Letters to a Blind Soldier

OSMIN LAGARDE, Adjutant of the — Regiment of Infantry, French Army, is one of the most energetic, the sprightliest, and the best set-up French officers I have ever met. He has a striking but unaffected military bearing that fits him neatly and sets him off from others. Withal he is one of the most helpless of men. He is blind. On the 22d of August, 1914, he fell near Bertrix in Belgium, his temple pierced by a German bullet which, in tearing its way through, completely destroyed the optic nerve.

His little cane raps smartly before him as he gropes along the wall of the room where I am writing. He turns quickly toward me when I speak to him, and his eyes, fortunately still in their sockets, look upon me in their peculiar unseeing way. The pupils are white and somewhat bloodshot. But the sweet intelligence of his whole face seems to dominate it; and in his persistent struggle to overcome the darkness into which he has been plunged, one perceives nothing but his strength.

His face is dark and handsome, worthy of a bright son of Provence, with the added alertness and force of his long training as an army officer. His expressionless eyes seem to hinder in no way the extreme mobility of his features. These I have seen light up with all sorts of beautiful feelings and thoughts. I have seen them darken, too, at the mention of his country’s enemies. But I have never seen them assume a regret for the loss of the priceless privileges of taste and sight, though his face wears oftenest a thoughtful sadness that comes from the inevitable consciousness of a broken life.

An officer by career, he was among the first called out to defend la douce France. He left his wife and little girl, with whom he had been spending his furlough, and in a few days had crossed the Belgian frontier to help stem the invading horde. While directing his men in a skirmish near a village, a bullet pierced his head; and his comrades, forced back by superior numbers, left him for dead. He was later picked up by a German officer and carried into Bertrix. There a Belgian woman, whose husband was fighting in King Albert’s plucky little army, took care of him and, in time, nursed him back to health. During his convalescence the German officer who had saved his life visited him several times; and between the two developed an interesting and amicable relation that inspired mutual respect and confidence. It is but just to record the conduct of this German officer toward his wounded adversary, since it offers a striking contrast with many tales since told.

The Adjutant says but little of his days of convalescence. He lived in peaceful quiet in the house of the Belgian woman, Madame Fontaine, and her two little sons. She took loving care of him, who was to her a defender of her country, a hero who had offered his life to save her land. And indeed this was the truth. To-day this French soldier speaks in the simplest terms of his willingness to die for this other land that had spent itself to remain true to its pledge. His one regret is that he fell without having killed a single German. In the vibrant tone in which he says this, one feels the sincerity of his regret. ‘ Mais,’ he adds philosophically and bravely, ‘ il fallait être là.’ Somebody had to be on the spot. Still, the bitterness of having fallen thus at the very beginning of the fighting, in one of the first combats, is not so easily tempered, even by the sense of duty accomplished. To have his sight back is Lagarde’s strongest desire, but not for the sake of seeing. With what is almost a flash in his blank eyes, he speaks of his ardent wish to be able to see in order to return to the ranks and help accomplish the task that has now devolved on his brothers in arms. The dead hopelessness of this ambition is in such contrast to the energy and appeal of his tone that I am shaken by emotion whenever I think of it.

As a prisoner of the Germans, the Adjutant remained for eight months in the care of Madame Fontaine, during which time he learned to adjust himself to the bitterness of his plight. His nurse had many other duties to perform toward the wounded in the village, but the two found time to become firm friends and to talk together of their hopes for the future and their thoughts of their loved ones. The husband of Madame Fontaine, of whom she had no news since the beginning of the war, was a corporal in the Belgian army. The presumption was that he was dead. She knew that he must have passed through some of the fiercest fighting in Belgium. Madame Fontaine spoke often of her husband and of their peaceful life together, now so cruelly shattered by the invasion of the treaty-breakers. The French officer, in his turn, told her of his beautiful little home in Corrèze, of his wife and child who had had no word from him. They were safe, to be sure; but what could they believe in the midst of this dread silence? ‘Only one thing,’ came the hopeless answer from his heart. The quieting words of Madame Fontaine alone helped to calm his anguish.

Yet what he dreaded most had come to pass. His name had been published in a list of the heroes who had perished in the defense of their country. His wife and child assumed their mourning garb, while upon their hearts settled the despair of their loss. Then they went through long days of pain, he all the while oppressed with the dread of their mourning and unable to break through the silence that shrouded his fate.

Until April, 1915, he was detained in Belgium, receiving fair treatment from his German captors, and fast learning to admire the Americans who wrought so nobly and successfully to save from starvation Belgian women and children. In glowing terms he speaks of these efforts of a ‘friendly’ nation; he rejects the word ‘ neutral ’ for us. He has often maintained to me, in speaking of the Americans on the Food Commission, that, ‘if in conversation their words were of necessity neutral, they were unable to make their handshake the same, and with pride I recognized in these men friends, true friends.’¹ It was with something of a lump in my throat that I watched him not long ago speaking to Ambassador Sharp and conveying to this representative of America in France his gratitude, and that of all the Belgians he knew, for our humanitarian intercession in the barbaric martyrdom imposed upon their peaceful land.

The Adjutant learned to love Americans and to appreciate their activity in Belgium; but presently he had to leave all his new friends, for he was sent to a prisoners’ camp in the heart of Germany. There he languished several weary months, till the time came for his exchange through Switzerland as a grand blessé. After interminable weeks of travel, he finally crossed the border of his own land. All the way to his home in Corrèze, the blind hero was acclaimed and welcomed; and when he reached Brive, his native town, the joy of those dear to him filled his heart to overflowing.

One of his first pleasures in this partial resumption of his former life was to have his wife write a long letter to Corporal Fontaine, of the Belgian Army, telling him all he knew of Madame Fontaine, of little Maurice and his brother, and reassuring him of their well-being. He sent the letter off, hardly expecting an answer, dreading to learn what he feared so surely. The fact was, however, that the corporal was safe, his life having been miraculously preserved even in the hell of Namur, Antwerp, and the Yser. Overjoyed at the receipt of this unexpected budget of news, which gave him such precious knowledge of his little family, the Belgian, knowing nothing of the nature of the Adjutant’s wound, wrote back asking for more information.

Thus began a series of intimate letters between two soldiers of a great cause. They revealed to each other two splendid fellows, both of lowly extraction and limited education, and both endowed richly with the qualities that make heroes of men. Lagarde was proud of his new friend, proud of his glowing letters. He waited impatiently for them to come, fearing that each might be the last. He was glad to share with some of us his pleasure in this new comradeship; and as our own friendship developed, he intrusted the letters to me, permitting me to copy them.

HARRY KURZ.

A—, August 6, 1915.
MONSIEUR LAGARDE, —
I do not know how to thank you for the kind letter you have just written me. After a whole year I receive news of my people! And it is a Frenchman, a wounded man, who sends me this news! Imagine the state of mind into which your letter has thrown me. I could leap for joy!
So you have really been eight months in my home? Were you then very seriously wounded? And how did it happen that you came to know Madame Fontaine? Does she tend the wounded, perhaps, with some doctor, or in a hospital?
Monsieur, please pardon these questions if they seem indiscreet; I am so astounded that I should like to know everything, and I am taking it for granted that you know a great many things about my village.
I suppose that you have been returned to France by means of an exchange of the seriously wounded. Then you too, you are seriously wounded?
If I am not mistaken about this, accept my sincere congratulations for having been able to escape alive. We are fighting for the great Cause, we are brothers-in-arms — and you must not smile at hearing a little Belgian speak in this manner to the great Frenchmen! We have, for the moment, but one country, the land of Right and of Justice. Belgians and Frenchmen and the rest, we all want liberty and we shall have it. If I am neither wounded nor dead, it is n’t my fault, although I have no complaint to make!
While you had fallen in defense of our two countries, I was fighting at Namur, Bioul, and Philipville; I was at the siege of Antwerp in the first line, and at the Yser. As soon as the Belgian government had decided to throw the old classes into working divisions, I applied for permission to be transferred to the battalion in charge of the military railway. Work here is still action at the front, close to the Boches; I would not go to the rear for anything in the world. I should be bored to death there.
Monsieur Lagarde, would it be too much to ask you to send me a few more words about Bertrix, about my home town and my family? You probably know some of the people whom I know well; at any rate it is a place I love with all my heart. You will help make less cruel for me this hard and long separation from all the people and all the things I love.
And if you know any means of waiting to Bertrix, I might be able to send a few lines that would bring infinite pleasure to my family.
Please accept, Monsieur Lagarde, with my gratitude, my most respectful sentiments.
CORPORAL HENRI FONTAINE.

A—, August 31, 1915.
DEAR MONSIEUR LAGARDE,—
I tremble as I write to you. Of all the guesses I made about the nature of your wound, the one that is true never occurred to me.
I have hesitated a long time — I did n’t know’ what to say; before this atrocious result of our struggle for our rights, the mind pauses confused; what thoughts, what rancors, what discontent, what deep revolt accumulated within me during these cursed days which last only too long, are obliterated before this reality which you make me touch, as it were, with my finger! And I thought myself unfortunate!
It is not fitting for me to offer you here stupid words of consolation which your French spirit would reject with disgust! The two letters that I have had from you have shown me clearly enough that I have as correspondent a soldier, a true one! The more cruel your state, the greater and nobler your courage, which reveals itself in the serenity of your words.
I admire you, dear friend, dear soldier of France! You incarnate all that is great and noble in your sublime race. On foreign soil, for a country, for a people of whose existence you were hardly aware, you have sacrificed yourself, like others of your countrymen, as you have given yourself for France, your own beloved land!
And after having sacrificed yourself, you have only one thought, only one desire: you want to reassure those who fight on for the same sacred Cause. I cannot adequately express to you the admiration that your conduct inspires in me. La France reveals herself completely in your act: generous and sublime, even to the supreme sacrifice.
Dear and brave friend, if it is given to me some day to prove to you that a Belgian is neither a coward nor an ingrate, you shall be convinced. I assure you that I shall not forget! I feel my blood boiling within me, and the hatred I had vowed against these bandits is all the greater because the sufferings they have made you endure are so cruel. Perhaps the moment for making resolutions about the future has not yet come; but whether or not I am lucky enough to get out of this alive, I can assure you just the same that you have in me a brother, a devoted brother, if you are willing to accept me as such.
My home is beautiful; you are familiar with it! It shall be your home also. Let me also express to you, dear friend, the joy I feel at knowing that you are united with a companion who, one can easily see, has as much tenderness as courage. For France she, too, suffers! But what solace and what joy she must have in feeling that she is your support, the support of a loving heart! For you together life is still rich in opportunities; and the things your dear eyes can see no more — she will see them and then you, too, will see them!
I close by assuring you of my feeling of unalterable confidence regarding the final result. Whatever may be said or thought, we shall always do our duty, in spite of everything, in spite of death itself. Let this assurance be a comfort to you; keep saying to yourself that your sacrifice shall not have been in vain! We are bound to win, we will win! I pray you, dear monsieur and friend, present my respectful regards to Mme. Lagarde, and be assured of my entire devotion.
CORPORAL H. FONTAINE.

P.S. If my talk gives you pleasure, I can write you as much as you wish.

A—, 9/30/1915.
DEAR MONSIEUR LAGARDE, —
I have just received your friendly card from Biarritz. I thank you sincerely for the interest you show in me. You have no doubt received in the meantime my answer to your second letter, in which I tried to explain to you my delay in writing; I shall not repeat what I said, since your letters are surely being forwarded to you at Biarritz.
I do hope very much that you will not leave me without news of your health. Now you are enjoying a few days of calm at the seashore after the frightful upheaval of those terrible days of torment. How I wish I were with you, in order to accompany you on your walks with your loving and devoted companion, and to have good long talks with you about all we know and have been through! How many subjects there are upon which, intimately and agreeably, we should converse — subjects made up of memories and hopes, but all leading to the same thought, since all our ideas at present tend toward the same flashing goal: Victory! For it is true that, wherever we are at the present time, we cannot forget that we are soldiers; and that when you are a soldier, however you may twist your mind and your speech, you end always by persuading yourself that what you dream is true. And when you dream, you often see things going right all by themselves! Yet since it is not true that things do go right all by themselves, but rather that you’ve got to push them along with all your might and main, and that even then you need lots of patience, why, you just do all you can. And so the pleasure one would feel at being with a friend, in order to rest, to relax, becomes not merely a need, a strong desire, but also a natural result and a reward for a task well performed. Dear friend, it is this reward that I hope to obtain. One day or another the beast will be downed, and I want to be in at the death. Then what a shout of triumph and joy I shall bring you! You will be happy indeed when we come to tell you how we drove them out; and then, for you, too, as well as for us, there will be great gladness.
The newspapers tell you many things concerning the war; here, we see really just the daily task to be performed, and the rumors or echoes that come to us from other sections of the battlefield often leave us quite astonished.
I can’t help hinting to you that our officers are letting us hope for an offensive before very long. If you only knew how we cling to that hope! Oh, the blessed sight of that land, lost now for so long a time, which, perhaps, we are going to see once more in only a few weeks! What a mad longing seizes you when you think that, very soon perhaps, you will be covering with kisses those of your loved ones who are still there! Alas! How many among us will find only grief and ruin! What despair, what horror, are bound to be the result of this tragedy! I am thinking of that dear fellow Nanan, to whom I gave your address in order that you might yourself confirm for him what he has heard through others. What terrible suffering for this poor boy who, knowing nothing of life and still so young, is going to find himself suddenly face to face with such a frightful reality. For he’s a big-hearted fellow, this boy Nanan, brought up according to stern principles by him who fell a noble victim to the barbarians. You have some of his letters and you will be able to judge him a little by his writing. I see him quite often, and each time I discover in him new qualities of spirit. You ought to understand each other very well, you two deep sufferers . . .
One thing troubles me — that I don’t know exactly what happened in their house.² The only definite news I have received concerning Bertrix comes from you. Is it true that his brother and sister both met death on that cursed day? Oh! if you know the truth, dear friend, don’t conceal it from me, for this uncertainty tortures me, me also, all the more because the poor fellow thinks I possess definite information, and because when we talk I no longer know how I ought to help him to feel. Ought I to go on encouraging in his heart hopes from which the awakening will be all the more cruel because I shall have helped build them up? Should I not rather prepare him (oh, very gently!) to foresee with some selfcontrol that his misfortune is most likely what he persists in believing it to be? If you know, I beg you, tell me, and above all tell me what ought to be done. You can judge the situation better perhaps than I can.
I have received through the Bureau of Information at Lausanne some news of my family; brief news, to be sure, but which proves that our people are holding firm and are plucky. Maurice, my first-born, ranked third in excellence at the end of his year’s studies. Doubtless to give his father pleasure, the child has worked hard, urged on by the courage of his mother. My wife tells me that the necessities of life are very dear — and that’s all; even this comes indirectly, as a communication from a correspondent at Brussels.
We are having particularly fine weather here. A year ago, almost to a day, we were retreating along the road to France for the second time, pressed back by the fierce and bloody horde; the weather was fine even during that famous retreat from Antwerp. But how much more beautiful, more radiant, the day when we shall enter for the third time our glorious France, the France of our hearts, in order to acclaim our triumph in the cause of Justice! For I feel that very soon I shall come bringing you an echo of joy from these little Belgians who have been fighting, and who, battle-worn, will be all the more glorious with their great brothers and allies.
My best wishes and respects to Mme. Lagarde.
Your devoted friend,
CORPORAL H. FONTAINE.

A—, 28/10/15.
MY DEAR FRIENDS,— This abominable weather that has been oppressing us for the last few days makes me rather sad. One feels so much alone when unable to go out; all one can do is to look at the monotonous cold rain, falling with a sound that irritates you, that drives you mad. . . .
Therefore I turn to writing to you, for it seems to me I am less alone when I share some of my thoughts, when I give my feeling expression to those near whom I should love to be, first of all to thank them, and then to talk to them about those I love and whom I pine to see again. Are you not indeed, my dear friend, the only person to whom I may speak about these things, since you have been there, have talked with them, have known them? How many times I have lived those moments of your life, so cruel for you, but which nevertheless gave you the opportunity to form some appreciation of the spirit of my people! Do I not see ‘Her’ taking the little ones to pay a visit to the comrades of Papa, and to care for those whom the wicked have made to suffer? I know them all so well, those places, the house, the room where you spent such long months!
These past days had aroused in my heart fierce hopes. Did n’t I actually see myself tramping along the roads, in the thick of the woods, returning to that land so desolate, yet so precious to me? How many plans had already taken shape in my mind! I had reached the point where I was trying to guess the words we should say to each other after such a long separation. Such are the illusions these few hours of triumph have given me.³
And then, reality turns you cold. We know what these advances cost; we understand all the force, the courage, the self-denial required of our valiant brothers to dislodge the cursed invaders from those few lines; and so we resume our daily task, a bit disappointed but nowise discouraged, awaiting all the more ardently the final cleaning-up with a little more determination or rage in our hearts.
The approach of the cold season is certainly not calculated to make us happy, but we will endure everything in order to avenge those who must be avenged — and, on my word, I think we are beginning to get used to it. It is only at certain moments that the memory of past joy softens you, but without weakening your confidence; one really does become hardened in war!
I suppose you have returned from your trip in good health. Is it indiscreet to ask you for your impressions? Are you becoming somewhat reconciled to your new life? I should like to know a little about you, because I want to give back to you some of the pleasure you have given me. May I hope to receive a few words from you? They would bring me so much happiness.
CORPORAL H. FONTAINE.

December 30, 1915.
DEAREST FRIENDS, —
Each year at this season one is happy indeed to be with those one loves, or to write them expressing all the affection one feels and wishing them all the joy that can be had here below.
For the second time, the brutal force of events holds us apart from our people. The days, when we used to be so happy in feeling that we were close together, when we thrilled with the joy of living and loving — these days are spent now amid the moans and groans of death; nothing human remains, except perhaps our desires and our regrets, which are awakened in our minds by these days.
And nevertheless, in spite of the horrors of these dark moments when the whole world seems bent on slaying and destruction, in spite of this return to the savage times when only the instinct of self-preservation animated men, we still feel that the horizon will clear and that happiness will overcome all these sorrows! We have in our hearts an invincible hope, a real faith in the future. Why is it that in the heart of man these sentiments are born and finally succeed in driving away the sombre moments when despair is about to overwhelm him? Happy mystery, that saves and consoles us!
I find these days less cruel since I may confide some of my thoughts to people who have shown themselves so kind to me. Were it not for you, I should probably not know that they, they also, can still send their wishes to the absent one into space.
Since you have known them, since you have spoken to them, you understand me and you can realize the love I bear them. You, you are a bit of them, for you have lived with them and have served as a bridge between their hearts and mine! To you, then, I send these good wishes that I would fain cry out to them. It seems to me that thinking of you will reach them, far away as they are. To you, whose happiness I desire, I impart my hope and the determination in me to give every ounce of strength in the defense of our rights and our liberty. To you I impart my hatred, that increases every day, for those unspeakable savages who have let loose upon us so many atrocities, so much grief; to you I say that to the last breath in my body I shall work for vengeance. And I wish you the joy of seeing that bright day arrive soon when, bleeding perhaps but proud, we shall enter into our country to put a stop to the martyrdom which has been going on for so many long months.
I should be happy to receive the picture of your dear little Paulette, and permit me to kiss it for their sakes.
CORPORAL H. FONTAINE.