THE SIEGE OF VERDUN
It was now six p.m. and, although the German shells had been coming in
at regular intervals all day, they increased the intensity of their
fire now and things were pretty hot, for they were putting lots of big
ones over. We felt quite secure in our _abri_, and after an hour
the bombardment ceased.
That night we got little sleep, for the French preparatory fire, in
view of the big offensive planned for the next day, had increased to
such violence it sounded like Hell let loose and running wild.
We were up at three a.m., ready to start at break of day. If possible,
the French fire seemed to increase each moment. So fast were the
big guns discharging their deadly missiles that it was impossible to
distinguish one report from another. It was one vast rumble. However,
we did not get away, as word came that the Boches were putting over gas
along the road on which we were to travel, and so orders came for us to
wait. That gave us time to get a good meal tucked away. It is always
good judgment to eat when one has an opportunity, for the chances are
that during an attack the rarest thing that one will experience is an
opportunity to eat.
It was nearly eight o’clock before we got under way. The road over
which we were going was controlled by Boche batteries back of Pepper
Hill, and even now we were noticing the shells landing in the roadside
ahead and behind us. Camions, dead horses and soup kitchens were in
evidence, toppled over into the ditches, but we were not hampered and
kept right on going.
In a few minutes we were stopped by a French sentry and warned not to
try to go ahead as the Boches were shelling the road in advance quite
heavily. We could hear the shells breaking about half a kilometer
further on, so we pulled up and stopped here for about thirty minutes.
There seemed to be a lull at the end of this time, when we again
started forward, but had not proceeded very far when we came to an
artillery caisson turned over in a ditch and three horses lying dead in
the road. Two of the men attached to the caisson had been killed by the
same shell and were lying at the roadside, partly covered with canvas.
We were held up here for a couple of moments until the Frenchmen pulled
the last horse that blocked the road out of the way. Five minutes more
travel brought us to a sharp turn in the road, but just before we
reached it a shell exploded near us with a sound that convulsed us. A
quick application of the brakes was necessary, for we found that the
shell had landed in the road just in front of a camion. The three men
who were on the camion heard it coming and jumped to safety, but the
explosion had torn their motor and the front of their car into bits.
It so happened that this truck occupied the very middle of the road
and it was impossible for us to pass on either side of it. Bang! a
shell broke at this moment on the hillside about one hundred feet away.
Hasty examination and inquiry soon convinced us that we would be held
up here for some time. It appeared like a most uncomfortable place to
be stuck in, and the developments of the next few moments justified
the impression. Bang! Bang! two shells exploded one on one side of the
road and the other just ahead. We decided to turn our car around and
get away from this spot until the damaged truck was removed. This was
finally accomplished, but no sooner had we turned than the shells began
bursting in and around the road in the direction we were traveling.
A Frenchman at this moment pointed out the location of an _abri_
by the roadside where we were and into which we could crawl until
the shelling stopped. Ahead of us some two hundred feet the road passed
through a sort of a cut, where the banks came up on both sides high
enough partially to protect the car from being damaged, except by a
direct hit.
[Illustration: The Bivouac of the Dead]
[Illustration: Where the Souls of Men Are Calling]
The _abri_ was a very welcome place and as long as we had started
for it we lost no time in getting there. We had hardly descended
the stairs when two Frenchmen came down supporting a third between
them. I recognized him as one of the men who had been on the camion.
His trousers were red and the blood was trickling to the floor. His
clothing was removed at once and a gaping wound was found in his
stomach. He screamed with agony.
A doctor, who was present, stepped forward at this moment to examine
the man, but quickly shook his head. We knew that meant the wounded
soldier did not have a chance. At this instant a shell landed about
twenty feet from the entrance to our retreat, and the vibration was
so violent that it almost shook our teeth out. A great deal of loose
dirt between the beams above our heads fell—some of it into the gaping
wound of the unfortunate man lying on the floor. I was horrified and
called the doctor’s attention to the matter, but he said that it was of
no consequence; the man was doomed.
Naturally I began to feel very nervous, for the place in which we were
quartered did not impress me as any too safe, being only about fifteen
feet below the surface, and should a shell land on it I felt that we
would stay there a long, long time.
And the shells did come, one after another. It appeared that they were
shooting at the dug-out instead of the road now. The place fairly
trembled. The doctor fell to his knees and started praying a sort of
chant—“My God, my God. I have always tried to serve thee well,” etc.
I must confess that I was not enjoying myself any too well, for I
remember having picked up an old newspaper which I tried to read, but
merely turned the pages over and over and whistled nervously, wondering
where the next one would land.
The doctor turned sharply and addressed me. “You fool, have you
no reverence, to whistle while a man is praying?” He upbraided me
severely. Such experiences, together with the agonized cries from
wounded men screaming with pain, were not pleasant. I expected
momentarily to see the nose of a Boche 105 come poking through the roof
and bury us like rats, but Dame Fortune smiled with favor upon us, for
the expected never came. But the cries of the man who had been so badly
wounded had now ceased. He had passed away.
After the bombardment lifted we ventured forth, expecting the worst.
But there was our car, untouched, just where we had left it. A few
moments’ work by some Frenchmen got the auto truck off to the side
of the road far enough to enable us to pass. I do not ever remember
experiencing such profound relief at leaving a place as I was to get
away from this bend of the road.
Soon we came to where the French cannon were putting over the usual
preparatory fire before the attack. We parked our car in a sort of a
gravel pit, which afforded good protection. By this time we had passed
several large Howitzer batteries, also some large Marine pieces, and
when these guns would fire we could hear their big shells go screaming
over our heads on their way to the front. One cannot help wondering how
any living thing could exist within the confines of such an inferno.
After about ten minutes we came up before a field telegraphic
headquarters, and adjoining was the telephone exchange for this
sector of the front. Needless to say, this was a busy place. Here all
impending movements shaped themselves, and communications from the
General Staff were relayed to the army both by wire and ’phone. All the
big guns throwing shells over our heads were controlled by this bureau.
A captain informed us that an attack was to be launched at twelve
noon sharp. During the time that we were here I noticed undue aerial
activity on the part of the Germans, for there were some twelve or
fifteen of their machines in the air over the French lines, and at the
same time I noticed six observation balloons floating behind their
lines with lookouts alert. It impressed me as rather irregular that the
French had not sent up machines to drive the Boche planes back over
their own lines in such times as these, for it was now ten-thirty,
and, with an attack coming off at noon, they might gather a lot of
information regarding the concentrations of the French and take steps
to counter the move.
Almost at the moment that these thoughts were running through my
mind the captain was called to the telephone, and after a short time
returned with the information that the call was an order for the French
aviators to proceed against the German observation balloons, regardless
of cost, and to destroy them. I asked if they were going after the
planes, too, to which he replied:
“No—they are instructed to pay no attention to the aeroplanes until
they have completed the destruction of the observation balloons. The
planes are to be left entirely to our anti-aircraft batteries.”
Turning toward the rear, I noticed the result of the orders just
issued, for one after another of the French planes ascended, until
I had counted nineteen. All started to maneuver for positions of
advantage. The battle-planes ascended to elevations where they
could protect the planes that were going after the balloons. Over
to the right of our position, within two minutes of each other, the
anti-aircraft batteries scored direct hits, and brought two Boche
planes tumbling to earth, while overhead a German attacked a French
plane and forced it to descend behind our lines.
Time was drawing closer now when we must go forward to take up the
position we would occupy during the attack. Already the French fire
was deafening, mingled with the terrible roar of German shells. In
about twenty minutes we gained the summit of an elevation from which we
could see the German trenches that were to be attacked, about twelve
hundred yards in front of us, but considerably lower, excepting one
slope on the left, where there was a steep incline leading to the top
of a small hill, on which was located the second line defense of the
Germans, the first being at the bottom.
We could see very plainly the effect of the French fire, for there
were shells of all sizes breaking over the German positions—a mass
of shrapnel explosives. With the aid of powerful glasses I could
distinguish that while there was some barbed wire standing before the
German trenches the accuracy of the French artillery had resulted in
reducing it so much that there would be easy access for the infantry.
At eleven-forty-five exactly there was not a German observation balloon
in the sky. French aviators were now free to engage the Boche planes.
In the next few moments two German machines were brought to earth and
with them one French plane in combat. Immediately thereafter a German
machine fell in flames, brought down by the aircraft batteries. I could
not help but think how wonderfully accurate the calculations of the
Headquarters Staff had been in planning the aerial operations.
Located in pits on the hill on which I stood were the French 75’s,
about forty pieces all told, that had been placed there the night
before. Not a single shot had been fired from them. Afterwards I
learned more in detail the part these guns were to play and the reason
for their temporary inactivity.
At twelve sharp, as if by magic, out of the ground arose wave upon wave
of French infantry. So spectacular, and so inspiring, was the sight
that we stood motionless, our eyes fixed upon the advancing lines of
blue. For several minutes I did not see a man fall. This was due to
the fact that the Germans were still in their dug-outs on account of
the intensity of the French preparatory fire, still falling on their
position.
This did not last long, however. The curtain fire raised quickly and we
could observe the shells breaking in the rear of the German front-line
trenches, instead of on them, as they had been a moment before. The
same instant German machine-gun fire opened, and, just as the French
reached the wire in front of the enemy position, I could see blue
figures falling all along the front, and while the buzz of the machine
guns was inaudible, due to the terrible din of the cannon, I knew by
the way the men dropped that the machine guns were doing the mischief.
Notwithstanding the slaughter, more men jumped into the gaps and on
they swept. They had now reached the parapet of the German front-line
trench and we could see them fighting with grenades and hand to hand. A
short while thereafter the supporting columns of the French surged on
over the first line in an attack upon the secondary defense. Supporting
columns still filed out of the French trenches below. How so many could
come from that source was enough to mystify one, but here they were
before our eyes, streaming forward in surging waves. I noticed now that
the French fire had again been lifted and was being thrown even farther
to the rear than heretofore.
The shells, as we now observed them, broke in a clearing that seemed
about five hundred yards wide, back of the secondary defense of the
Germans. It was on this stretch of ground that all the French artillery
on our hill was trained, but as yet not a shell had been fired from
them. We could see very clearly that the first line had been captured,
for even now the French had started back with groups of prisoners taken
from it. We could discern quite clearly at times that they were making
good progress against the secondary defense, although the smoke and
bursting shells in the area between were very heavy and obscured the
view. I glanced toward my left and saw caissons going up on the run
with cartridges and hand grenades to repel the counter attack.
The Germans must have anticipated this move, for they put over
a terrific fire on the road over which these supplies had to be
transported. Just about this time word came back that all objectives
had been captured and consolidation started. Instantaneously another
rush of caissons went forward with additional supplies, and every gun
behind us seemed to be throwing a barrage fire back of the positions
captured. There was no lull. The French infantry had captured all that
they had started out for,—in fact, all that there was.
An under officer of the battery beside me exclaimed, “Hurrah!” and I
turned my head in the direction in which he was looking, to see three
regiments of “Blue Devils” charging with bayonets fixed up the steep
slope that had until now defied all thrusts. The casualties seemed to
be remarkably few for such an exposed position, and before we could
realize what had happened the French had gained the crest, and, in the
next few moments, had thrown the Boches off the hill.
Orders were now given for every man to take his position. At first I
could not understand why these orders caused such activity among the
batteries that, up to now, had shown no signs of being in the fight
at all—but I was soon to learn. Everyone seemed breathless with
impatience, but stood cool and rigid. Finally I heard a shout, “Here
they come!”
I shall never be able adequately to describe the sight. Masses of
Boches surge forward in counter attack; closer and closer they drew
toward the French positions until there was an earth-rending crash and
forty sheets of flame burst from the mouths of the cannon beside me.
I was too stupefied to realize what had taken place for the moment, but
soon regained control of myself. The guns never stopped a second. Each
piece was throwing shrapnel at the rate of twenty-two to twenty-five
shots a minute into the oncoming ranks. We could observe quite
clearly the shells landing among them and over them, and with each
explosion could see gaps torn in their lines and men mowed down like
so many weeds. Finally they faltered, and the next instant fell back
in disorder to the positions they had left. The ground was literally
strewn with their dead when the cannon ceased.
It was not long that we enjoyed this lull for the German batteries
started shelling our positions furiously. Hitherto we had not come in
for much attention, a shell every now and then was our lot, but now
their fire was directed straight at us, and from what we received I
imagined that every gun made in Germany was trained on this hill.
Five French guns were completely destroyed, while eight more had to
re-locate positions so that they would not be wiped out. Shells of all
sizes broke around us, but after a few minutes the shelling subsided.
Notice was now transmitted along the position that the Boches were
forming for a second counter attack. Everyone was again in place and in
a couple of moments again I heard, “Here they come!” And they did come,
and also with them came a renewal of shell-fire on our position, when
two more guns were hit. But they were paying a terrible toll for their
advance, for their ranks were torn to bits by the French machine guns.
Nor did this stop them—they came on and on until they gained the
parapet of the French position, and here fought hand-to-hand for it.
But the defenders were the most tenacious. They refused to budge an
inch, until, due to superior numbers, they had to give ground. But the
Headquarters Staff had been watching for these very conditions, so,
like a flash, two attacks were started simultaneously from the right
and left, and before the Germans knew what had happened both bodies of
the French converged in their rear, and all Germans not killed were
taken prisoners.
It is difficult to analyze and describe one’s feelings in going through
such an attack, and what surprised me most, after it was all over, was
the way in which I had lost all consciousness of what was taking place
right around me, so intense was my desire to see everything that was
transpiring out in front of our position. Even when the shells were
coming in close, and particularly during the time when the batteries
beside me were being shelled, and even hit, I do not remember paying
much attention to what might happen to me, for I felt that all was in
the hands of fate.
On our way to the rear we came across batches of prisoners. There
appeared to be two distinct classes of soldiers, the first not one
of whom seemed to be over twenty, while some here were mere boys
and wore looks of terror and dread. I saw one youngster, surely not
over seventeen, with his hand tied up, evidently wounded, the tears
streaming down his cheeks. I was informed later that these boys were
told by their officers that in the event of their being captured they
would be tortured, and all manner of things would be done to them by
the French. From their expressions one could see that they believed
this to be a fact.
The other class consisted of men who appeared to be over forty years
of age. Some of them had beards in which gray hairs were largely in
evidence. All of them looked very poor and the rations that they had
been given surely did not nourish them to any marked degree. The class
that was lacking was the strapping young fellow of twenty-two to
twenty-eight, the connecting link between mere boys and middle-aged men.
After all these came the wounded. Brancardiers and soldiers were now
assisting at the dressing stations. All kinds and shapes of humanity
lay in rows, one after another, awaiting the attention of the doctors
who pass along the line examining and administering to those who have a
chance for life. To one who is not used to such sights it would appear
that the doctors are a hard-hearted lot, as they make their rounds,
passing by those who have no chance. But here one must realize that
the time and attention that a vitally injured man requires, should he
have died on the way to the hospital, might have been the means of
saving the life of the one who had a chance. Never shall I forget the
expression on the faces of men when the doctors passed on to the next.
They realized that it was only a question of moments before they made
their supreme sacrifice. What must that feeling be? Of course, there
are some that lose control of themselves because of intense pain from
wounds, but on the whole the patience of these unfortunates is most
remarkable.
[Illustration: The Wagon of Mercy Loading Up]
After a heavy action all such men as can possibly get to the rear by
themselves, or with the assistance of comrades, are forced to make the
struggle, for the ambulance is taxed to its utmost in bringing back
those who are unable to help themselves.
After the lull came, with the French holding all of their gains,
I had the opportunity of going over the whole area of the Verdun
battlefield, and the only expression that I can use to fit the scene
is that it was a mess. Where, before the attack, there were beautiful
trees, nothing now remained. It was impossible to tell or distinguish
one shell hole from another, so raked and torn was the ground, now
turned into chalk dust. First a shell lands here and throws the ground
one way, then a shell lands there and throws it back—a continual
churning process—and when the heavy rains come it turns it all into a
quagmire of so much mud. There have been any number of instances where
French soldiers had gotten into such places and gradually sunk almost
out of sight before their comrades came to their rescue. In some cases
they were too late to pull the victims out without pulling their arms
from their sockets. All that could be done under such circumstances was
to shake hands with the unfortunate—before he was swallowed up and
sank from view in the lake of mud.
This has happened to horses and even to the light field batteries. It
is impossible for one who has not witnessed these scenes to have even a
vague conception of such conditions.
* * * * *
Following is an interesting letter portraying an action at Verdun:—
Verdun, ——
To-night I am sitting in the small underground cellar of one of
the public buildings of the town, acting as a sort of timekeeper
or starter for the cars going up to our most dangerous post, and
handling the reserve cars for the wounded in the town itself. I wish
I could describe the scene as I see it,—for a strange world is
passing before me—Frenchmen, living, wounded and dying.
A long, heavily arched corridor, with stone steps leading down to
it; two compartments off to one side lined with wine bins, where
our reserve men and a few French brancardiers (stretcher-bearers)
are lying on their stained stretchers, some snoring; beyond, a door
that leads to a small operating room, and to the left another door
that admits to a little sick ward with four beds of different sizes
and make on one side and six on the other, taken evidently from the
ruined houses nearby—and one tired infirmier (hospital attendant) to
tend and soothe the wounded and dying.
In the bed nearest the door, a French priest, shot through the
lungs—with pneumonia setting in—his black beard pointing straight
up, whispers for water. Next to him, a little German lad, hardly
nineteen, with about six hours to live, calling, sometimes screaming,
for his mother, and then for water. Next to him, a French captain
of infantry, with his arm shot off at the shoulder and his head
lacerated, weak, dying, but smiling; and next to him a tirailleur in
delirium calling on his colonel to charge the Germans. The Infirmier
is going from one to the other, soothing one and waiting on another,
each in turn. He asks me what the German is saying, and I tell him he
is calling for his mother. “Ah, this is a sad war,” he says, as he
goes over to hold the poor lad’s hand.
A brancardier comes in with a telephone message,—“a _blessé_
(wounded man), at Belleville—very serious.” This is a reserve car
call. So one slides out and is gone like a gray ghost down the ruined
street, making all the speed its driver can—no easy matter,—with no
lights. In twenty minutes he is back. The brancardiers go out—they
come in again, bearing the wounded man on a stretcher and place it
on the floor beside the little stove. One of them, who is a priest,
leans over him and asks him his name and town;—then, in answer to
what his wife’s name is, he murmurs: “Alice;” while on the other
side another brancardier is slitting the clothes from his body and I
shiver with pity at the sight.
The surgeon comes out of his little operating room. Weary with the
night’s tragic work—after so many, many other tragic nights, he
doused his head in a bucket of water, then turned to the wounded
man. He looked long at him, gently felt his nose and lifted up his
closed eyelid. Then, at his nod, the stretcher is again lifted and
the wounded man carried into the operating room, and soon after that,
into the little room of sorrows.
In answer to my eager question the surgeon shakes his head. Not a
chance!
A brancardier and I gather the soldier’s belongings from his clothes
to be sent to his wife, but even we have to stop for a few moments
after we see the photograph of his wife and their two little children.
An hour later, as our night’s work was slacking down and several
cars had driven up and been unloaded, the infirmier came in from the
little room and said something to the brancardiers. Two of them got
a stretcher and in a moment “The _blessé_ from Belleville” came
past us with a sheet over him. They laid him down at the other end of
the room and another brancardier commenced rolling and tying him in
burlap for burial. As you looked he changed to a shapeless log. Then
out to the dead wagon.
Shortly after I went into the little ward again to see how the
others were coming through the night, and was glad to see them all
quieted down; even the little German seemed less in pain, though his
breathing still shook the heavy little bed he lay on.
Through a window I saw that day was beginning to break, and, as I
noticed it, I heard the Chief’s car coming in from the “Sap,” and
knew the night’s work was over.