
disappear or harden into tacit treaties of real friendship. The
mainspring of this is rather egoism than a need of affection. One is
vividly conscious of the necessity of having close at hand a man
upon whose assistance one can always rely, and to whom one knows
one can turn in no matter what circumstances. In the relationships
thus solidly established, without any words, a choice is implied; they
are not engendered by affinities of character alone. One learns to
appreciate in one's friend his value as a help and also his strength
and courage.
Sunday, August 16
I have only just heard of an heroic episode which occurred during
our expedition on Friday. It might be called "The Charge of the
Baggage-train."
During our march through the woods towards the enemy we were
followed at some distance by our supply wagons. When we turned,
we passed them, and they resumed their position behind the
batteries. The head of the column had almost reached Azannes
when the rear was still in the thick of the woods. Suddenly a lively
fusillade was opened from the depths of the trees on the right and
left of the train, and at the same time the noise of galloping horses
was heard from behind. The N.C.O. bringing up the rear behind the
forage wagon, who was riding near the cow belonging to the Group,
which was being led by one of the gun-numbers, convinced that the
enemy's infantry was attacking the column from the flank while a
brigade of cavalry was coming up from the rear, yelled out, "Run for
your lives! The Uhlans are coming!" The gunners jumped on the
vehicles wherever they could, and, suddenly, without any orders, the
column broke into a gallop. The men followed as best they might.
But the horses of the forage wagon, restive under the lash, reared,
backed, and jibbed, kicking the cow, which, in her turn, pulled away
from the man leading her, first to right and then to left, finally
breaking loose and setting out at a gallop behind the wagons in a
thick cloud of dust.
A few seconds afterwards the cavalry which had been heard
approaching came up. It was the General of Artillery, who, with his
Staff and escort of Chasseurs, had routed our baggage-train. As for
the fusillade, it came from two companies of the 102nd of the line,
who, concealed in the woods, had opened fire on a German
aeroplane.
The weather is getting worse. Already yesterday evening the storm
gathering on our left had made us prick up our ears as if we heard
gun-fire. At breakfast-time we were surprised by a heavy shower,
and had to abandon the kettles on the fires and take shelter under
the wagons and trees. To-day it has been raining slowly but steadily.
If this weather goes on we shall have to look out for dysentery!
Sitting on blankets in a circle round the fire, which was patiently
tended by the cook, we drank our coffee. My comrades asked me to
read them a few pages from my notebook, and wished me a safe
return in order that these reminiscences, which to a great extent are
theirs also, might be published.
"Are you going to leave the names in?"
"Yes, unless you don't want me to."
"No, of course not. We'll show them to the old people and children
later on, if we get back."
"If I am killed, one of you will take care of my notebook. I keep it
here—see?—in the inside pocket of my shirt."
Hutin thought a little.
"Yes, only you know that it's forbidden to search dead men. You'd
better make a note in your book to say you told us to take it."
He was quite right, so on the first page I wrote: "In case I am killed
I beg my comrades to keep these pages until they can give them to
my family."
"Now you've made your arrangements mortis causa," said Le Bidois,
who was reading over my shoulder. And he added:
"That doesn't increase the risk either."
Le Bidois is a thin, lanky fellow rather like the King of Spain, for
which reason Déprez and I have nicknamed him Alfonso. Every day
we fire off the old Montmartre catch at him:
Alfonso, Alfonso,
Veux-tu te t'nir comme il fô!
We also call him "the Spanish Grandee." He never gets annoyed.
"A jewel of a corporal!" as Moratin, his layer, always says.

Some of the 26th Artillery have brought back two ammunition

wagons abandoned by the enemy at Mangiennes. Painted a dark
colour they resembled the old 90 mm. material with which we used
to practise when training at Le Mans. They were followed by two
large carts, of the usual type used by the Meuse peasantry, long and
narrow in build, full of packs, tins, képis marked 130, camp-kettles
already blackened by bivouac fires, belts with brass buckle-plates,
and caps with dark stains on them. On the top bristled a heap of
bayonets and rifles, red with rust and blood. A large blue flannel
sash, sopping wet, hung behind one of the carts, and trailed in the
muddy road. These were the remains of the unfortunate infantry
killed at Mangiennes.
This spectacle, rendered the more harrowing by the rain, moved us
more than all the stories we had heard about last Monday's fight.
As I was taking some horses down to drink I saw, near the gate of
the loopholed cemetery at Azannes, some soldiers who had fallen
asleep, stretched out anywhere, exhausted and half undressed. They
might have been taken for dead men. That is how I think the
Mangiennes people must have looked. And these remains also
conjured up a vision of the trenches where they were lined up.
In the absolute silence which for eight days now has reigned all
along the line we have almost forgotten the work of death for which
we have come here.

At nightfall, after swallowing some hot soup, we returned to our

billets, which are in a large barn where it is possible to get a good
sleep in the straw. Soldiers of every rank and regiment were
swarming in the village, the blue dolmans of the Chasseurs and the
red breeches of the Infantry giving a welcome dash of colour to the
sombre uniforms of the Artillery and Engineers as they all jostled
together in the street. Some of them, carrying in each hand a pailful
of water, shouted and swore at the others to let them pass.
It was still raining, and from the manure-heaps by the side of the
road thick clouds of steam arose. The cavalrymen had made hoods
of their horse-cloths, and many of the foot-soldiers were sheltering
their heads and shoulders under sacks of coarse brown canvas which
they had found in the barns or wagons. The whole of this muddy
multitude was almost silent and solely bent upon getting back to
their billets. Almost the only sound was the squelching of many feet
in the mire. Four sappers, scaling a ladder to a loft from which hay
was crowding out through a dark, wide-open window, looked like a
bunch of black grapes hanging in mid-air.
Monday, August 17
It was still raining when we started. Carts full of debris continued to
pass us, each more heavily laden and each more dreadful to see
than the last.
I heard that a Chasseur, whom I noticed yesterday morning
mounted on a little bay horse, had been surprised by a party of
Uhlans. They bound him hand and foot and then, with a lance-thrust
in the neck, bled him as one bleeds a pig. A peasant who had
witnessed the scene from behind a hedge told me of this devilish
crime. He was still white with horror.

Last night the horses lay in mud and dung. This morning their
manes and tails were stiff with mire, and large plasters of manure
covered their haunches and flanks, giving them the appearance of
badly kept cows. As for us, besmeared with dirt up to the knees and
with our boots a mass of mud, we looked more heavy than ever in
our dark cloaks, which were wet through and hung in straight folds
from our shoulders.
We again started off, this time to take up fresh quarters at Moirey.
From Azannes to Moirey is little more than a mile, but the road was
blocked with wagons, and at every instant we had to halt and draw
to one side.
The Captain gave the word:
"Dismount!"
The men, tortured by diarrhœa, availed themselves of the
opportunity and scattered into the fields.
At Moirey we encamped under some plum-trees planted in fives,
where we were as badly off as we had been at Azannes. Under the
feet of the horses the grass immediately became converted into
mud.
The first thing to do was to cover over with earth the filth left there
by troops who had preceded us. The question of sanitary
arrangements is a serious one. It is true that a sort of little trenches
called feuillées are dug on one side of the camp, but many men
obstinately refuse to use them, and prefer to make use of any
haphazard spot at the risk of being driven off by whip-lashes by
others of more cleanly disposition. A regular guard has to be kept
round the guns and horses. It is useless for the officers to threaten
severe punishment to any man taken in the act outside the feuillées.
Nothing stops them. The Captain keeps repeating:
"What a set of hogs!"

To-night the sound of the guns is quite close. Perhaps we shall go

into action at last.
It was a difficult job to find any wood fit to burn. Such as there was
was damp and when burning gave off a thick acrid smoke which the
wind blew down upon us. We had to fetch the water for the soup
from more than 300 yards away, and then keep a constant look-out
to prevent the horses from getting at it. The bread just given out
was mouldy, and we had to toast it in order to take away the musty
taste.
When it is time to water the teams the only street of the village is
thronged with horses either led or ridden bare-back. Six batteries
are encamped round Moirey, and there is only one pond into which a
thin stream of clear water, not more than two fingers thick, trickles
from a fountain. Every twenty paces one has to stop and manœuvre
in order to avoid kicks, and the men, annoyed by the delay, swear at
each other without reason. After four or five minutes one advances
another twenty paces, and, when finally the pond is reached, the
men and beasts sinking ankle-deep in mud, it is only to find that
hundreds of horses have left so much drivel and slime on the water
that our animals refuse to drink.
It is reported that there has been a great battle near Nancy and that
we have won the day. Why don't we advance also?
Tuesday, August 18
Lucas, the cyclist of the battery, succeeded in finding two bottles of
champagne, which he hid in a corner of the guard-house where Le
Bidois, who was on sentry duty, kept an eye on them.
Lucas is a young draughtsman of talent. His character is faithfully
reflected by his face—fresh, mobile, perhaps a little feminine. You
meet him in the morning and he seizes you by the arm:
"Oh, my dear chap ... such a pretty little woman ... a perfect
dream!..."
And the same evening he will say:
"Oh, my dear chap ... such a fraud.... No, not a word!... What a
fraud!"
It appears that at Damvillers, a neighbouring village, he has made
the conquest of a little woman who sells tobacco. And he still
manages to get hold of cigarettes, writing-paper, liqueurs, and even
champagne, whereas no one else has been able to lay hands on any
of these luxuries for some time past.
When night fell he gave us a sign, and Déprez and I followed him to
the door of the guard-house in which loomed the lanky figure of Le
Bidois, who was leaning on his sword. The guard-house is an old
tumble-down hut only kept erect by the ivy growing round it. The
door only boasts one hinge, and the worm-eaten steps leading to
the loft are crumbling into dust. But still we found it a snug enough
place in which to drink our champagne.
Wednesday, August 19
The first gun has a team which is the joy of the whole battery. This
is owing to Astruc and his off-horse Jericho. Astruc, with bright
brown eyes and a face like a carrion-crow, is not much taller than a
walking-stick and has hardly any legs. Jericho is a vicious brute that
kicks, bites, and refuses to be groomed. Astruc holds long
conversations with him, and every morning greets him like one
greets an old friend who is a little crabbed, but of whom one is really
fond:
"Well, Jericho, old boy, what have you got to say? Have you been
dreaming of German mares?"
Bréjard pointed out to Astruc that Jericho is a gelding.
"Oh!" retorted Astruc, "I expect he gets ideas in his head all the
same."
But to-day Jericho was in a specially bad temper, and wouldn't let
himself be bridled in order to be led down to the watering-place.
"What's up, old chap?" asked Astruc. "Oh, I see what you want! You
haven't had your quid this morning, have you?... It's your quid
you're after."
And he held out in the hollow of his hand a pinch of tobacco which
the horse swallowed with avidity. When Astruc is astride his near-
horse, Hermine, Jericho bites his boot, and the more Astruc whips
him the harder he clenches his teeth.
"Well," says Astruc, "I bet that if I leave Jericho in a mêlée he'll eat
as many Boches as he can get his teeth into. If only we'd a hundred
more like him!"
And looking the horse full in the face he added:
"It's odd, you know! The brute's got a naughty twinkle in his eyes ...
just like one of those girls...."
A corps of pontoon engineers passed by our camp, their long, steel-
plated boats loaded on carts, keel uppermost. Some foundered
horses, tied behind the vehicles, followed with hanging head and
limping step, a look of suffering in their bleared eyes—a pitiful sight.
Far down the road, winding its way through the long valley and
white under the morning sun, one could see the column toiling up a
hill as if ascending to the blue sky. At that distance men and horses
seemed no more than a swarm of black ants, but the steel bottoms
of the boats still glinted in the sunshine. In front of us the long line
still passed slowly by.

The men's health is excellent, but the horses stand this new life less
successfully. Last Friday we had to leave one on the road, and
yesterday an old battery horse named Défricheur died in his turn.
We had to prepare a grave for him, and four men had been digging
for more than an hour in the hard and rocky ground when the mayor
of Moirey arrived on the scene. The grave had been dug too close to
the houses, so they had to drag the heavy carcass farther on and
begin digging again. Unfortunately the measurements of the new
grave had been badly calculated, and Défricheur, a proper
gendarme's horse, could not be crammed into it. The men were
heartily tired of digging and so, with a few blows of their spades and
picks, they broke his legs and folded them under his belly, so that at
last he could be squeezed into the pit.
The hill which had limited our horizon at Ville-devant-Chaumont ...
was still to be seen rising on the east in solitary splendour, its
outlines traced as if by compasses. Beneath the azure sky it shone
like a mass of burnished bronze.
Moirey lies in the lap of a valley and consists of a few dilapidated
cottages roofed with broken tiles. No matter from which side one
goes away from the village it is instantly hidden by an intervening
spur of the hills, so that one can only see the top of the roofs and
the short, rectangular steeple covered with slates.
As we were grooming our horses in a field through which a brook
bubbled along amid the iris, a bevy of white-capped girls came down
from the village.
The only means of getting over the river was a narrow bridge. This
we barred by standing a couple of horses athwart it, and, by way of
toll, demanded kisses. The girls, their rosy-cheeked faces smiling
under the spreading butterfly-wings of their caps, at first hesitated.
Then one of them took a run, jumped, and splashed into the water.
The others learnt wisdom from her example and decided to pay the
toll.
"Come on now! Just a kiss, you know!" said Déprez. "That's not so
dear in war-time!"
They paid conscientiously.
Friday, August 21
To-day there was a fog when we awoke. Almost immediately the
Captain gave the word to harness, and five o'clock had not yet
struck when we started. The road was cut up into ruts by the
artillery which for three days had been passing over it, and we were
so shaken on the limbers that we could scarcely breathe.
Luckily the column was advancing at a walking pace.
The fog had collected at the end of the valley. On the right
enormous and regularly formed mounds rose like islands out of the
sea of mist. I could not take my eyes off their symmetrical curves, as
perfect as those of Cybele's breasts.
Farther on the road straggled across a plain, the ample undulations
of which reminded one of the rise and fall of the ocean on days
when there is a swell. In every direction it was studded with wheat
sheaves, but there were few trees except an occasional group or line
of poplars welded together by the fog in an indistinct mass of dark
green foliage.
Not a sound of battle was to be heard.

On the way we fell in with some baggage-trains and ambulances,

and learnt from their drivers that the enemy was still far away.
Nevertheless the country had already been prepared for battle. A
farmhouse by the roadside had been fortified, the windows
barricaded with mattresses and small trusses of straw, while a few
loopholes had been knocked in the garden wall. The fields were
furrowed with trenches as far as the edge of a wood, where some
abatis had been set up. Earthworks had been thrown up along the
sides of the road, and in front were heaped ladders, a couple of
harrows, a plough, a roller, and several bundles of straw. Two carts
had been placed athwart the road, but they had been pushed one to
each side and lay thrown back with their long shafts pointing
upwards.
We still rolled on across this desolate country. So similar were its
aspects that it almost seemed as if we were not advancing at all.
At last the fog lifted, and, suddenly, before we were able to guess
that the end of the dreary scenery was near, a magnificent view
opened out before us as if by enchantment. We were on the crest of
a hill between two valleys, on one side of which thick woods
descended in leafy terraces to the hollow of a narrow dell in which,
through a meadow of vivid emerald green, a little black river trickled
on its way. The forests surrounding this meadow, as if placed there
in order to embellish and enhance its beauty, looked like a
magnificent ruff of low-toned olive tints. In front of us, just where
the road turned off at an angle, a spur of woodland rose with the
forbidding aspect of a fortress. On the right, forming a contrast to
the quiet and peaceful little river, a broad valley, with symmetrical
slopes lightened here and there by corn standing yellow in the sun,
opened out wide and invitingly. The river flowing through it was
hardly visible, but the roads, villages, and the railway line were quite
distinct. On the one hand lay Vélosnes, and on the other Torgny,
their white walls and red roofs showing up on the green background
of the fields.
There was nothing in the scene to suggest that war was on foot, and
gun-shots heard from a distance were no more startling than the
noise of carriage wheels.
It was a fine morning, to which the mist, softening the outlines of
the landscape, lent additional charm. The narrow S-shaped road we
were following plunged into the valley. The horses made efforts to
keep back the guns, and especially the ammunition wagons, which
were pushing them down the slope. Their shoes slipping with the
dislodged stones, they braced their backs and felt their way
cautiously.
The river at this point constituted the frontier between France and
Belgium. A custom-house official was leaning up against the parapet
of the bridge.
One of the men called out to him:
"No fine linen or lace to-day, old man!"
And another:
"Suppose there's no duty on melinite, is there?"
The official grinned.
The first Belgian village, Torgny, afforded a contrast to the French
hamlets through which we had been passing since dawn. Our
villages are tumble-down, dirty, and redolent of manure and misery.
Torgny, on the contrary, was clean and bright, the windows of the
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