13, Rue Therese - Elena Mauli Shapiro [17]
[NB: I picked up this letter because it is not addressed in gorgeous intricate ink like the others. It is addressed in pencil, and quite ragged. See the envelope?
The enclosed letter is on lined pages. As you might be able to see, the letter was first written in pencil. Then the boy went over his pencil with the nib. However, he did not have time to let the ink dry properly, did not have time to erase the pencil. This makes the entire letter look blurry, like panicked vision, rendering it difficult to read. Oh—Camille did not have time to sign in ink over his own name, and he did not have time to write in ink over his location information. He did not have time to address the envelope as prettily as he usually does. What was happening to him? Who was ordering him where? His name at the end of the missive, in mere pencil—
his name: a thing that can be erased.]
14:30
Belgium, on 28 June 1915
My Little Cousin,
I just received your letter from 26 June, which gave me great pleasure. I’m still all right for the moment apart from, as I’ve told you before, a little headache that is rather constant— well, eventually I got used to it. I was able to rest as you’ve told me to, Dear Louisette, and have found this a bit better than the trenches. I am with my company, and I will be good to the other men, as you ask of me—except in cases when they fail me, as most of the men who find themselves in the Battalions are all apaches and thieves. Sometimes, we the ranked men have to brutally punish them and some have caught 10-year prison terms after the Campaign against the Austro-Germans.
You see, My Louisette, that our life is not a bed of roses and that being at the Battalions is not a dream job. I am also pained to learn that your little father is approaching the front lines— I hope that he reaches the front as late as possible.
Because My Dear Louisette, you cannot figure the human butchery of this horrifying war. You have to be there to believe it and we are not allowed to tell of it: otherwise they punish us.
Several times, I have seen men (and even my friends) blown up into the air by shells landing—and after the detonation you can find a man in a dozen pieces. Or, there are exploding bullets which make a hole no wider than a pencil at the point of entry, but the exit wound is bigger than the palm of the hand. You can imagine that this makes us suffer.
In the beginning, when I arrived around Arcus near the end of January—it’s been nearly six months since I’ve been at war—a 220-mm shell fell on a 60-man section, all of them gathered and ready to leave for the trenches. After the explosion, 52 men were fallen, on the ground, which proves the butchery and the cruelty of this war.
It’s terrible, my Poor Louisette, and everyone is beginning to have enough and would like to see the end of this. Still, we keep fighting with such unbelievable courage and calm and we sing in the trenches to forget suffering and misery. But it is my belief, my Little Louisette, that this coming winter will see more war and it is difficult to think of it—especially spending nights again in November and December in the rain, the frost, the snow. As we have already spent a winter in this state, we know the frozen feet and the pains and the rheumatisms that this war gladly dispenses. In the end, morale is good and we still harbor the belief that we will all see each other one day, shouting, “Vive la France.”
I am glad that Uncle Eugène is feeling better because being ill is no fun—I wish him a swift recovery. Speaking of Gégène, do thank him for sending his greetings and let him know that if he wishes to send me his address (you must know this) it will give me great pleasure.
I haven’t received our cousin’s letter