Pour la Patrie
They were brothers, Louis and François, standing in the presence of the Prussian commander, looking hopelessly into his cold, unsmiling eyes. For the third time in as many days he was bargaining with them for that which God had given them and they in turn had promised to France: their lives.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking that we exalt you for what you may call courage, or that your country will sing your praises,” said the general harshly. “Your country will never know how or when you die. You have nothing to gain by dying, not even the credit of dying.”
François allowed his hot, dry eyes to sweep slowly around the group. He was pale, his forehead wet.
“You are soldiers,” said he, his voice low and steady. “Is there one among you who would do the thing we are asked to do? If there is one man here who will stand forth in the presence of his comrades and say that he would betray Germany as you are asking us to betray France,—if there is such a man among you, let him speak, and the,—then I will do what you ask of me.”
A dozen pairs of hard implacable eyes returned his challenge. No man spoke. No man smiled.
“You do not even pretend,” cried the little poilu. “well, I too am a soldier. I am a soldier of France. It is nothing to me that I day to-day or to-morrow, or that my country knows when or how. Take me out and shoot me,” he shouted, facing the commander. “I am but one poor soldier. I am one of millions. What is my little life worth to you?”
“Nothing,” said the commander. “Ten such as you would not represent the worth of one German soldier.”
“We say not so over there,” said François boldly, jerking his thumb in the direction of Pont-a-mousson.
And now for the first time the Prussians about him smiled.
“What is it, pray, that you do say over there?” inquired the general mockingly.
“That the worst of the Frenchmen is worth five of your best,” said
François, unafraid. Why should he be afraid to speak the truth?
He was going to die.
“And one of your frog-eating generals is the equal of five of me, I suppose?” The commander’s grim face relaxed into a smile. “That is good! Ha-ha! That is good!”
“So we say, excellency,” said François simply. “Our Papa Joffre—ah, he is greater than all of you put in one.”
The Prussian flushed. His piggish eyes glittered.
“Your Papa Joffre!” he scoffed.
“He is greater than the Kaiser,—though I die for saying it,” cried the little poilu recklessly.
The commander turned his eyes from the white, impassioned face of François and looked upon the quivering, ghastly visage of the brother who stood beside him. The fire that glowed in the eyes of François was missing in those of Louis.
The grizzled Prussian smiled, but imperceptibly. What he saw pleased him. Louis, the big one, the older of the two, trembled. It was only by the supremest effort that he maintained a pitiable show of defiance. His face was haggard and blanched with fear; there was a hunted, shifty look in his narrowed eyes. The general’s smile developed. It proffered comfort, consolation, encouragement.
“And you,” he said, almost gently, “have not you profited by the reflections of your three days of grace? Are you as stubborn as this mule of a brother, this foolish lad who spouts even poorer French than I address to you?”
François shot a quick, appealing glance at his big brother’s face. There were tiny rivulets of slaver at the corners of Louis’s mouth.
“Louis!” he cried out sharply.
Louis lifted his sagging shoulders. “I have nothing to say,” he said thickly, and with the set of his jaws François breathed deeply of relief.
“So!” said the general, shrugging his shoulders. “I am sorry. You are young to die, you two. To die on the field of battle,—ah, that is noble! To die with one’s back to a wall, blindfolded, and to be covered with earth so loosely that starving dogs may scratch away to feast—But, no more. You have decided. You have had many hours in which to consider the alternative. You will be shot at daybreak.”
The slight figure of François straightened, his chin went up. His thin, dirt-covered hands were tightly clenched.
“For France!” he murmured, lifting his eyes above the head of the Prussian.
A vast shudder swept over the figure of Louis, a hoarse gasp broke through his lips. The commander leaned forward, fixing him with compelling eyes.
“For France!” cried François again, and once more Louis lifted his head to quaver:
“For France!”
“Take them away,” said the commander. “But stay! How old are you?” He addressed François.
“I am nineteen.”
“And you?”
Louis’s lips moved but no sound issued.
“My brother is twenty-one,” said François, staring hard at Louis.
“He has a sweetheart who will grieve bitterly if he does not return for her caresses, eh? I thought so. Oh, you French! But she will soon recover. She will find another,—like that! So!” He snapped his fingers. “She will not wait long, my good Louis. Take them away!”
Louis’s face was livid. His chin trembled, his lips fell apart slackly; he lowered his eyes after an instant’s contact with the staunch gaze of his brother.
“You have until sunrise to change your minds,” said the Prussian, turning on his heel.
“Sunrise,” muttered Louis, his head twitching.
They were led from the walled-in garden and across the cobblestones of the little street that terminated in a cul de sac just above. Over the way stood the shattered remnants of a building that once had been pointed to with pride by the simple villagers as the finest shop in town. The day was hot. Worn-out German troopers sprawled in the shade of the walls, sound asleep, their mouths ajar,—beardless boys, most of them.
“Poor devils,” said François, as he passed among them. He too was very young.
They were shoved through the wrecked doorway into the mortar-strewn ruin, and, stumbling over masses of débris, came to the stone steps that led to the cellar below. Louis drew back with a groan. He had spent centuries in that foul pit.
“Not there—again!” he moaned. He was whimpering feebly as he picked himself up at the bottom of the steps a moment later.
“Dogs!” cried François, glaring upward and shaking his fist at the heads projecting into the turquoise aperture above. Far on high, where the roof had been, gleamed the brilliant sky. “Our general will make you pay one of these days,—our GREAT general!”
Then he threw his arms about his brother’s shoulders and—cried a little too,—no in fear but in sympathy.
The trap door dropped into place, a heavy object fell upon it with a thud, and they were in inky darkness. There was no sound save the sobs of the two boys, and later the steady tread of a man who paced the floor overhead,—a man who carried a gun.
They had not seen, but they knew that a dead man lay over in the corner near a window chocked by a hundred tons of brick and mortar. He had died some time during the second century of their joint occupance of the black and must hole. On the 28th he had come in with them, wounded. It was now the 31st, and he was dead, having lived to the age of nine score years and ten! When they spoke to their guards at the beginning of the third century, saying that their companion was dead and should be carried away, the Germans replied:
“There is time enough for that,” and laughed,—for the Germans could count the time by hours out there in the sunshine. But that is not why they laughed.
A hidden French battery in the wooded, rocky hills off to the west had for days kept up a deadly, unerring fire upon the German positions. Shift as he would, the commander could not escape the shells from those unseen, undiscovered guns. They followed him with uncanny precision. His own batteries had searched in vain, with thousands of shrieking shells, for the gadfly gunners. They could find him, but he could not find them. For every shell he wasted, they returned one that counted.
Three French scouts fell into his hands on the night of the 28th. Two of them were still alive. He had them up before him at once.
“On one condition will I spare your lives,” said he. And that condition had been pounded into their ears with unceasing violence, day and night, by officers high and low, since the hour of their capture. It was a very simple condition, declared the Germans. Only a stubborn fool would fail to take advantage of the opportunity offered. The exact position of that mysterious battery,—that was all the general demanded in return for his goodness in sparing their lives. He asked no more of them than a few, truthful words.
They had steadfastly refused to betray their countrymen.
François could not see his brother, but now and then he put out a timid hand to touch the shaking figure. He could not understand. Why was it not the other way about? Who was he to offer consolation to the big and strong?
“Courage,” he would say, and then stare hard ahead into the blackness. “You are great and strong,” he would add. “It is I who am weak and little, Louis. I am the little brother.”
“You have not so much to live for as I,” Louis would mutter, over and over again.
Their hour drew near. “Eat this,” persuaded François, pressing upon Louis the hunk of bread their captors had tossed down to them.
“Eat? God! How can I eat?”
“Then drink. It is not cold, but—”
“Let me alone! Keep away from me! God in heaven, why do they leave that Jean Picard down here with us—”
“You have seen hundreds of dead men, Louis. All of them were heroes. All of them were brave. It was glorious to die as they died. Why should we be afraid of death?”
“But they died like men, not like rats. They died smiling. They had no time to think.”
And then he fell to moaning. His teeth rattled. He turned upon his face and for many minutes beat upon the stone steps with his clenched hands, choking out appeals to his Maker.
François stood. His hot, unblinking eyes tried to pierce the darkness. Tears of shame and pity for this big brother burnt their way out and ran down his cheeks. He was wondering. He was striving to put away the horrid doubt that was searing his soul: the doubt of Louis!
The dreary age wore on. Louis slept! The little brother sat with his chin in his hands, his heart cold, his eyes closed. He prayed.
Then came the sound of the heavy object being dragged away from the door at the top of the steps. They both sprang to their feet. An oblong patch of drab, gray light appeared overhead. Sunrise!
“Come! It is time,” called down a hoarse voice. Three guns hung over the edge of the opening. They were taking no chances.
“Louis!” cried François sharply.
Louis straightened his gaunt figure. The light from above fell upon his face. It was white,—deathly white,—but transfigured. A great light flamed in his eyes.
“Have no fear, little brother,” he said gently, caressingly. He clasped his brother’s hand. “We die together. I have dreamed. A vision came to me,—came down from heaven. My dream was of our mother. She came to me and spoke. So! I shall die without fear. Come! Courage, little François. We are her soldier boys. She gave us to France. She spoke to me. I am not afraid.”
Glorified, rejoicing, almost unbelieving, François followed his brother up the steps, there was comfort in the grip of Louis’s hand.
“This general of yours,” began Louis, facing the guard, a sneer on his colorless lips, his teeth showing, “he is a dog! I shall say as much to him when the guns are pointed at my breast.”
The Germans stared.
“What has come over this one?” growled one of them. “Last night he was breaking.”
“There is still a way to break him,” said another, grinning. “Hell will be a relief to him after this hour.”
“Canailès!” snarled Louis, and François laughed aloud in sheer joy!
“My good,—my strong brother!” he cried out.
“This Papa Joffre of yours,” said the burliest German,—“he is worse than a dog. He is a toad.” He shoved the captives through the opening in the wall. “Get on!”
“The smallest sergeant in Germany is greater than your Papa Joffre,” said another. “What is it you have said, baby Frenchman? One frog-eater is worth five Germans? Ho-ho! You shall see.”
“I—I myself,” cried François hotly,—“I am nobler, braver, greater than this beast you call master.”
“Hold your tongue,” said a third German, in a kindlier tone than the others had employed. “It can do you no good to talk like this. Give in, my brave lads. Tell everything. I know what is before you if you refuse to-day,—and I tremble. He will surely break you to-day.”
They were crossing the narrow road.
“He is your master,—not ours,” said François calmly.
Louis walked ahead, erect, his jaw set. The blood leaped in François’ veins. Ah, what a brave, strong fellow his brother was!
“He is the greatest commander in all the German armies,” boasted the burly sergeant. “And, young frog-eater, he commands the finest troops in the world. Do you know that there are ten thousand iron crosses in this God-appointed corps! Have a care how you speak of our general. He is the Emperor’s right hand. He is the chosen man of the Emperor.”
“And of God,” added another.
“Bah!” cried François, snapping his fingers scornfully. “His is worth no more than that to me!”
François was going to his death. His chest swelled.
“You fool. He is to the Emperor worth more than an entire army corps,—yes, two of them. The Emperor would sooner lose a hundred thousand men than this single general.”
“A hundred thousand men?” cried François, incredulously. “That is a great many men,—even Germans.”
“Pigs,” said Louis, between his teeth.
They now entered the little garden. The Prussian commander was eating his breakfast in the shelter of a tent. The day was young, yet the sun was hot. Papers and maps were strewn over the top of the long table at which he sat, gorging himself. The guard and the two prisoners halted a few paces away. The general’s breakfast was not to be interrupted by anything so trivial as the affairs of Louis and François.
“And that ugly glutton is worth more than a hundred thousand men,” mused François, eyeing him in wonder. “God, how cheap these boches must be.”
Staff officers stood outside the tent, awaiting and receiving gruff orders from their superior. Between gulps he gave out almost unintelligible sounds, and one by one these officers, interpreting them as commands, saluted and withdrew.
François gazed as one fascinated. He WAS a great general, after all. Only a very great and powerful general could enjoy such respect, such servile obedience as he was receiving from these hulking brutes of men.
Directions were punctuated,—or rather indicated,—by the huge carving-knife with which the general slashed his meat. He pointed suddenly with the knife, and, as he did so, the officer at whom it was leveled, sprang into action, to do as he was bidden, as if the shining blade had touched his quivering flesh.
Suddenly the great general pushed his bench back from the table, slammed the knife and fork down among the platters, and barked:
“Well!”
His eyes were fastened upon the prisoners. The guards shoved them forward.
“Have you decided? What is it to be,—life or death?”
He was in an evil humor. That battery in the hills had found its mark again when the sun was on the rise.
“Vive la France!” shouted Louis, raising his eye to heaven.
“vive la France!” almost screamed François.
“So be it!” roared the commander. His gaze was fixed on Louis. There was the one who would weaken. Not that little devil of a boy beside him. He uttered a short, sharp command to an aide.
The torturing of Louis began….
“End it!” commanded the Prussian general after a while. “The fool will not speak!”
And the little of life that was left to the shuddering, sightless Louis went out with a sigh—slipped out with the bayonet as it was withdrawn from his loyal breast.
Turning to François, who had been forced to witness the mutilation of his brother,—whose arms had been held and whose eyelids were drawn up by the cruel fingers of a soldier who stood behind him,—he said:
“Now YOU! You have seen what happened to him! It is your turn now. I was mistaken. I thought that he was the coward. Are you prepared to go through even more than—Ah! Good! I thought so! The little fire-eater weakens!”
François, shaken and near to dying of the horror he had witnessed, sagged to his knees. They dragged him forward,—and one of them kicked him.
“I will tell! I will tell!” he screamed. “Let me alone! Keep your hands off of me! I will tell, God help me, general!”
He staggered, white-faced and pitiful, to the edge of the table, which he grasped with trembling, straining hands.
“Be quick about it,” snarled the general, leaning forward eagerly.
Like a cat, François sprang. He had gauged the distance well. He had figured it all out as he stood by and watched his brother die.
His fingers clutched the knife.
“I will!” he cried out in an ecstasy of joy.
To the hasp sank the long blade into the heart of the Prussian commander.
Whirling, the French boy threw his arms on high and screamed into the faces of the stupefied soldiers:
“Vive la France! One hundred thousand men! There they lie! Ha-ha!
I—I, François Dupré,—I have sent them all to hell! Wait for me,
Louis! I am coming!”
The first words of the “Marseillaise” were bursting from his lips when his uplifted face was blasted—
He crumpled up and fell.
[signed] George Barr McCutcheon