I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple blossoms fill the air–
I have a rendezvous with Death
When spring brings back blue days and fair….

While most of the country was quite pleased that President Woodrow Wilson “kept us out of war,” there were a few Americans couldn’t wait to get into it. One of these was Alan Seeger who was so eager to join the fight that he enlisted in the French Foreign Legion. No ambulance driver he; Seeger wanted to be in the thick of things. In his diary Seeger wrote: Had I the choice I would be nowhere else in the world than where I am. Even had I the chance to be liberated, I would not take it. Do not be sorrowful then. It is the shirkers and slackers alone in this war who are to be lamented. The tears for those who take part in it and who do not return should be sweetened by the sense that their death was the death which beyond all others they would have chosen for themselves, that went to it smiling and without regret, feeling that whatever value their continued presence in the world might be to humanity, it could not be greater than the example and inspiration that they were to it in so departing.”

So Seeger’s famous poem “I Have a Rendezvous with Death” was more than just empty romantic posturing, and Seeger was more than just a tinsel hero. In that same diary he chafes at being compared by critics to the recently deceased British hero-poet Rupert Brooke grousing “I never could get my book of poems published before the war.” But Seeger’s battlefield death raised him to such a position that, a few decades ago, you couldn’t browse the poetry section of a used book store without finding that same book of poems gathering dust on the shelf. That tells you that there was a time when Alan Seeger had been an immensely popular writer. Today it is no longer the case that volumes of Seeger are to had for the asking. In fact original editions seem to have become quite scarce. That tells you that people are again reading Alan Seeger and those once despised volumes have found new homes for themselves. With the publication of a recent non-fiction book dealing with Seeger and other young Americans who served in the French Foreign Legion the time seems ripe for this account, once rendered, to be opened and examined once more.

The recently digitized French work, La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu, makes a compelling visual and poetic statement on the war from the French point of view. Published in 1918 Paris, this distinctly French poem on the conflict shows regional conflicts in France between the city and the rural populace. Newly translated into English by Barbara Quintiliano, Instructional Services Librarian Team Leader for Nursing/Life Sciences, Villanova University, now this work can reach a broader, non-francophone, audience. Reproduced below are medium size images of the highly illustrated pages followed by the English translation; high resolution images are available for closer inspection as well.

[ii], recto

La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu = The Passion of Our Brother the Poilu

Translator: Barbara Quintiliano
June 9, 2015

Translator’s notes:

The original text is a poem featuring couplets and alternate rhyme. In addition, the author has used a distinctive orthography to approximate the sound and flavor of the regional speech of the people of Anjou. No attempt has been made in this translation to render either the rhyme scheme or the Angevin patois.

poilu = popular term for a French WW I combatant

[Title page, recto]

Marc Leclerc

The Passion of Our Brother the Poilu

Color Illustrations
by
Léon Lebègue

Paris
Librairie des Amateurs
A. Ferroud – F. Ferroud. Successor
127, Boulevard Saint-German, 127
1918

Gatefold, closed

Gatefold, open

[1]

[1]
To all my comrades
the officers, subofficers, corporals and soldiers
of the Territorial Regiments of Anjou
who fell in battle
for our country

[2]

[3]

[3]
When the war is over
–As is bound to happen someday—
Here’s something
You city folk and working folk
Must never forget:
If you owed your lives to the peasants before the War
You owe them even more now:

For it was, of course, their resistance
For months on end, that succeeded in saving
The Country we share, this Land of France
That they tilled with such great effort;
And they didn’t abandon this Land
In time of war, either,
The peasants in the trenches…

[4]

[4]
And they were the ones, the real Poilus,
Men of the Territory, Soldiers of the Land…
“The Fearsome Regionals“ as they were called,
Although people had no idea
Just how fearsome they really were!

So I’m telling you city folk,
They deserve a tip of your hat:
For nestled in the blue folds of their peasant shirts
A bit of the Flag waves in their heart.
(At the front, February 1917).

5

[5]
A poor devil of a Poilu,
Who went off to fight…
Though, of course, he would have liked
To be anywhere else than in the thick of the battle;
But when the time came for him to go,
Well, off he went,
Knowing full well that there was no
Getting out of it,
And that the boys who till the land,
Have a duty to defend it too,
Exhausted farmers though they may be…

6

[6]
It’s not hard to understand
That everyone isn’t sent to fight:
Some are workman or notaries,
Still everyone does their duty, on the front lines or in the rear!
…Of course, it’s more dangerous on the front lines:
It’s the poor common soldiers
That get hit with Jerry’s shells…
As for our artillerymen,
They have a kinder heart, so it’s said!…

The Poilu, with his comrades,
Went off on grenade duty:
It was real miserable weather,
In the black of night with snow and frost:
And with every step they fell on their face
Tumbling into shell craters,
Huge ones they were too!
The farther they walked, the more there were…
Craters just seemed to be falling with the rain!

7

[7]
Then suddenly a huge shell
Explodes twenty-five meters away..
The Poilu cries: “I’ve been hit, my God…”
And his knees buckle under him,
And he falls backward,
His poor side torn open,
And his blood spilling onto the ground…

He said to the corporal, “Pierre, my boy,
You have to let my wife know back home:
Tell her at first that I’m wounded…
So she doesn’t have to take in the news all at once…
In my purse…there’s a bit of change…
Give it… to our squadron… buddies…
You… take my… grenade sack…”
Then, having dictated his will,
He quietly breathed his last.

[8]

9

[9]
So in the night his soul flies away:
Finding its way to heaven without a compass,
And promptly reaching Paradise:
Saint Peter was standing on the doorstep,
Busy beating some rugs,
And he cries in a loud voice:
“Wipe your feet before you go in,
And take the corridor on the right…
Way the end will be the Judgment Hall…

10

[10]
You can sit on a bench there and wait!”…
The Poilu makes his way, trembling all over:
In the distance there’s a pure white angel,
Who asks him his name, rank and
Serial number!
The poor guy just stands there stunned,
In the middle of the vestibule;
But before too long
The Angel says, “They’ll see you now!”

There he is in a sort of church
Like none he’d ever seen before:
All gold and vermillion…
And way in the distance he can see
The Lord, seated on a sun throne
Between Christ and the Blessed Virgin,
And, on each side, six bundles of candles;
And multitudes of Saints, and a little bit farther off…

11

[11]
There were the soldier saints,
In their helmets and armor;
Saint George, Saint Hubert, Saint Michael
Bending over the grimacing demon,
Saint Leonard and Saint Marcel,
Saint Charlemagne with his beard,
Saint Martin, Saint Suplicius, Saint Barbara,
Maneuvering her little cannon,
Saint Maurice and his companions,
And Joan of Arc with her banner…
Seeing all these military personalities,
The Poilu says to himself: “It’s the War Council!…
Looks like I’m really in for it!”
But there was no escape:
His interrogation began tout de suite.

12

[12]
“So, tell me your story!”
Says the Lord to the poor Poilu—
“What did you do before the war?”
“–Well, Lord, I farmed the land…
It’s a job that doesn’t make you wealthy,
And I wasn’t rich either;
But you get by with hard work;
I say, I managed to make a living:
I had a pair of cattle, a horse,
A cow, a wife and some chickens,
And a pig, with all due respect…”
–“Ah!” says Saint Anthony, “I know something about that,
Pigs! …Bless you, my brother!”
But the Lord gave him a scowl.
And Saint Anthony, he made himself scarce…
“And since you’ve been a soldier,
Have you often sinned?”
–“Well, Lord, now and then,
To tell you the truth:
I’ve gotten drunk at times,
But after all, I’m Angevin,

13

[13]
“And then, it was such lousy wine
That my sin can’t be very great!”
…Then Father Noah, the Patriarch,
Exclaimed: “It’s not a very grave sin…
Far from forbidding it,
I’d say now and then: “Ark, full speed ahead!”
–“Another time I was thrown in jail,
But I really think that I was in the right:
I had a rip in my pants…
To make a patch,
So my sorry ass wouldn’t show,
I cut a few scraps from my coat…
So the captain threw me in jail
For damaging
Government property!”
Saint Martin said, “Indeed,
I did no worse
The day I cut my cape in half
To clothe a cripple,
And I got canonized for it!”
– “Me, said the Poilu, I got screwed…

14

[14]
But all I did was cover myself:
You’d think the rules would be different!

Another time I was so covered with lice
That I just couldn’t kill them all.”
“—I kept my lice,” said good Saint Labre;
You should have followed my example and scratched yourself
To cultivate some humility!”
(But Saint Michael, disgusted,
Beat him off with the flat of his sword.)

15

[15]
“Finally, Lord, if I’ve sinned,
I’ve also had great hardships
And borne my share of troubles;
I’ve suffered terribly from
Hunger, cold, and heat:
I’ve had sleepless nights;
I’ve often dragged my battered feet
Over long trails,
Marching for so long
That my sweat fell in big drops
Under the weight of my heavy pack!…
There were even times when
I carried other guys’ packs
To give them a break,
Though I was exhausted myself!…”
And Saint Simon said very softly:
“Like us, Lord, at Golgotha!”

16

[16]
“So here I stand before you now:
I’m a soul without a body or a home;
Lord, Lord, if I’ve sinned,
Haven’t I made amends?…
I’m bled dry, I’m pale as a ghost…
See at the gash in my side!…”

Saint Thomas said, “Truly,
Lord Jesus, it was just like that!”

And as the Lord said nothing,
The Poilu pointed to
The Virgin Mother’s blue mantle,
God the Father’s great white beard,
And Our Lord’s red robe,
And said, “These are my three colors!”

17

[17]
These are the three colors of France,
And all my suffering has been for their sake;
These are the colors of my Flag,
The three colors of my Country
For whose sake my flesh has been ripped open;
For their sake I’ve lost my life,
And it’s for their sake I’m here before you,
Eternal Father, on my knees!”

18

[18]
And then God smiled,
And behind him Heaven opened…

And the Poilu saw that among the Angels
There were others interspersed
Seated in their midst
Were multitudes of joyful Poilus,
All smart
In their azure blue coats
And on their heads gold helmets;
Each one had a great pair of wings
So he could fly about effortlessly,
Without getting his boots wet,
And travel 36 miles and more
Without getting blisters on his feet.

19

[19]
And the Poilu sat down in the midst of the crowd
Singing with them with all his heart:
“Glory to God in highest Heaven!”
While the angels, bathed in light,
Responded all around:
“And peace on Earth
To men of good will!”

Verdun, March, 1916

[20]

[21]

[21]
Printed
15 June 1918
By
Frazier-Soye
Paris.