has fought on every front. On August 10, in Lorraine, it repulsed by
itself, at Provenchères, four German attacks, four battalions strong.
On the 14th it is in the Saint Blaize combat. On the 19th it is in
action at Valerysthal, where it is subjected to furious assaults.
From August 29 to September 5 it holds La Chipotte Wood. Then it is
recalled to take part in the Battle of the Marne. At the beginning
of October it is sent to Artois. It is the first to enter the first
house of Ablain-St.-Nazaire. It is then sent farther north, to the
long and stubborn battle of Ypres. The men thought they would never go
through anything worse, but Verdun is to come. In December it returns
to Artois, to the Lorette region. On May 8, 1915, it attacks the White
Earthworks with superb dash; in June, the Square Wood and the Hollow
Way; in October, the Wood of the Axe. And Verdun comes to crown all
these memories like a bunch of flowers decorating a housetop. It is a
Homeric catalogue, but how many of our regiments could tell a similar
story!
It has lost two of its commanding officers, Major Renaud at Bréménil on
August 19, 1914, and in Artois, on May 8, 1915, after the attack on the
White Earthworks, that young Major Madelin, who was the most finished
type of an officer, cool-headed, yet always inspiring his men,
well-groomed, genial, brilliant, and cultured, a brother of my dear
comrade in letters and in arms, the historian, now Second Lieutenant
Louis Madelin, whom the fortune of war has suddenly thrown into my
company, and who offers me a refuge in his plank-built hut. Major
Madelin was succeeded in Artois by my friend Major Pineau, whom I find
again with the Staff; then by Major Tournes, who has just come down
from the Vaux sector, where I met him preparing an attack.
Suddenly there is bustle in the courtyard. A company, whose losses
I can guess, is gathering in a circle round the Captain and the
Sergeant-Major. To judge by their craning necks and the gleam in their
eyes, the report is of peculiar interest. Very likely it is a question
of rest billets or, perhaps, of furlough. Furlough, the mirage in
which a man’s house and loved ones appear before him! I draw near. The
Sergeant-Major is reading the order of the day addressed on March 10 by
the Commander-in-Chief to the soldiers of Verdun!
“Soldiers of the Army of Verdun!
“For three weeks you have endured the most formidable assault that the
enemy has yet attempted against us.
“Germany counted on the success of this offensive, which she thought
irresistible and to which she had devoted her best troops and her most
powerful artillery.
“She hoped that the capture of Verdun would encourage her allies and
convince neutral countries of German superiority.
“She had reckoned without you!
“Night and day, in spite of an unparalleled bombardment, you have
withstood all attacks and held your positions.
“The struggle is not yet at an end, for the Germans need a victory. You
will be able to rob them of that victory.
“We have munitions in plenty and numerous reserves.
“But above all you have your indomitable courage and your faith in the
destiny of the Republic.
“The eyes of the country are upon you. You will be among those of whom
it will be said: ‘They stopped the Germans from getting to Verdun!’”
The Sergeant-Major, himself deeply moved by what he reads, leaves a
pause between the last sentence and the official “Dismiss!” which sets
his hearers free.
And the company breaks up slowly, as if with regret. The men understand
better what they have done, and the hardships they have undergone
take on a new lustre in their eyes. That sense of loneliness which in
long conflicts leads each man, little by little, to complain of his
individual trials, and to imagine that his leaders and the community
as a whole are indifferent, suddenly vanishes: down there, when they
were in the jaws of hell, their Commander and their countrymen saw
everything.
And in the silence which for a moment seals their lips, makes their
features grave and motionless, and combines all those stray thoughts
into one supreme idea, a historic thrill passes through them.
Individual destinies grow wider; nothing counts any longer but the
collective task.
Then they disperse into groups, and tongues are loosened. For the first
time since the relief they consent to speak of the ten days spent in
the Vaux sector. Their scattered impressions may be summed up in the
proud boast:
“At any rate, _they_ have decamped for to-night.”
The fierce, uninterrupted bombardment, so hard to endure for those who
are out of action, gives rise to protests. The veterans of the Artois
campaign compare notes and agree that they have never seen such an orgy
of firing.
“It ought not to be allowed,” declares a new hand.
Modestly, as if it were an everyday incident, a Corporal of the 158th
tells some light infantrymen of his share in the last engagement, that
of the evening of March 16 in Vaux village, which is half French, half
German, and is intersected by barricades and trenches:
“I was in the village, near the barricade. After the Jack Johnsons, the
look-out men told us that _they_ were coming in masses. The parapets
are manned. The Lieutenant says: ‘Don’t hurry, my lads, let them come
up.’ When _they_ are within easy range, our men open fire. The Boches
were seen to fall like ninepins. Still they came on again, and yet
again. They have plenty of self-confidence.”
And now the talk flies to and fro like the crackling of musketry fire.
The names of dead and wounded are mentioned, but there is no sadness,
no lingering over them: it is a matter of Fate, who chooses those whom
it pleases her to strike. The praises of the stretcher-bearers are
sung: guided by cries or by instinct, they bring in the wounded, even
that blind man who, erect between the lines, walked with his hands in
front of him, without knowing where, haggard and howling. As for the
dead, burying them was out of the question. Gratitude is expressed
towards the cooks, who roll about their field-kitchens under shell-fire
and carry rations to the troops. A burly Swiss who has enrolled himself
for the duration of the war, “without any idea that it would last so
long,” he adds, “otherwise----,” receives these grateful words as a
personal compliment:
“Well, you can’t run with a great load on your back.”
The Colonel whom I met at the Carrières headquarters--a thin face with
clear-cut outlines, blue eyes, usually soft, but now and then showing
a glint of steel, slight build, keen nerves, with an unswerving
ascendancy over his men, whom he knows how to inspire with his hatred
of the Boches (hatred dies down so quickly in our race)--can speak of
nothing but his regiment:
“Hunger, thirst, lack of sleep, and all the time that din and that
menace of big shells crashing, they bore it all without a murmur. You
pass down the lines; every man follows you with his eyes, centres
his hopes in you, believes in you. You acquire such a feeling of
confidence. You cannot help leading them well.”
Thus from the close union of hearts he makes leadership spring as the
wheat springs from the fertilized soil.
The chaplain has finished writing, and with the best grace in the world
he hands me the notes in which he has just been describing his stay
in Fort Vaux and the immediate surroundings from March 6 to 17. They
are moving pages, at once picturesque, sincere, and gently ironical;
they take me once more over the road I have travelled, and recall
the assault of March 10 on the slopes of the fort as the actors in
the drama had recounted it to me on the spot. On the following day,
our command prepares in its turn a little expedition in order to
gain possession of the foot of those hillsides where the Germans are
invisible and our 75’s cannot find their mark. Here is the account of
this attack on the 16th and 17th:
_Extract from the Diary of the Abbé C----, Chaplain to the 3rd
Battalion of Light Infantry._
“_Thursday the 16th._--Great activity during the night. The enemy
shows obvious signs of anxiety and nervousness. Numerous rockets,
constant work at their auxiliary defences.
“All this delights our men. So they are afraid! So that
irresistible dash which was to reach its climax at Verdun, and
to lead to a triumphal entry at the Champs Élysées, is being
frittered away in dug-outs! Feverishly each man burrows himself
in. The bayonet is abandoned for the pickaxe, and instead of those
miraculous marches there are only monotonous shifts.
“Yet the task is not yet ended. Verdun has seventeen forts, I
believe. You hold only one, my dear Brandenburgers. Hardly enough!
“1 _o’clock_ P.M.--The bombardment increases in violence. The blows
grow more and more resounding. It is clear that the earth of our
roof has been carried away and that the concrete has been laid bare
in several places. There is a talk of stopping up the gaps with
sandbags; but when? A walk on our terrace is not to be recommended,
even by moonlight.
“2 _o’clock_ P.M.--The trench mortar which is to destroy the barbed
wire and the auxiliary defences cannot be fired from the fort;
three artillerymen who were trying to set up the mortar have been
wounded. An attempt is made elsewhere, but with still slighter
success. Nor can our heavy artillery do anything. The attack, which
was fixed for this evening, has been put off until five o’clock
to-morrow. We are going to attempt a surprise stroke.
* * * * *
“11.30 P.M.--To arms! This cry, uttered by the look-out men,
re-echoes from end to end of the dark corridors. At this hour, and
during this crisis, when every moment is fraught with tragedy, it
sounds peculiarly mournful. At once there is a stir among the poor
numbed bodies, which were snatching an uneasy slumber on the floor;
each man fastens on his equipment and makes sure that his rifle is
in its place. After the first few minutes of stupor, a discussion
arises in low tones. What is going to happen?...
“Some look-out men have seen--or think they have seen, say some--a
working party digging trenches quite near the auxiliary defences
of the fort. Shadows? Boches? Stray patrols?... When nerves are
on edge, the pale moonlight, streaked with a few clouds, seems to
make for hallucinations. The machine-gun of the parapet sweeps the
terrain. Nothing moves. Day will throw light upon the mystery.
“Obviously, the enemy is still more uneasy than on previous nights;
his artillery thunders furiously all over the place, somewhat
at random, particularly on the fort and its approaches. All the
fatigues that arrive announce losses. The men are streaming with
sweat after the desperate rush they have had to make for four
hundred yards across a bewildering mass of craters....
“_Friday, March 17_, 2 A.M.--Our patrols are returning. They have
searched the approaches thoroughly. No signs of the enemy, at any
rate of live Boches.
“In the morning, the sun brings us knowledge. There, a little in
front of the barbed wire, we can see the earth recently turned up;
at the side some dozen diggers, their tools in their hands or at
their feet, their bodies stiff and stark, still bent over their
unfinished task....
“They are the Boches we saw yesterday evening, caught in the midst
of their work by our machine-gun. They had not even time to dig
their ditch!
“But for the vigilance of our machine-gun officer, we should have
found there, at daybreak, a nest of Boches whom it would have been
very difficult to get rid of, in view of the lie of the land. A
dangerous vigilance indeed! On the evening before, at the same
place, not far from him, my left-hand neighbour was killed outright
and my right-hand neighbour seriously wounded.
“At last we know what to do. A brief rest before the little
performance. At five o’clock, the hour fixed, the Commandant goes
up to the observing station. I crouch down, with my eye at the
loophole.
“It is early dawn. The field of vision is very limited. We listen
anxiously in the half-silence. It continues. So much the better.
The plot is not discovered. After ten minutes comes a violent
interchange of hand-grenades. We see the bluish smoke rise from the
ground, the machine-guns cough. Then nothing more!... What agony!
Twenty minutes later the Captain who was directing the attack
arrives. He is a brisk young officer of the Algerian cavalry who,
at his own request, has doffed the scarlet jacket for the dark
tunic of the Light Infantry. He has prepared his attack as a labour
of love, working day and night. Two days ago it would have been an
interesting _coup-de-main_, but after three days of countermanding
orders, the conditions have entirely changed. He tells us what has
happened: the eight bomb-throwers have cleverly crept up to the
enemy’s wire entanglements and discharged the contents of their
haversacks, ready to hurl themselves into the barbed wire and jump
further. But the Germans are numerous: their slightly curved line
begins to encircle our light infantry. They defend themselves. The
interchange of hand-grenades proceeds. Our bombs begin to tell; the
Boches howl. Their bombs go much too far; they never dreamt that
our ‘blue-devils’ were so near them.... At the same time, their
machine-guns are brought into action, and with their infernal tempo
mow down all that is in their way! Under this shower of bombs and
this sheet-lightning of bullets, our men slip into the holes and,
a few minutes later, come back unscathed, with smiles on their
lips, delighted at their escapade; two scratches, that is all, in
a run of more than eighty yards across the battlefield. Almost a
miracle!
“The sortie, by the way, is far from useless. Thanks to this
diversion, the neighbouring detachment was able to gain a footing
in a long line of enemy trenches, to see the occupants take to
flight, and thus to make a still further improvement, to some
extent, in our situation.
“And when night has stretched its protecting veil over us, we start
off.... Weakened, worn, feverish, dirty, physically at the end of
our tether, but splendid so far as morale is concerned! One sees
that by the sparkling eyes, the lively talk, the whole manner,
which clearly shows the absolute control that these valiant souls
maintain over their utterly exhausted bodies.
“More or less confusedly, but none the less genuinely for that,
each man realizes that he has just lived through some glorious
hours. Few in number, weary, isolated, they have held enormous
masses in check; with their moral force they have confronted a
display of material power such as the world has never seen before.
A few bodies have been broken. Victory has remained with the
_idea_, with the human will, with cool, unyielding valour, with
these children, the new knights-errant of a France whose existence
no one suspected. They, too, are struggling under the eye of God,
as their forbears have done so often, for right and justice, and
for nearly two years have never ceased to offer an astonished world
the wondrous spectacle of their self-denial and their heroism.”
Yet no one sees anything but his own little corner of the war, and
this applies even to the above eye-witness, who has a clear vision and
a fluent pen. He limits the fighting of March 16-17 to our attack, a
comparatively petty affair. But on March 16, in the evening, there
was an attempted German offensive which lasted throughout the night,
between the village and the fort. A battalion of the 7th German
Regiment of Reserve (121st Division) suffered cruel losses. A large
number of prisoners captured to the south-east of the village admitted
these losses and emphasized the seriousness of the set-back.
Beside us, the water of the washing-place goes on streaming over the
men’s faces, necks, and hands. It wipes out the memory of their efforts
and their hardships. These men, who, when they came in, thought that
they were done up, feel a fresh strength, the strength that the future
expects of them....
VI
REFLECTIONS ON DEATH
_The same day._
It is five o’clock in the evening. I go up to the top of a hill which
overlooks Verdun. It is a glorious spring evening. The curves of the
Meuse gleam in the setting sun and form a trail of fire on the dim
plain, like a line of motor-transports rushing through the night. The
air is warm with caresses. And in this peaceful countryside nothing
moves that is not for use in battle, nothing exists save for war.
Towards Froideterre and Souville, the shells as they burst raise dense
pillars of black smoke. In the sky, a fleet of our aeroplanes is coming
back to harbour. The captive balloons complete their observations while
the light lasts. On the rising road there is a never-ending procession
of artillery waggons, travelling field-kitchens, and troops. All this
mass of men and war-material is making for the lines, in order to
deliver stores or to take up positions in a few hours’ time under cover
of darkness.
I stretch myself out on the grass in order to forget this contrast and
merely enjoy the evening air. A little further on there is some one who
has had the same idea as I. He lies at full length, and does not notice
my presence. I should have preferred to be alone. I take another look
at him: his face is one great wound. I go up to him: he is dead. One
does not come here to cut oneself off from one’s fellows and to dream.
Nothing is done here save under the mantle of death.
But with the War, death has lost much of its importance. We have grown
familiar with it. Under the form in which it appears as a rule, not
glorious, not choosing its victims in the full glow of their martial
ardour, but crafty and terrible, in the shape of a mass of iron hurled
from some miles off, it inspires a deep disgust, it is true, but we
submit to it as we submit to an old servant who rules the household. If
we do not rebel against it, if we even consent to accept it, then it
transforms itself after the manner of sorcerers in the old-time fairy
tales. The hideous skeleton is covered with young flesh that has a
fragrance of flowers. The face that it shows is one of dazzling beauty.
The kiss that it gives has something of the affection of France for her
children.
Yes, we have all become reconciled to the idea of death. What is there
left for me if I outlive the War? From my remotest past to the present
moment, all the years that I can take into account stay in my memory
as a little water stays in the hollow of my hand. If I open my fingers,
the water runs away. The past, which seems to me so short, far exceeds
in length all the future that I can anticipate. How trifling a thing,
then, is that future! Death does nothing more than open the fingers of
Time, who bears in his hand our days that are to come. And our days, as
they fall, trickle noiselessly like drops of water.
A dangerous detachment this, a lethargic calm against which we must
be on our guard. Death should merely annihilate our will to live, not
weaken it beforehand. This lesson was unconsciously taught us by one
of our comrades, Captain D----, who was twice wounded and twice went
back to the front, as he told us one evening at Verdun the story of
his second wound. He was lying on the ground with his chest bared; his
bâtman, who would not leave him, had also been wounded, but slightly,
in the shoulder. Both were Bretons, both religious, and they had been
to Communion together in the morning before starting off for the battle.
“We were there, side by side,” he said, “and the rifle-shots were
growing more distant. I thought that I was going to die, and a great
exultation came over me. My love for my wife and child, who, I felt,
were soon to lose me, was in no way altered. I don’t know how to
explain it to you: nothing weighed upon my mind any longer, and I
seemed to be set free from my closest ties. How should I ever again
meet with such an opportunity of dying? Everything within me and around
me was light and easy as the flight of a bird. I was no longer in pain.
Even the difficulty I felt in breathing gave me a sort of happiness. I
seemed to be lifted up to God, as a leaf is lifted by the wind. Then I
said to my bâtman: ‘You are going away. You are not seriously hurt. I
will stay here, I am quite ready to die.’ He would not listen to me, he
wanted to help me to rise, and, being unable to do so, tried to carry
me, in spite of the pain in his shoulder. I would not allow him to lift
me: ‘Leave me, I tell you, I want to die here.’ He stopped and looked
at me as if he did not quite understand, and then, a little timidly at
first, but soon growing bolder, he rebuked me: ‘I beg pardon, sir, but
what you are doing is not a Christian thing to do.’ I was shocked, I
admit, I who thought myself so near to God. He went on: ‘Not Christian
at all. God has nothing to give you but life. You are not going to
offend Him.’--‘But when it is He that is calling me?’--‘If He calls
you, you will hear Him plainly. Meanwhile you are still alive. And the
life that He gives us is for us to enjoy as long as we can--for His
sake, of course. You are not going to affront Him.’ And I let myself be
carried away in order not to affront God.”
Night has now fallen over Verdun. Here are the stretcher-bearers come
to look for my neighbour. The town is already shrouded in darkness,
while its girdle of hills seems still to float like a streamer in the
light. It is time to go down again. The realization of death at this
moment demands action of us, not reflection....
VII
THE ENEMY’S EVIDENCE
I have spoken, without hiding anything, of the hard life led by our
soldiers in the region of Vaux, the terrific assaults and the appalling
bombardment that they had to endure, the difficulty of obtaining
rations and reliefs, the lack of shelter, the lack of water, the lack
of sleep. But in war it is not enough to suffer, to resist, to hold
out. One must strike the enemy and drive him back. The task of the
army of Verdun is to wear out the German Army before Verdun. Does our
artillery fire work serious havoc in his ranks? Does it interfere with
his replenishing and reliefs, even more than ours are hampered? Does
our infantry lay his foot-soldiers low when it marches to the assault?
Do our counter-attacks throw them back with losses? What sort of
existence do we compel the Boche to lead opposite our lines? We want
to know. We must know. Our efforts must not be in vain. Our sacrifices
must not be fruitless.
The enemy is going to give us his evidence. He will tell us whether we
are able to defend ourselves and to attack, and whether we allow him
any respite.
A few examinations of prisoners and some extracts from letters found
on prisoners and dead, solely in the region of Vaux, during the months
of March and April, will furnish us with all the information that we
need. It is the most trustworthy source. I have collected the most
significant records, but all tell a similar story. It is not to detract
from an adversary that we make him confess what he has undergone
and what losses he has suffered, but it is to show up more vividly
the strength of our fighting forces and the successes gained by the
soldiers of Verdun.
* * * * *
The prisoners of the 9th and 13th Companies of the 19th Regiment (9th
Reserve Division, 5th Corps of Reserves) taken at Vaux on March 9, give
the following account of the engagement of March 9:
“On the morning of March 9 the 1st Battalion received orders to occupy
Vaux village, whose capture had already been announced. The 13th
Company was the first to enter the village, in column of fours, without
any scouts or advanced guard to screen it. Suddenly it was assailed
by a violent machine-gun fire, followed up by a bayonet charge. Our
men made off and defended themselves in the houses, where the French
slaughtered them with bombs. The prisoners are under the impression
that the whole of the 13th Company was wiped out.
“The 3rd Battalion attacked on the northern slope of the fort. The 9th
Company led the way, and joined battle in succession of platoons. The
platoon to which the prisoners belong hurled itself at an enemy trench
and was mown down by our machine-guns: twenty-five men were killed,
three were taken prisoner, the rest took to flight.”
* * * * *
The prisoners of the 9th Company of the 7th Regiment of Reserves (121st
Division) taken on March 17, to the south-east of Vaux village, give
the following details of the combat of March 16-17:
“The 3rd Battalion of the 7th Regiment of Reserves was to attack
towards the northern slopes of Fort Vaux. More than half the battalion
was cut down by the French machine-guns. Some twenty men, at most, of
the 9th Company reached the enemy trenches, where they were captured.
The rest must have been annihilated, for the curtain fire prevented
them from escaping and getting back to the trenches from which they
started.
“The revictualling of the first-line troops is almost impossible. The
troops are reduced to consuming their emergency rations.”
A soldier of the same regiment records a scene described to him by a
comrade who has just come back from special leave. The latter saw a
convoy of prisoners pass at a station in Germany: women were jeering at
them and insulting them. One of the Frenchmen called out in German:
“Women of Germany, don’t jeer at us! We are prisoners, that’s true, but
in front of Verdun the Germans are lying in heaps as high as this.”
After that the German women said no more.
* * * * *
Here are some extracts from letters found on prisoners or dead in the
Vaux Sector.
Private E----, of the 6th Leib. Gren. Regt., writes:
“_Before Verdun, March 10._--Since yesterday morning there has been a
heavy snowfall: it stops everything and interferes with the operations
before Verdun. We can’t get away from the cold, the rain, the snow, and
the mud, and we camp out in the open. Each man digs himself in as best
he can, wraps himself up in his coat and his canvas bag, and freezes
all night. To make matters worse, we are constantly under an artillery
fire which claims a large number of victims every evening, for we
have no trenches or shelter; up to the present we have been in the
second line. To-night we pass into the first line. We no longer have
any confidence in our heavy artillery; yesterday morning our division
captured Vaux fort and village, but had to evacuate them because our
artillery fired into the place without a break.”
Private E---- believed what he had been told of the capture of the
fort. The lieutenant of the 7th Regiment of Reserves, which is on the
slopes of Vaux, knows the real truth:
“_March 11._--At three o’clock we start off for the position in front
of Fort Vaux. At sunrise, we occupy the position which was held by the
6th Regiment. The fort is two hundred yards in front of this line. The
position consists of shell-holes which have no longer any spaces left
between them.”
“Two hundred yards”: he seems to be a little short-sighted. At three
hundred yards from the fort, on March 11, one saw nothing but corpses.
Some days later, a soldier whose name is illegible scribbled this note
on the hillsides of Vaux:
“_March 24, 1916, before Fort Vaux._--There is no need for me to write
any more. All the rest may be left to the imagination. Still I want to
be hopeful. It’s hard, very hard! I am still so young. What’s the use?
What’s the good of prayer and entreaty? The shells! The shells!”
The next letter was found on a wounded German of the 56th Regiment of
Reserves (121st Division) captured on April 2. It bears no date. It
mingles religion with the food question. The writer had no doubt just
finished it and had had no time to send it off:
“MY DEAR SISTER AND BROTHER-IN-LAW--This is to let you know I am in
good health, although half dead from fatigue and fright. I cannot
describe to you all I have lived through here, it goes far beyond
anything we had had to put up with before. In about three days the
company has lost more than a hundred men. Several times I didn’t
know whether I was alive or already dead. We have not yet had to
face the enemy; we shall do so to-morrow, and the affair will be
on a pretty big scale. I have already given up all hope of ever
seeing you again. Whoever comes out of this without a scratch may
well thank the Lord. I received your parcel, as I have already told
you in my post card, and I ate the food at once, for I didn’t know
whether I should have a chance of eating it later. I have sent my
pay home, because we cannot find anything to buy here....”
On April 3, Lieutenant E----, of the 6th Regiment of Reserves (9th
Division), writes to Second Lieutenant L----, of the 202nd Regiment of
Reserves:
“_April 3._--You can get some idea of how things are with us from the
fact that the corps of officers has been entirely renewed. The losses
of the regiment are rather heavy, for its position (Vaux tableland) is
a rather unpleasant one. Our battalions relieve each other, but the
rest-stations are shelled quite as much as the first line, apart from a
very few exceptions.”
The following letter from Private S----, of the 20th Regiment of
Reserves, is undated:
“You cannot realize how utterly sick of life I feel at times....
Yesterday the weather was still abominable, and we were once more
drenched to the skin. Then some one said, ‘Why don’t they sing to-day?’
And in the midst of all our misery we had to sing....”
Private S----, of the 80th Regiment, writes on April 11, 1916:
“We are here in a pit of Hell, with artillery fire day and night. I
never thought that it would be like this. Yesterday a shell fell quite
near the church; three men were killed on the spot, and nine wounded.
You should have seen us bolt! If only this wretched war would end! No
one who has any sense can justify such a butchery of men....
“At present we are to the north-east of Verdun, certainly in a very
ticklish situation....
“Although we have not been stationed here long, we have all had enough
of it, and are simply longing for peace. We should like to send to the
front all those gentry who are responsible for the war and still take
an interest in it. If only that could have been managed we should have
had peace long ago....”
Finally, here is a letter that gives fuller details as to the effect of
our artillery and machine-guns. It is written by Lieutenant H----, of
the 81st Regiment, and was found upon him at the time of his capture
before Verdun:
“_At the Front, April 15, 1916._
“MY DEAR PARENTS--No doubt you are waiting impatiently for some
sign of life from me. I hope this letter will reach you, but it is
not easy to get one’s correspondence sent through the post.
“The good time I had as liaison officer between our regiment and
the 56th has been a thing of the past for several days. Our officer
losses are rather serious, so that I have had to take over the
8th Company, as Company Commander in the first line. I am with my
Company at present. I am huddled up in a little hole in the mud,
which has to protect me against the enemy shell-bursts; and they
never leave off for a moment. I have already seen a good many
things in this war, but I had not yet been in such a situation
as this. Its horror simply beggars description. I don’t want to
give you a detailed account, for I should only cause you needless
anxiety. We are under a terrific artillery fire day and night. The
French resistance is amazingly obstinate. On April 11 we made an
attack in order to take their trenches. We opened with an artillery
preparation on a tremendous scale, lasting twelve hours, and then
the infantry assault was launched. The French machine-guns were
entirely undamaged, the result being that the first wave of our
onset was broken by machine-gun fire as soon as it left the trench.
What is more, the French in their turn started such an artillery
barrage that another attack was not to be thought of. We are in the
first-line trench, about 120 yards from the enemy. The weather is
miserable, always cold and rainy; I wish you could see the state
I am in, boots, trousers, and cape soaking wet and covered with a
layer of mud quite an inch thick.
“All the roads are commanded by the French guns, and their fire
is so incessant that we cannot even bury our dead. It is pitiful
to see the poor devils lying dead in their mud-holes. Every day
some of our men are killed and wounded. It is only by risking
our lives that we can put the wounded in a place of safety. To
get our meals, we have to go over two miles to the rear, to the
travelling field-kitchens, and even there one is in danger of being
killed. Every day there are casualties among those who go for their
rations, so much so that many would rather endure hunger than make
these dangerous expeditions for food. Nearly the whole company is
sick. When you are out in the rain all day and get wet through,
sleep in the mud, and are under a frightful bombardment night
and day, and all this for a week at a time, your nerves become
completely shattered. So far as health is concerned I am still in
fairly good trim. My feet are very wet and cold, and I am fearfully
chilly about the knees. I hope I shall have the luck to get out of
this alive. One cannot even be buried properly here....”
Some answers received from Germany add a few touches to this picture of
the German Army in the Vaux sector.
The following letter, covered with stains, was found on a dead man. It
had been kept in spite of its having been written so long ago:
“COLOGNE, 29/12/1915.
“There is no doubt, my dear Willy, that we are living through very
hard times, and one cannot yet see where it will all end. You tell
me not to believe all that the newspapers say. But do you really
think we believe, as we did at first, in that ‘rollicking mood’
(_Hurrastimmung_) among the men at the front? A year ago we fancied
that we heard the note of warlike enthusiasm in every song that the
soldiers sang. But to-day! Yesterday I happened to be present when
thirty to thirty-five men of the Landsturm were starting off. Five
of them were singing at the top of their voices, ‘Dear Fatherland,
good-bye!’ But these five were so drunk that they had to lean
against each other for support. Some hundred yards behind the group
three policemen were marching and watching them to see that this
enthusiasm was not overdone at the station. When we look at such
scenes and then read the newspaper reports of deeds of valour, do
you imagine that we think only of the latter? Yes, Willy, that’s
what war is like, the ‘beneficent’ war that had to come, the war
that was needed in order that the world should become a better
place to live in. It is strange that after seventeen months of war
I have not yet been able to discover any sign of improvement among
my immediate neighbours!”
On the prisoners these letters were found:
“HEISSEN, _March 24, 1916_.
“It is still better to be at the front than here. We are suffering
terribly from the cold, and have to wait in a queue from morning
till evening, and even then we sometimes come home empty-handed
at the end of the day and having nothing to eat. It is very sad,
but you, my dear Fritz, are holding out in the enemy’s country; we
shall hold out here as well.”
“STRASSBURG (PRUSSIA),
_March 20, 1916_.
“You write to us that you have had to suck snow, so great was your
hunger, yet that was hardly likely to cure your pangs. Yes, my
dear, you have to starve, but do you think things are any better
here?”
These extracts will suffice. What is the use of publishing any more?
Further letters would give us no more information as to the state of
the German soldier before Fort Vaux. We could find enough and to spare
of complaints about economic difficulties. That the German soldier who
is fighting at Verdun should know so much of the material insecurity
of those whom he has left behind him is a righteous punishment for the
terrible scourge let loose by a whole nation drunk with the sense of
power--the nation which sneered when Paris starved in 1870 and which
has set out to organize a war of frightfulness. The fires of its hell
burn hotter and hotter.
To Mont-Mare Wood and Le Prêtre Wood, which lie west of Pont-à-Mousson,
where the plains of the Woevre meet the undulating country of La Haye,
the German soldiers gave the names of Widows’ Wood and Wood of Death
respectively. What will they call the region of Vaux?
It was the 6th Division of the 3rd Corps that attacked the earthwork of
Hardaumont at the beginning of March. The assaults on Vaux village and
fort on March 8, 9, and 10 were delivered by the 9th Reserve Division
of the 5th Corps.
I have quoted, without comment, examinations of prisoners and extracts
from letters. The proof is given by the enemy in person: over the soil
of France which he came to trample upon, our artillery and our infantry
deal him out death in ample measure or, when he escapes death, force
him to lead a somewhat harassed existence. That, no doubt, is what he
calls an “amazingly obstinate” resistance.
How curious is this phrase, as if the Germans were surprised and
shocked at our resisting at all! How striking was the attitude of
prisoners whom I have seen examined, and of whom not one, though
he might be wounded, puny, hideous, or brutish, forbore to flaunt
his pride in being a German! These experiences led me to dip into
a notebook, in which I have copied out various passages from
distinguished authors peculiarly fitted to give us food for our war
reflections, and look up an extract from Fustel de Coulanges on
the German method of writing history. “The German historians,” he
says, “can find nothing nobler in history than that German emperor
who pitches his camp on the heights of Montmartre, or that other
emperor who goes to carry off the Imperial crown in Rome after
wading through the blood of four thousand Romans slaughtered on the
Bridge of St. Angelo. But when the French at last put an end to
these repeated invasions, when Henri II., Richelieu, Louis XIV., by
fortifying Metz and Strassburg, save France and Italy from these
Teutonic inundations--then the German historians are up in arms and
make virtuous protests against the Gallic lust for aggrandisement.
They cannot forgive those who try to prevent them from imposing their
sway on other nations. To defend oneself against them is a sign of war
mania; to prevent them from robbing is to be oneself a robber.”
The German historians of a later day will find matter for indignation
in the breakwater at Verdun, against which so many waves of their
soldiery have dashed themselves in vain. Let us hope at least that our
own historians, in recounting the superhuman efforts put forth in a
carefully planned resistance--destined, by the way, to be changed into
an offensive in the course of the Verdun battle--will enhance among
future generations their pride in being sons of France.
VIII
FROM MARCH 30 TO MAY 31
Who shall sing the epic of Fort Vaux in its daily phases? Relieved
at due intervals, the troops succeed each other with the same
staying-power in the same inferno. Shall we ever know all the feats
worthy of record in this war of countless episodes? How many dead would
have to be awakened from their sleep and asked for their testimony!
The living walls of Verdun, like the mediæval cathedrals, have been
built by a multitude of nameless toilers. To single out any regiment or
individual is to do an injustice to those who are not singled out. Yet
instances must be mentioned here, in order to give flesh and bones to
the framework of my story. Before I begin, I will apologise for so many
unintentional omissions, since I could not know everything or collect
every detail.
In order to gain possession of the town, the enemy, after taking
Douaumont--the resounding syllables of whose name boom like a great
bell through his communiqués--tries to approach the main line of
defence: Froideterre, Fleury, Souville. Vaux fort and village is one of
the mainstays of that line. From March 9 he pounds the slopes of the
fort and the approaches to the village. He continues to make frontal
attacks on them and at the same time attempts his usual manœuvre of
envelopment, on the one side debouching in La Caillette Wood, and on
the other side outflanking us in the village of Damloup.
Damloup, to the south-east of the fort, runs out like a pier-head
between two ravines, the gap of La Horgne which separates it from the
fort, and the gap of La Gayette which sweeps down from La Laufée Wood.
To the north-east, Vaux village, the eastern portion of which has been
lost, lies at the side of the Dieppe road, in the ravine of Le Bazil,
the entrance to which it commands. As you go up the ravine, you find,
after traversing a hundred and fifty or two hundred yards, a dyke, then
a little lake: the Pool of Vaux. At this point is the end of the ravine
of Fontaines, called by our men “the Ravine of Death,” which cuts
across Vaux-Chapître Wood. The enemy lays siege to the village, but at
the same time he also tries to get down into the ravine of Le Bazil by
advancing through La Caillette Wood. In this wild country, broken up
by clumps of trees, brushwood, narrow glens and gorges, a dim, dogged
struggle will be waged, dragging on for weeks and even months.
The enemy, at the end of March, has brought back the 121st Division
from the Woevre front. On March 21, after having made an important
reconnaissance on the previous evening, he overwhelms the fort,
the village, and the ravine of Le Bazil with shells. These are the
harbingers of an assault. The telephone communications are cut and the
connection service is kept up by means of scouts, since the broken
ground makes signalling impossible, except on the plateau of the fort.
A liquid fire attack precedes the three waves of the onset, each a
battalion strong, which dash in succession against the village. The
first is battered down; the two others, at a terrible cost in lives,
manage to encircle the three companies which still occupy the western
section.
On April 2 the 1st Battalion of the 149th Regiment (under Major
Maganiosc), which occupies the shelters of the Les Fontaines ravine,
is ordered to reoccupy the village. At daybreak it makes for the
dyke, where it breaks up into three detachments, each consisting of a
company, with the fourth as a support. One company has the main road
for its objective; another will operate farther north, between the
railway and the brook, in conjunction with the 31st Battalion of Light
Infantry; the third farther south, through the gardens.
In a few strides our men have reached the village and advanced as
far as the church. An artillery barrage, however, cuts them off and
prevents reinforcements from coming up to them. The liaison officers
who succeed in crossing this incessant curtain fire bring news that
at first cheers us, but then becomes more and more alarming. The
assailants have had to face a counter-attack and have been swept away
by the storming party. On the right bank, in the gardens, the company
commander, Lieutenant Vayssière, has been killed, and his men have been
thrown back. In the village there is hand-to-hand fighting. All the
officers of the third detachment have been killed, wounded, or taken
prisoner, among them Captain Toussaint, commanding the 2nd Company,
who, though seriously wounded, was still exhorting his men not to
surrender. Non-commissioned officers take their places. The enemy sets
fire to the houses by means of petrol. Sergeant Chef has rallied the
survivors, and, stationing them with a machine-gun section at the exit
by the side of the pool, has barricaded himself in the last house,
dug a trench, and brought the enemy to a halt. To the north, Sergeant
Chapelle holds out in the same way with some details until nightfall.
The men work in pairs; one makes a dug-out while his comrade fires. The
German losses are heavy. A private who saw them said, “Yes, there were
a good many of them laid out!”
Although the village is lost, but for the last house, the dyke road is
blocked up. On the northern side of the ravine, however, the Germans
have managed to get near the railway.
Early next day the 74th Regiment retakes the lost trenches of La
Caillette, and, continuing his advance, pushes his listening-posts up
to the ridge of far-famed Douaumont.
How can we tell the full story of all these fights, scarcely
interrupted for a moment, and all these feats of valour? On April 11
the enemy attacks with two divisions placed side by side on a front
of 1¾ miles, from Fort Douaumont to Fort Vaux; he is driven back. On
the 15th we attack him (with three battalions of the 36th Regiment
and details of the 120th) between the ravine of La Caillette and that
of La Fausse-Côte, and take nearly 200 prisoners. On the 19th the
attack is resumed; the 81st Brigade carries a small fort crammed with
dead and wounded, captures 260 prisoners (among them 9 officers, 4
cadets,[2] and 16 non-commissioned officers), and seizes machine-guns
and a large quantity of flame-throwers. In vain the enemy tries to
renew the offensive three days running; he is unable to rob us of the
trenches we have captured after so severe a struggle. All this month
of April is favourable to us in the Vaux region. General Nivelle, who
is in command of the sector, in accordance with instructions received
from the Commander-in-Chief and from General Pétain, the leader of the
army of Verdun, has given orders for an active defence, which raises
the morale of the troops and baffles the purpose of the foe. Satisfied
with the results obtained on both banks of the Meuse during the recent
operations, General Pétain, summoned by the Commander-in-Chief on April
30 to take command of the central group of armies, before handing over
to General Nivelle the command of the Second Army, addresses the troops
in an army order in which he says:
[2] The nearest equivalent to “aspirants,” _i.e._ candidates
for commissions who have had one year’s service after
passing an examination and one year’s training in a
military school.--_Translator’s Note._
“One of the greatest battles recorded in history has been raging for
more than two months round Verdun. Thanks to all, officers and men,
thanks to the devotion and self-denial shown by the various branches of
the service, a notable blow has been struck at the military power of
Germany.”
During the month of May a definite goal is aimed at, a task likely to
provide us with many thrills--the recapture of Fort Douaumont. What
a slap in the face this would be for German pride! Douaumont, which
has made the Teuton blow a loud trumpet-blast of victory; Douaumont,
a conquest won by surreptitious means and emblazoned with the glory
of a fictitious assault; Douaumont lost again would mean an outcry of
astonishment and wrath over the whole Empire. And on May 22 our gallant
lads re-enter Fort Douaumont. Soldiers of Mangin’s Division, battalions
of the 36th, 129th, 74th, and 54th Regiments, you will remember that
hour and that date when you matched the most daring conquerors!
Fort Vaux followed them from its observing stations and saw them
break through by the southern breach. It aided them with its guns in
the direction of Hardaumont and La Caillette. And its walls, which
resounded under the enemy’s bombardment, seemed to tremble with joy,
even as the hills of Israel leapt, at the deliverance of its old
comrade.
From the fort of Vaux to the pool the defences staked out on the slopes
of the hill are connected by three redoubts or entrenchments more or
less knocked to pieces, R¹, R², and R³ in the abbreviated style of
the reports. Captain Delvert, who from May 17 to 24 has occupied R¹
with the 8th Company of the 101st Regiment, and who will occupy it
again from May 31 to June 5, during the critical period, is one of
those officers whom the war has revealed to themselves by abruptly
withdrawing them from the civilian careers in which they had earned
distinction. A student and a thinker, with a fellowship in history,
he is the contemporary and was the close friend of Emile Clermont,
the tender, subtle, and pathetic novelist of _Laure_ and _Amour
Promis_, who before he was killed in a trench was able to draw lessons
favourable to his inner development from the scenes of bloodshed which
he held in instinctive horror.
His generation was at that meeting-place of all the roads of the new
age which has been marked by a certain indecision in all, or nearly
all, of us in our turn: the war, making him a leader of men, will have
prepared him for leadership in the intellectual world. He wears the
Legion of Honour and the War Cross. Of middle height, with a sunburnt
complexion, his eyes full of glittering fire behind his pince-nez,
his voice low and his gestures eloquent, he has acquired the habit
of looking at himself from outside recommended by Stendhal and his
followers. He analyzes himself while he acts. He sees himself in action
without being inconvenienced by the presence of this clear-sighted
eye-witness. Accordingly he has a precise notion of all that is
happening, and realizes the full significance of each event. The
background of the canvas does not escape him; he can easily reproduce
the stage-setting of the episodes, which he paints like an artist, with
rapid, sweeping strokes and warm colours. Men of this type will later
on make admirable chroniclers. At the most tragic moments he notices
the statuesque pose of a bomb-thrower, or is capable of feeling the
warm caress of a sunbeam. More than once I shall have recourse to the
notes which he has allowed me to consult: the concise yet passionate
style of his personal comments must be left to the imagination.
During the night of May 17-18, Captain Delvert, with his company,
reaches the entrenchment R¹ by way of the ravine of Les Fontaines. On
the way, the commander of the battalion which he is relieving receives
him in his quarters and conveys his instructions to him. “He is a
tall man,” writes Captain Delvert, “slim, about fifty years of age,
his face clean-shaven. This face is lighted up by a pair of fine,
intelligent eyes, and his lips pucker up into an ironical smile.”
There is a portrait in a few lines.
“He receives us,” continues the Captain, “in a charming manner. A
conversation is struck up with our battalion commander.
“‘We are going to the dyke. Has it been much shelled with heavies?’
“‘Well, well,’ answers the major, very coolly, ‘one of my officers
counted in his sector an average of four shells a minute in a whole
day.’
“‘And the major? what about his headquarters?’
“‘Still in pretty good condition, but you can’t get out of the place.
It opens out on to a ravine which is constantly being shelled.’
“‘And where do these shells fall?’
“‘On the north, west, and east. It is only on the southern side that we
don’t get any, except when our 155’s fire short.... (_A pause._) ...
And then, you know, you will have _totos_!’
“‘Totos?’
“‘Yes--well, fleas, if you like! Everybody has them.’
“‘We emerge from the major’s quarters and pass into the gallery which
leads to the ravine of Les Fontaines. The country becomes more and more
dismal and desolate. The trees are already nothing more than stumps.
To make matters worse, since we have had a lot of rain, the gallery
changes into a canal, with water a foot or more deep.”
* * * * *
And now the rain of shells begins. What the Captain said is right; it
comes from every direction except the south.
At last Captain Delvert reaches his post. Every day he draws up his
balance-sheet, just as the officer of the watch on a cruiser writes
out his log. Here is the record of his days from May 18 to 24. It is a
picture of the life our men lead in the Vaux region:
_Diary of Captain Delvert_ (_May 18-24_)
“_Thursday, May 18._--My trench by the side of the railway
commands the ravine of Vaux, which is riddled like a sieve with
shell-craters full of water.
“That ruin in front, some sixty or eighty yards from the village,
is the ‘western house of Vaux’ mentioned in the communiqués.
“The village is now nothing more than a mass of crumbling walls,
which our 155 mm. guns are constantly battering.
“In front of headquarters is Fort Vaux. To the north and east it is
surrounded by the Boche trenches.
“The dreariness of the landscape is beyond description. At this
moment (7 P.M.) it is bathed in the soft, warm, purple light of the
setting sun. The ridges of the hill are bare, without a blade of
grass. The Fumin Wood is reduced to a few tree-stumps ranged like
the teeth of a comb along its summit, like that wood of ‘the Hand
of Massiges’ which our troopers have nicknamed ‘the Cock’s Comb.’
The soil has been so much churned up by the shells that the earth
has become as shifting as sand, and the shell-holes make the place
look like a range of dunes.
“All of a sudden the cannonade, which had slackened off a little,
breaks out in all its fury. In one minute we count eight Boche
shells whistling over our heads.
“On the ridge of Vaux, which shows up purple against the setting
sun, the black clouds of our 155’s rise in every direction. It is
an orchestra of Hell.
“The Commandant’s office is a shell-hole covered with a few beams
and a little earth. Under the floor are corpses, perhaps those whom
the shell has buried.
“The occupants go to sleep on the floor, their heads resting on
their knapsacks.
“The men are crowded together in recesses that certainly would not
shelter them from the rain.
“Let us wait!
“_Friday the 19th._--The cannonade never stops day or night. It
deafens our ears and clouds our brains.
“To-day, since 6 P.M., the hillsides of Vaux have been disappearing
under our shell-fire.
“From here one can see them falling right on to the white lines
formed in the ground by the Boche trenches and communication
passages.
“At night, in the starlight, green rockets shoot up from our front
lines at the bottom of the ravines. ‘Lengthen the range! Lengthen
the range!’ cry our poor comrades.
“Other shouts are then heard from all sides.
“Red rockets on the Hardaumont plateau. We are attacked. Fire,
lads, fire! Bar the way in front of our trenches!
“Red rockets from Fort Vaux. Red rockets down there, far off,
behind Fumin. How many desperate appeals all over this gloomy
countryside!
“Meanwhile, the Boches from their lines send up other kinds of
rockets, trench flares or ‘star-shells.’ These flash forth from the
darkness every moment in order to ensure that no shovelful of earth
shall be removed by the victims marked out for annihilation by the
shells.
“The whistling of the projectiles which cross each other above our
heads is so loud that you might imagine yourself to be by the sea,
with the swell of the waves, as they rise and fall, crashing in
your ears. The explosions, with their tremendous uproar, produce
the effect of a continual thunderstorm, accompanied by periodic
flashes of lightning.
“_Saturday the 20th_ (11 P.M.).--The lake, with its dreary waters
and its sombre setting, runs right up to the three ridges that
shut in the horizon. The moon hangs over this distant quarter like
a silver veil, dotted with darker specks along the summit of the
hills. At the foot of our trenches she sheds her shimmering light
over the marsh of the ravine, so that it forms a burnished island
amid the ripple of the waters.
“To the right, on the dyke, a procession of funereal shadows glides
past in silence.
“It is the relief that is going by.
“At a steady pace, never stumbling, it climbs up towards the
Hardaumont plateau, where our shells are crashing, and the white,
red, or green cones rise unceasingly into the sky--a firework
display given by men marked out for death.
“_Sunday, May 21._--The fine weather continues. So does the
cannonade.
“Midnight.
“This evening, at nightfall, the Boche sent us tear-shells. These
gases are extremely unpleasant. Your eyes smart, you weep, you
choke, you get a splitting headache. What a torment!
“The cannonade becomes fast and furious.
“The 24th will soon have to attack on the hillsides of Vaux in
front of R¹. All my men are at their posts. The hill that commands
Fort Vaux stretches out its dark line beneath the half-red disc of
the moon. It is reflected down below, a motionless shadow, in the
marsh at the foot of our trenches.
“The horizon, the fort, the ravine, and the distant dip of the
Woevre are wrapped in a silvery mist.
“Near me, right and left, I see in the darkness, above the trench,
the dim glint of the men’s helmets. I think of the terrace of
Elsinore and of the sentries relieving each other there during the
night.
“Here the sentries get no relief. Under those helmets their eyes
are watchfully sweeping the ravine, the embankment slope and the
ballast of the railway. On all sides there spurts up the lurid
flame of the crashing shells. The splinters fall like a heavy
shower of rain into the marshes; others come humming like a top and
land in the trenches.
“The half-hidden, sinister struggle goes on.
“At ten minutes to two the cannonade grows more intense. Rifles and
machine-guns spit and crackle. The night is made hideous with a
confused uproar that re-echoes in the valley.
“Red rockets dart up incessantly from the German lines. On the
parapet, with straining eyes, our rifles in our hands, dumb
with horror, we witness a mysterious duel, in which we hear
the din without seeing the actors. Green rockets flare up from
our trenches. ‘Lengthen the range!’ is the cry, while a Boche
machine-gun emits its crisp, abrupt note.
“Another machine-gun that the artillery preparation has forgotten.
“The valley is filled with a dense vapour, a blend of dust and
smoke, which hides everything from view.
“On the Hardaumont plateau dawn begins to appear.
“But the struggle goes on without respite. It rages more and more
furiously in the fog, a fog through which the rockets cleave a
fiery trail and the red flames of the shell-bursts are constantly
darting up. From all sides the bullets whistle around us. The
youngsters of the 1916 class, now receiving their baptism of fire,
cluster round the sides of the parapet. We officers and N.C.O.’s,
our rifles in our hands, spur them on to fight. Very soon each
finds his mark among the Boches, who can be seen--now that day has
risen--gradually receding all along the hillsides of Vaux.
“_Monday, May 22._--A cartridge-base of 130 mm. has entered my
dug-out, broken my bâtman’s leg, and flattened itself out on the
wall near my head.
“_11 o’clock._--German counter-attack on the trench taken this
morning by the 129th. Boche detachments are crossing the slopes. We
fire at them; they can be seen lying down flat on the ground, then
proceeding again at the double. There is one who still lies prone.
He must have been hit. One must admit that they are brave soldiers,
these fellows.
“They have reached the trench. A hand-grenade duel begins. An
appalling fire is directed at Fumin, through which other units of
the 124th are to come as reinforcements.
“To our left, Douaumont has been recaptured since this morning.
“_Wednesday, May 24--1 o’clock in the morning._--This time it is
Hell indeed. The night is as black as ink. The little valley now
seems a gigantic chasm girdled by fantastic hills, great sombre
masses with vague outlines. At the bottom of the chasm the pools
of the marsh glitter mysteriously in the dark. Dim vapours rise
incessantly, accompanied by a terrific noise; red and white gleams
cut athwart each other, so that out of the shadows there suddenly
leap up mountains of darkness which appear for a moment to be
encircled with light, then vanish at once into the night.
“Through the heavy air, in which one can scarcely breathe for dust
and smoke, there is all the time an invisible gliding to and fro,
a frightful whistling, roaring, and crackling, and a spurting of
flames that seems endless.
“Is it the Twilight of the Gods? the _Götterdämmerung_ which
haunted the sublime imagination of their barbarian giant? Is
the earth yawning, and is that savage world whose monstrous maw
wellnigh devoured humanity sinking into a fiery pit? No. It is
merely an episode of the war: the German counter-attack on R¹.
“Perhaps it will get a line in the communiqués.
“_8 o’clock._--The hillsides of Vaux seem more sinister than ever.
“All along the German trench that is being fought over, rigid
bodies stiff and stark in blue greatcoats, black trails. The soil,
in places, looks as if it were burnt. One corpse has been stripped
of its greatcoat.
“We can see that naked back in the sunlight.”...
Each episode of the combat is linked up with the operation as a
whole. The attack on Douaumont will have an immediate effect on the
rest of the fighting. The battle on the Verdun front is a part of the
single battle that is being waged on all the fronts. Accordingly the
beleaguered islet of Vaux is about to rivet the attention of the entire
globe.
Our troops have been unable to hold their ground in Fort Douaumont,
of which they only occupied the superstructure and a part of the
casemates. On May 24 a German counter-offensive has succeeded in
enveloping and retaking the earthwork. It seems as if the daring
enterprise of May 22 had aroused their anger as a strip of red cloth
excites a bull. They nearly lost Douaumont; so outrageous an insult
decides them to rush on Verdun with redoubled fury. They devote to
the onslaught a new force, the 1st Bavarian Corps. On May 25, 26, and
27 they pounce upon Thiaumont Farm, in the direction of Froideterre.
From May 31 onwards they move slantwise on their left and, flinging
themselves at Fort Vaux, will not resign themselves to abandoning the
prey which they covet and which they thought was in their grip eight
months ago.
Their plan will be to outflank the fort to the west by way of the
ravines of Le Bazil and Les Fontaines, and to the east by way of
Damloup.
On May 31 our line is carried up again beyond the Le Bazil ravine so
as to wind round the Hardaumont salient, which belongs to us, through
La Caillette Wood. Then it runs back, crossing the ravine by the dyke,
passes in front of the entrenchments R³, R², and R¹, envelops the fort
at a distance of barely 200 yards from the counterscarp, sweeps down
into La Horgne bottom, is thrust out into a point at Damloup village,
and bends back into La Gayette bottom in front of La Laufée.
The Hardaumont salient and Damloup village run out from the line like
spires, and their defence is a hazardous business. The entrenchments
have been broken up. What sort of a barrier can the fort still provide?