to content ourselves with the servile utterance of official
platitudes.... We are weary of the daily and systematic stuffing of
people's heads with official pabulum.... We have not abdicated any of
our rights, not even our hopes."[37]

Each issue of the magazine was a fresh proof of his independence. At
this juncture, reviews edited by young thinkers were springing up
everywhere from among the ruins. That of Wullens took the leading place,
owing to his force of character and his indomitable frankness.

He found a great friend in Han Ryner, who amid the European barbarians,
amid the prevailing chaos, exhibits the calm of an exiled Socrates.
Gabriel Belot, the engraver, another sage, who, knowing nothing of
mental discord or ill-will, dwells on the Ile St. Louis as if the two
beautiful arms of the Seine sheltered him from the troubles of the
world, lights up the most sombre of articles with the peace of his
radiant designs.[38] Other friends, younger men, soldiers like Wullens,
rallied to support him in the struggle for the truth. For instance,
Marcel Lebarbier, poet and critic.

The most recent issue of "Les Humbles" contains excellent work. Wullens
begins with a tribute to the rare French writers who have shown
themselves during the last three years to be free-spirited humanists: to
Henri Guilbeaux and his periodical "demain";[39] to P. J. Jouve, author
of _Vous etes des hommes_ and of _Poeme contre le grand crime_, whose
sympathetic spirit vibrates and trembles like a tree to the wind of all
the pains and all the angers of mankind; to Marcel Martinet, one of the
greatest lyricists whom the war (the horror of the war) has brought
forth, the writer of _Temps maudits_, a poem which will for ever bear
witness to the suffering and the revolt of a free spirit; to Delemer,
that moving writer; and to a few recently founded magazines. The editor
of "Les Humbles" goes on to clear the ground of what he terms "the false
literary vanguard," telling the chauvinist writers what he thinks of
them. This lettered poilu, a blunt fellow, does not mince matters:

"I have come from this war whose praises you are singing--I who
write.... I have my honourable mention, my war cross: I never wear it. I
spent seven months as a war prisoner, before being sent home
incapacitated by my wound. I could flood you with war anecdotes. I have
no desire to do anything of the kind. Nevertheless I am writing a book
on the war. I compress into it all that