Sergeant Robert Pellissier - Letters Of A Chasseur À Pied
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The amazing story of a French American teacher who left his life at Stanford college to volunteer for the French Army, in the elite chasseurs--pied, during the First World War. Although born in France Robert Pellissier in 1882, he moved to America in 1882 to live with his sister. A gifted scholar of ardent professionalism, he studied at Harvard and taught at Williston College and Stanford. However when war broke out in Europe his morals would not allow him to sit idly by whilst France was invaded and European civilisation was under assault. He wrote home obsessively, to his parents, his fiance and his colleagues describing with great passion the fight for justice that he had embarked on. Filling with wry humour, contemporary political commentary, and most often an sense of the insanity of war. For example, with bitter irony, he quotes the idiocy of an the outdated war manual he had been given in one of his letters-Any disengaged body of troops should right away march to the firing line- a death sentence in the trenches! In late 1914 he was posted to the inhospitable mountainous region in the north of France the Vosges, after an abortive offensive earlier the year the French only held the rocky outcrops out of all of the Alsace region. But Pellissier and his comrades would cling on to their foothold tenaciously for national honour; he was wounded and invalided out of the frontline in 1915. He was promoted to become an sergeant in 1916, he returned to the front in time to be engaged in the brutal fighting during the battle of Hartmannweilerskopf where he and his men fought on for 53 days without relief, which could not be effected due to the heavy German bombardment. It was during the battle of the Somme in 1916 that Sergeant Pellissier eventually met his end, at least on the soil of his beloved France.
Sergeant Robert Pellissier: author's other books
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Sergeant Robert Pellissier
Robert Conroy
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American Field Service.
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Text originally published in 1917 under the same title.
Pickle Partners Publishing 2013, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.
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Letters of a Chasseur Pied
Robert Pellissier
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
When Robert Pellissier gave his life to France, there were still among his acquaintances some people who asked: But why did he enlist? And they frankly admitted there were some traits in his character which they did not understand. Bearing in mind these queries, I endeavoured to answer them in a brief sketch written for the Williston Bulletin. This sketch, as well as a Colleague's Tribute, is reproduced here as an introduction to the Letters of a Chasseur Pied.
A. P.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori
ROBERT PELLISSIER
(1882-1916)
THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE AS PORTRAYED IN THE LIFE OF A FORMER WILLISTON TEACHER KILLED IN THE SOMME OFFENSIVE
By ADELINE PELLISSIER
PROFESSOR OF FRENCH IN SMITH COLLEGE
On September 18th news reached us that Robert Pellissier, of the French chasseurs pied, had been killed in battle. To his family his life has been and always will be the greatest inspiration. When I think of my brother's life, the picture which rises before me is that of a young horseman coming at full speed over hill and dale. He is neither dismayed nor halted by any obstacles; he clears them all lightly and with a joyous shout. At the end of his course, he meets death on a battlefield, bravely fighting for France.
One of Robert's chief characteristics was his profound attachment to his native land. He was born in 1882 at La Ferrire-sous-Jougne, Doubs, in the Jura Mountains, and the severe and almost tragic beauty of the fir tree forests, extending for miles over the mountainsides, was so strongly stamped on his memory that he always longed for fir clad mountains and loved those landscapes best which came nearest to this type of natural beauty.
Robert was the youngest of a family of seven children, and as his father died when he was but six years old, in the course of his life, when he came in closer contact now with one and now with another of his brothers and sisters, he eagerly asked them for his share of the moral guidance left them by their father as their most precious heritage.
Robert's father, after having lived the greater part of his life near Grenoble and in Lyons, had finally become superintendent of a large wire and nail factory at La Ferrire. The owners of the mill, the employees, the eight hundred workmen constituted the Whole settlement. As in this Roman Catholic community our family was the only one which was of Huguenot ancestry, and as the only Protestant church was several miles distant, our father, in his own way, gave us religious training. In summer, on Sunday, when the weather was fair, he often took us to a part of the forest where old fir trees, standing wide apart, left an open space as dark and mysterious as a cathedral, and there he would read to us either a psalm of David or a passage from the Gospels, and the reading over, he would tell us how, in olden times, our Huguenot ancestors had fought for their faith and how for centuries before the great French Revolution, they had prayed and worshipped in the wilderness, in some clearing or by the side of a stream.
Sometimes my father would tell us about the Huguenots of the Cevennes, and sometimes he would describe the wanderings of the Waldenses, following them from France into Italy and from Italy back into France. But the whole trend of this religious instruction was that external ceremonies are of but little importance and that the spiritual side of worship is the main thing.
An interesting story shows how this lesson was understood by my sister Marie at the early age of six. Having been invited with seven other little girls to hold the white ribbons of a pall at a child's funeral, in the Catholic church, Marie remained standing through the whole ceremony, although her little friends kept tugging at her dress, to make her kneel down. When they asked her the reason for such indecorous behavior, Marie answered: I worship in truth and in spirit. Five years older than Robert, she handed down this conception of moral courage to him. It must be added that our father felt that whatever form of religion a man accepted he must live up to it, and he always urged his men to keep in touch with their church and with their priest, so broad was his spirit of religious toleration.
My sister Marie, who is no longer living, was Robert's earliest instructress. Long before Marie could read, she knew some poetry by snatches. She had picked up this knowledge at the breakfast table, for my father, who went to the mill at six o'clock in the morning, returned home at eight, to have breakfast with his family. From his office to the house, he used to read and, after he had sat down at the table, he would repeat to us, with fiery enthusiasm, the passages he most admired. Sometimes it was a passage from the work of a philosopher or an historian, Pascal or Michelet, but still more frequently he would recite a few stanzas from our great poets: de Musset, de Vigny or Victor Hugo. Marie did not know the titles of the books, but she knew part of their contents. She had no difficulty in singling out, on the shelves, the book with the red binding which to her meant:
Pote, prends ton luth, et me donne un baiser;
La fleur de l'glantier sent ses bourgeons clore,
Le printemps nat ce soir; les vents vont s'embraser;
Et la bergeronnette en attendant l'aurore,
Aux premiers buissons verts commence se poser.
She could tell also that in another volume was to be found:
l'aime le son du cor, le soir, au fond des bois.
Soit qu'il chante les pleurs de la biche aux abois,
Ou l'adieu du chasseur que l'cho faible accueille,
Et que le vent du nord porte de feuille en feuille.
By Marie this poetical knowledge was imparted to Robert.
If I give these apparently insignificant details it is because, in my opinion, they account for an early sense of discrimination between good and bad literature, a certain natural sense of rhythm which in my brother seemed to be inborn. Every now and then there was a sad and gloomy day in our home; our father would come in and say with a look of profound despair on his face: Le ministre est tombthe ministry has fallenand, on such a day, even the younger children were made to understand that the French Republic was like a ship without a pilot; they firmly grasped the idea that beyond the family there was France, and that France was in danger.
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