THE LAST WEEK
I
THE BATTLE AT THE FORT
(JUNE 2)
Those who contrived to escape from the fort have related the whole
drama. All the shifting scenes here delineated, whether outside or
inside, are based on the accounts of those who have seen them and
lived through them. The witnesses in this case are themselves the
actors. Finally, the fort itself spoke. Up to the last moment, up to
the death-agony, it communicated with the high command by means of its
signals and its carrier-pigeons.
The day of June 1 is heavy with anguish. The storm slants off to the
left, but the air remains sultry and oppressive. The Le Bazil ravine
is lost, the dyke is crossed, the enemy break through into Fumin
Wood. Of the three entrenchments that stake out the slopes between
the pool and the fort, two are given up. R¹ still holds out, but
will it be strong enough to prove an obstacle to the foe? Between
R¹ and the fort, the La Courtine trench and that of Besançon, which
ends in a winding at the double transverse gallery (north-eastern)
that has been half-disembowelled, are manned by the 7th Company of
the 101st Regiment. In front of the fort, the trench that protects it
and, farther east, the Belfort trench are occupied by the 7th and 8th
Companies of the 142nd Regiment, the 5th being on the plateau as a
support. Will these troops suffice to check the onslaughts? Will they
not be outflanked to the west by way of Fumin Wood, and to the east by
Damloup and La Horgne bottom, against which the bombardment is raging?
During the night there is great liveliness. The air shivers with
countless lightning-flashes from the batteries, and with rockets
going up or coming down in showers of stars. Darker than the night
are the columns of smoke that rise from the shell-bursts. From the
observing-station one of the guard signals movements at the foot of
the slopes. No one sleeps, except a few wounded whose strength has
completely failed them. Major Raynal, leaning on his stick, takes a
turn round the corridors. He does not speak much, he is preoccupied,
but his energetic air is reassuring. “The officers,” remarks an
eye-witness, “were constantly walking through our midst; they were as
calm and collected as usual, but we felt that the hour was at hand,
for they looked into every detail.”
At a quarter-past two, before sunrise, the enemy’s range lengthens, and
the waves of the attack unroll themselves against our defenders in a
semicircle. Our curtain fire came too late; the waves have been able to
advance without being broken, and soon they are coming up to the trench
of the fort opposite them, to the Besançon trench on the west, to the
Belfort trench on the east.
Opposite, they dash against the 7th Company of the 142nd Regiment,
which replies by throwing bombs. The first platoon is annihilated
on the spot, after inflicting serious losses on its assailants. The
second, which was acting as a support, hastens to the rescue, and
now comes a formidable rush against more numerous forces, which
it prevents from passing. Captain Tabourot is in command of this
reinforcing platoon, aided by Cadet Buffet. One of the survivors has
drawn the following portrait of him: “Captain Tabourot fought like a
lion. He overtopped us all with his tall figure, he gave his orders
in curt tones, he encouraged us and put us in our right places. Then
he put his hand himself in the grenade sack, took out an armful, and,
leaning backwards a little, threw them with perfect composure, taking
careful aim every time. This roused us, and we gave a good account of
ourselves. What a pity that it didn’t last!”
The heroic band is all of a sudden assailed in the rear, between
the trench and the fort. As a matter of fact, to the east, the
Besançon trench, after repelling a first onslaught, has given way.
Its little garrison, now outflanked, has fallen back upon the double
transverse gallery, where one of the two entrances to the fort is
to be found. Already they have had to convey to the interior of the
fort the dauntless Lieutenant Tournery, who, with his head pierced
by a bullet--a mortal wound--will take three days to die without
confessing the tortures that rack him. A force deprived of its leader
seeks a shelter in order to re-form itself. This force, sadly thinned,
re-enters the fort by the transverse gallery, the opening in which it
defends. The enemy, however, has managed to worm his way as far as the
counterscarp. The northern ditch is barred to him by a revolving gun
placed in the double transverse gallery, but, passing along it, he has
taken Captain Tabourot’s platoon in the rear.
The captain is struck from behind by a bomb, which breaks his back
and slashes both his legs. “Mastering his pain,” says the eye-witness
already quoted, “he did not let a single cry of complaint escape his
lips, and I can still see him pass in front of us, supported by two of
his sergeants. He was pale, but he pointed out the enemy to us.”
He is carried to the infirmary. The procession makes its way into the
interior by the breach in the north-eastern single transverse gallery.
Major Raynal at once comes to join him. The meeting between the two
soldiers is brief: no word of consolation is spoken, no false hopes are
held out. The one divines that all is over; the other has too high an
opinion of him to take refuge in falsehood. A firm handshake, then the
commandant of the fort merely says:
“Well done, my dear fellow!”
The captain’s thoughts are with his men:
“If the Boches get through, sir, it won’t be my company’s fault. It has
done all that could be done to block their way.”
After this report he closes his eyes. The major returns to his post.
The captain is left alone with a hospital orderly amid a wailing and
groaning throng of wounded. A moment later he asks for Cadet Buffet.
But Cadet Buffet is in the thick of the fray with the rest of his
company.
“He must not be sent for, then,” says the dying man.
A little later Cadet Buffet comes in of his own accord to visit him.
The platoon being in danger of having its flank turned, what was left
of it had to cleave a passage for itself in order to re-enter the fort.
“Come near me, boy; you who are from Dijon, if you get back safe from
the war, you will tell my wife how I died.”
The captain is at peace with his men and with his conscience as a
leader, and his thoughts turn towards his home. These were his last
words. From now onwards, until the death that comes a few hours later,
he devotes all his strength to avoiding any outward sign of the ghastly
wounds that he could not survive.
Already his name is rushing through the night, borne by a
carrier-pigeon which flew off from the fort at three o’clock in the
morning:
“The enemy is around us. I must honourably mention the gallant Captain
Tabourot, of the 142nd, who has been very badly wounded; we are still
holding out.”
A few hours later, a second pigeon announces his death:
“Captain Tabourot of the 142nd died a glorious death, his wound being
received while he was defending the north-eastern breach. I recommend
him for the Legion of Honour.”
This is only a part of the message; the rest refers to the operations.
Nevertheless, the Germans have reached the two open breaches, the one
in the north-western double transverse gallery and the other in the
north-eastern single transverse gallery. They try to force their way
through it. At each entrance there is a hand-to-hand conflict. On the
right they are at first pushed back. “Our bombs,” says one of those who
took part in the combat, “made gaps in their ranks, but reinforcements
were continually coming up. Their dead and wounded formed shifting
heaps, and, to add to the horror of it, these were cut and torn by
splinters from our projectiles.”
Fighting now proceeds in the passages which, from the transverse
galleries, lead to the interior. Major Raynal has barricades put up
consisting of sandbags got ready in anticipation.
Outside the battle is no less violent. Chevassu’s battalion, of the
142nd Regiment, seems likely to find itself in a hazardous situation.
The enemy, if he is checked to the west of the fort by the entrenchment
R¹, which he is unable to seize, has contrived to insinuate himself
between the curtain and the fort. He reaches the southern side. On
the other hand, Damloup was captured at six or seven o’clock in the
morning, and, by way of La Horgne ravine, fresh forces ascend to the
onset. Chevassu’s battalion, which has two companies in the fort (the
6th and the fragments of the 7th which Captain Tabourot was leading),
is charged with the defence of the eastern side of the fort. It does
indeed hold its ground at the Belfort and Montbéliard trenches, where
the struggle becomes a hand-to-hand one. Second Lieutenant Huguenin,
set upon by an enemy private, knocks him down, disarms him, and fights
with his adversary’s rifle. The Germans recoil, but return to the
onslaught, in the afternoon, with unfixed bayonets. The men of the
142nd, on being reinforced by a company of the 53rd, receive them with
cries of “Long live France!”
For all that, the battalion is in danger of having its flank turned.
Its machine-gun sections change places and are pointed in three
directions--in front, towards Damloup to the east, and to the west
against the enemy, who is debouching to the south of the fort. The
section commanders calmly indicate the objectives. Sergeant Narcisse,
while standing near his machine-gun, is killed by a bullet that hits
him right in the forehead. He was a gallant soldier who had been
granted the Military Medal in the Champagne battle. Corporal Reveille
takes his place, and shouts to his men, “Don’t get flurried, I take it
upon myself to clear away the Boches.”
The observers in balloons signal to the north of the fort the arrival
of more and more numerous troops, who burrow themselves in our old
trenches to evade our curtain fire and to gain ground during the
intervals. At noon, some forty men are seen upon the fort, the majority
hidden in holes. At 3 P.M. the fort itself issues a bulletin:
“The enemy has gained possession of the north-eastern and north-western
transverse galleries. I am pursuing the struggle in the inner passages.
A large number of wounded and fugitives. Officers and men are all doing
their duty. We shall fight to the bitter end.”
At seven o’clock in the evening, the watchers on the posts of the
Fleury redoubt signal that infantry details of several companies are
at present marching up in file from the north to the south, at the
north-western bend of Fort Vaux. They escalade the fort and vanish
through the summit into the interior. While this is going on, other
detachments glide along the trenches surrounding the fort.
And at two o’clock in the morning on June 3, Major Raynal sends this
message by visual signalling:
“Situation unchanged. The enemy is pursuing his labours on top and
round the earthworks. The fort is to be pounded by small ordnance.
The enemy occupies our old first-line trenches in force and is
strengthening them. He seems to have a trench armed with a machine-gun
facing the south-west, not far from the ditch of the defile.”
This machine-gun is not in the ditch of the defile, but on the very
superstructure of the fort, where the enemy has managed to convey it,
and whence he sweeps the southern slopes. It is impossible to dislodge
him from the terreplein; the cupola for 75’s is demolished, there is
no cupola for machine-guns, and a fruitless attempt has been made to
pass short rifles through the cracks in the observing stations; even
these weapons were too long, and could not be used for slaughtering the
German infantrymen, who were only a few yards distant.
The southern front of the fort has been saved by the 5th and 8th
Companies and the machine-gun section of Chevassu’s battalion,
reinforced on the morning of June 2 by the 11th Company of the 53rd
Regiment, and in the evening by a battalion of the same regiment.
This battalion was to counter-attack without delay, but when brought
up close to its objective it has already been sorely tried by the
curtain fire it has had to suffer on the way, and must limit itself to
holding its ground, to reconstructing the demolished trenches, and to
interposing itself among the reduced sections of the 142nd.
Accordingly, on the evening of the 2nd, the enemy is in the northern
and western ditches. Partially held in check to the east and south, he
is master of the two northern transverse galleries and tries to advance
in the stairway. What is more, he has clambered on top, and, from
there, searches the southern side with machine-gun fire. Any sortie
becomes difficult, if not impossible. All the lines of communication
are cut. Nothing is left but carrier-pigeons and signals. The garrison
is huddled together in the barracks. It still has access to the
observing stations and the single north-western transverse gallery,
which has no opening towards the outside. Here they have succeeded in
setting up a machine-gun to sweep the southern ditch.
“A large number of wounded and fugitives,” said Major Raynal in his
signal message. There is almost as much danger here as outside. The
sight of dying men, so continuous and so close at hand, is likely to
shake the morale of the garrison. Orders are transmitted more slowly in
the crowded and littered corridors. Finally, if there is enough tinned
meat and biscuits for all, the supply of water will soon give out.
II
THE FORT APPEALS
“Roland says: ‘I will blow a blast on my horn, and Charles, who is
passing through the gorges, will hear it. I avow to you that the Franks
will turn back.’
“Roland has put the horn to his lips. He grasps it firmly and blows
with might and main. The mountains are high, and the sound goes on in
long-drawn-out echoes. Those echoes were heard at a distance of thirty
leagues. It comes to the ears of Charles and all his men. The king
says: ‘Our troops are fighting.’
“Count Roland, with great difficulty, great effort, and great sorrow,
blows his horn. The bright blood gushes forth from his mouth. Near his
forehead his temple is shattered. But the sound of his horn carries so
far! Charles hears it as he passes through the gorges; Naimes hears
it.... And the king says: ‘I hear Roland’s horn. He would not blow it
if there were no fight going forward.’
“Count Roland’s mouth is bleeding. Near his forehead the temples
are shattered. In pain and sorrow he blows the horn. Charles and his
Frenchmen hear it. And Charles said: ‘That horn is long-winded.’ Duke
Naimes answers: ‘It is Roland who is in pain.’”
* * * * *
Are the appeals of the horn that shook the Pyrenees more than ten
centuries ago more moving than the silent appeals of Fort Vaux, which,
above the enemy’s lines, communicates to the High Command the details
of its death-agony and its resolve to hold out?
On the morning of June 3 a swift-flying pigeon reaches the dovecote.
“Messenger, what are your tidings? The fort, since it can send you,
still lives. Tell us if it can endure a siege until the hour we had
fixed for its deliverance.”
In vain does it look under its wing for the despatch that it should
carry. Badly fastened, it has fallen off on the way. The bird has been
let loose to no purpose. How many of its mates are there left in the
fort?
On the 4th, about midday, the dovecote is visited by a poor wounded
pigeon, which drags itself laboriously up to its resting-place. This
one has not made a useless journey. Here is the message that it brings:
“We are still holding out, but are subjected to a very dangerous gas
and smoke attack. It is urgent that we should be extricated; let us
have immediate visual signalling communication by way of Souville,
which does not answer our appeals. This is my last pigeon.”
The last pigeon! The telephone wires have long since been cut, and the
signals are not working. The last pigeon: it is the final connecting
link with the fort. The fort is now cut off from the outer world.
No flapping of wings will ever again convey its messages. It will
remain dumb if they do not contrive to restore the visual signalling
connections. Nothing more will be known of its career. At the military
dovecote a soldier has put the bird on his hand--the bird, which, like
some scout, was wounded on active service.
The afternoon of June 4 passes, but the communications are not
restored. It is impossible to obtain a signal from the fort. Probably
there has been no means of registering the position of its sighting
gear. On the 5th, however, at three o’clock in the morning, the
headquarters of the division see two men arrive. They have issued
from the fort--nothing more than that! They belong to the searchlight
section. As there were no more pigeons and the signals were not
working, they had to come to restore the communications. That is as
plain as a pikestaff.
“So the fort is not encircled?”
“They are on top with a machine-gun, but there is no one at the
southern exit.”
“That exit is stopped up.”
“You jump from a window into the ditch.”
Others have made the attempt, but have not succeeded in escaping. These
two do not furnish many details. For the time being they are too much
absorbed in other matters, for they are professionals. Will the fort
hold out? Life is no laughing matter in the interior on account of
liquid fire and thirst. Then, too, the place is overcrowded: more than
600 men. Yet the morale is good. Up there, they will try once more to
interchange messages.
At half-past seven in the morning Fort Vaux is no longer isolated. It
speaks and receives an answer....
“The mountains are lofty, massive, and dark, the valleys deep, the
torrents swift. Behind and in front of the army the trumpets ring, and
they all seem to reply to the horn....”
But when Charlemagne’s trumpets ring, Roland is already no more.
Imagine him rising up in face of death to listen to those blasts!
Fort Vaux informs the High Command as to the position of the enemy. Its
message rings with hope:
“The enemy is working at the western part of the fort to construct a
mine-chamber and blow up the vault. Strike quickly with artillery.”
Ten minutes later it becomes insistent:
“Where are you?”
At eight o’clock, having had no reply, or having been unable to
decipher it, it confesses the agony of its suspense:
“We do not hear your artillery. The enemy is plying us with gas and
liquid fire attacks. Our situation is as bad as can be.”
At last, at nine o’clock, this signal is transmitted to it: “Don’t lose
heart. We shall soon attack.”
Roland, as he was dying, heard Charlemagne’s trumpets. They are so
distant, but their music is so sweet. He starts up, he listens, he
motions to death to wait awhile. But the French must make haste!
Already the shades are closing in around him and his speech grows thick.
All day the fort waits. When night falls, it shows signs of impatience.
Will not this coming night be the last? will it not be wrapped in its
lethal winding-sheet? The opening of the message that it sends is
unintelligible, the rest already has the tone of a funeral oration--it
speaks of its defenders in the past tense:
“... preceding day. It is essential that I should be delivered this
evening and that a fresh supply of water should reach me at once; I
am very near the end of my tether. In any case, the troops--officers,
N.C.O.’s, and men alike--all did their duty up to the last.”
Is this not a final farewell? Is it not the death-rattle that precedes
the end? And now, amid the formidable bombardment which from this
side and that overwhelms the hill with iron and flame, one of our
searchlight stations gets hold of these fragmentary signals:
“... 53 ... wounded ... aspires ... losses.... You will intervene
before we are utterly exhausted. Long live France!”
Roland has raised himself up. He is calling. He stretches out his arms
towards “sweet France.”
For the second time the echo of Charlemagne’s trumpets has been borne
as far as the vale of Roncevaux.
For the second time the Souville headquarters reply to Fort Vaux: “Your
message received. Don’t lose heart!”
* * * * *
Don’t lose heart! Will this wreck of a fort have any heart left after
the three days it has just lived through? Not for a single moment has
the storm ceased to shake the plateau. To the left, it wreaks its
fury upon the entrenchment R¹, which has the audacity to resist; to
the right, upon the Damloup battery, which holds the promontory and
sweeps La Horgne bottom and the outlet from the village, and upon the
immediate approaches, which are defended to the west by La Courtine
and to the right by the Belfort and Montbéliard trenches. The enemy
follows up the general attacks with local attacks, in order either to
carry the whole position at a blow, or to make us waver at one point,
against which he can then concentrate his onrush. He plunges into the
abyss with three divisions, which he will even have to reinforce with
a brigade of the Alpine corps. He lays siege to the fort from three
sides--he is around it, above it, and inside it. Yet the fort doggedly
refuses to give in. Cut off from the outer world for a whole day, it
has no sense of being forsaken. Outside there, it feels certain, they
are working on its behalf. Inside it sets up more and more barricades.
Step by step it defends the stairways, and foot by foot the corridors.
It faces heavy artillery, machine-guns, grenades, liquid fire,
smoke-bombs, thirst, poisoning, intoxication, stench, putrefaction.
It will go to the utmost limit of human endurance, the limit that
is extended still further when one thinks that it has been reached,
goes beyond all anticipation, and verges on the impossible. Among its
cramped stones and under its echoing vaults the terrible sacrifice will
be accomplished in full measure.
A second lieutenant of the 142nd, an officer in Chevassu’s battalion,
fighting on the plateau outside the fort, described later to a comrade
those days of horror: “Everywhere there was nothing but fire and dust,
and in this pandemonium a few soldiers on the watch prevented the Boche
hordes from passing. Their attacks were renewed every day, striking
now at this point, now at that; never did we yield an inch of ground
so long as there was a man to defend it. I will not speak to you of
all that we went through. No water, no revictualling; those who went
out to bring us supplies never got back. The only thing that we were
not short of was munitions. We are terribly weakened, but happy to
have done our duty, to have had our share in preventing the Boches
from taking Verdun--Verdun, which their Emperor promised to them, and
which they will never gain.... They would be compelled to pass over
our bodies and over the corpses of all their comrades whom we have
slain.... They attacked us from three sides at once, but they never got
us in their claws....”
During the day of June 3 the enemy seeks to turn to account the capture
of Damloup and make his way round the fort to the east. Details of
the 142nd and 53rd Regiments hold him in check, and, assuming the
offensive, even force him to draw back.
Whether for army, army corps, division, or brigade, the High Command
supports the conflict that stretches from Fumin Wood to La Gayette
bottom, pours fresh troops into the firing line, and prepares
counter-attacks. There is a counter-attack on Damloup from the
morning of June 2; at any rate this rescues the battery. There is
a counter-attack on the fort from the evening of the 2nd, made by
a battalion of the 53rd Regiment, which has to run the gauntlet of
murderous curtain fires and can only reinforce the troops of the
sector. There is a counter-attack on June 3 upon our left, to recapture
the line of the entrenchments and come to the aid of R¹, which still
holds out. And the balloon observers never cease from signalling the
arrival of enemy columns, which are coming up the slopes to swell the
number of the assailants.
Connection with the fort must be established, that is beyond all
question. Comrades are there, waiting for the hour of their deliverance
to strike: “In the fort we have French comrades,” the army telephones;
“they must be released from their present plight. First and foremost,
we must get into touch with them. This is the duty of all alike--a
sacred duty.” General Tatin, who is in command of the sector, will
personally direct the operation.
Yet the enemy does not leave off attacking, and he floods his objective
with an endless deluge of projectiles. On the 4th, at two o’clock in
the morning, an attack upon the fort is started from the north-east and
the south-west. It begins by making progress, then it is checked by the
machine-guns. At daybreak an aeroplane flies above the fort and comes
down so low that it casts a shadow over all this chaos. Will the daring
bird let itself be wounded, like the last pigeon? It darts through the
midst of shells and bullets like a salamander in the fire, and behold,
it is now rising again and going away! It has fulfilled its mission: on
the superstructure of the fort it has registered the position of the
machine-guns. A few minutes later our 75’s and our 155’s crush to pulp
everything that the Germans had installed on the upper part of the
earthwork. At ten o’clock in the morning, the weather being clear, our
airmen report that the fort trenches have been entirely razed and that
not a man is left upon the top of the fort.
On the following night the enemy once more begins to construct his
works and his machine-gun shelters upon the superstructure. In this way
he blocks up the southern exit. He tries to make it impossible to sally
forth or to communicate with the outer world. Reconnoitring parties--as
soon as they were suggested, the number of volunteers was so large
that a selection had to be made--have tried to find a way of getting
into the fort. None of them was successful. To compensate for this,
some have managed to go out. Two signallers, we know already, crossed
the lines on the early evening of June 4. Some hours later, during the
night, Cadet Buffet, two N.C.O.’s, and three men of the 7th Company of
the 142nd leave the fort in their turn. The problem is less baffling
for those going out than for those coming in. The former merely have
to elude the Boche machine-guns, whereas the latter have to elude ours
as well. The fort, in order not to be invested, must keep the southern
ditch and the approaches. Every shadow that draws near is suspect. The
difficult thing is to convince the sentries that one is a friend.
“Don’t lose courage, we shall soon attack,” was the signal received,
and the High Command speeds up the preparations for a fresh attack with
more numerous effectives. It cannot be set going until June 6 at two
o’clock in the morning.
* * * * *
We must now retrace our steps in order to know what has been going on
in the interior of the fort.
From the morning of June 2 onwards the fort is swarming with Boches
as the mane of a lion swarms with parasites. The Boche is in front,
on the flanks, on top, and even inside, for he has rushed through
the two gaps in the transverse gallery and is trying to bore his way
through into the heart of the place. Major Raynal has introduced some
order and system into the garrison, whose numbers have been unduly
enlarged by the wounded and the overflow from neighbouring details. It
ought not to consist of more than the 6th Company of the 142nd, the
machine-gun company, and the fort engineers. The 7th and 8th Companies
of the 142nd, which defended the right-hand transverse passages, have
reinforced it with more than a hundred rifles; the 7th Company of the
101st, which defended the left-hand transverse passages, has brought
some fifty. A machine-gun company of the 53rd has been left behind.
With the wounded, this makes a total of over six hundred men. Six
hundred soldiers who have to be supplied with water, when the cistern
has run dry! Six hundred soldiers, among them wounded men, wasted
with fever, who beg for a drop to drink! Nevertheless the garrison
is divided up into reliefs, look-out men and rest units, and the
distribution of boxes of tinned food, biscuits, chocolate, and even
brandy is carried out with regularity. The water ration, which on May
31 was two pints, is reduced on June 2 to a pint and three-quarters. It
will be cut down to a pint, then to barely half a pint--and under what
conditions! From June 4 the commandant will be forced to take a decided
step.
As we have seen, the enemy is at the transverse galleries on the
morning of June 2. In spite of his losses, he manages to press the
defenders hard, and they beat a retreat. The revolving gun of the
double transverse gallery has been put out of action by a shell. The
machine-gun that guards the entrance has been smashed by a bomb. The
defence is driven back into the interior. A barricade is at once set
up under the breach, but from the outside the Germans command it and
overpower it with grenades. It has to be withdrawn to the foot of
the stairway that leads up to the observing station. Another one is
constructed at the top of the stairway. This latter one will hold out
until the 4th. The same manœuvre takes place at the single transverse
gallery at the north-eastern angle. The barricades keep the enemy back
in front of the grating of the corridor, facing the lavatories, which
can still be used.
“In the semi-darkness of the fort,” writes a survivor of the 142nd,
“the struggle goes on. The enemy tried to exhaust us by depriving us
of sleep and condemning us to thirst. The atmosphere was heavy and
tainted. At every moment some part of the barricades blew up, and the
grenade duel was resumed. We would not give in. But the air grew hot
with all these explosives; the smoke and the stench made it almost
impossible to breathe, yet the fighting went on all the time. We had
installed machine-guns, which blocked up the gangways and did splendid
work. It was then that the Germans, having contrived to blow up a
barricade, attacked us with jets of flame and liquid fire. The heat,
and the fact that we were taken unawares, caused us to waver for a
moment. But Lieutenant Bazy, who was there with his machine-gun, darted
forward, and so quick was he, that before we had recovered from our
amazement he was standing upright in the middle of the gangways and
fighting the Germans single-handed with bombs. The flames came up to
his shoes, his left arm was bandaged, being already wounded, but little
did he care. As he could not speak, on account of that black acrid
smoke, he encouraged us by his example. Accordingly we shook off our
stupor and went forward in rotation to stand by his side. At last the
flame-throwers were quenched. He had succeeded in checking the attack
and was beginning to go up again on to the barricade, when the Boches
started sending us petards, which knocked us all down with the sandbags
on top of us. I was quite convinced that my back was broken, and I
only just had enough strength left to put my mask on, as I detected
the whiff of poison gas. A private extricated me and carried me to the
infirmary while the struggle recommenced. The Germans discharged gases
whose heavy fumes hung about the gangways. Despite all their devilish
contrivances, their flame-jets, their gases, and their petards, they
made no advance. It was magnificent. They shouted to us in French:
‘Surrender, or you will all be killed,’ and we answered by slinging
bombs full at their faces.”
“It was magnificent!” How comical is that outcry, in the thick of the
fray!
It was on June 4, about midday, that this liquid fire attack took
place. The Germans made it through the breach in the western passage.
The fort was filled with a “black and acrid” smoke. In order to
breathe, the garrison had to remove the armour-plating from the barrack
windows. The flames came up to the corridor leading into the rooms.
Some soldiers even jumped into the ditch in order to recover their
breath. The machine-guns installed on the fort had been destroyed in
the morning by our artillery. The curtain fire cut off the exits a
little farther south. Without disorder, the troops retired into the
interior, but the windows had to be closed again. The enemy swung up
sacks of bombs with delay-action fuses, which he sent through the
openings, and tried to blow up the armour-platings.
Nevertheless, he made progress in the north-eastern single transverse
gallery. We had to retire some yards in the corridor, but not beyond
the lavatories. The sick and the wounded had to be looked after on
the spot. The stretcher-bearers took advantage of the destruction of
the enemy machine-guns installed on the fort, and were thus able to
carry corpses away in the western ditch and to cleanse the infirmary
of all its filth. From the ensuing night onwards this task was beyond
their powers. The dead had to remain with the living. An unspeakable
horror stalked through these dim vaults, where, in a thick, pestilent
atmosphere, a sleepless, nerve-racked, thirst-maddened garrison,
crowded into a narrow space, refused to abandon the struggle.
It needed but one man to turn aside the flame attack: Lieutenant Bazy,
straight and upright like a god, amid the smoke, in the middle of the
corridor, his left arm in a sling, his right arm hurling bombs, barring
the way to the foe. It needed but the commandant, a few officers
and N.C.O.’s, a handful of picked men, to ensure, amid all these
sufferings, the maintenance of a single idea, a single aim: to hold out.
The fort is cut off from the rest of the world, its last pigeon
was sent off on the previous day, and its signals have not been
transmitted. But when night has fallen, two signallers leap into the
ditch: they are going to restore the communications.
Next day the fort’s appeal is heard.
III
THE SORTIE
On June 4 the water ration was half a pint. Half a pint for men who
have fought and are fighting in the haze of bombs, of flame-throwers,
of asphyxiating gases! Half a pint for fever patients, tossing uneasily
at the overcrowded dressing-station, amid the dead and the dying!
Piteous wails and entreaties are heard on all sides. Silence, however,
is instantly restored when Major Raynal puts in an appearance. Half
a pint, and no more. Who was it that asked for a larger ration? Why,
as things are, half a pint is a great deal! Even the wounded resign
themselves. Each man swallows his grief, having no saliva left.
The commandant has taken a census of the garrison. All who are not
ordinary members of it will have to leave the fort. Under cover of
night the sortie will be attempted, either by the southern ditch--the
windows of the barracks will in that case be blown up--or by the
south-western transverse gallery, which is not in the enemy’s hands.
The order is a formal one. Those who have to go, endeavour by the
light of day to gauge the difficulties of the enterprise: are there
machine-guns and look-out men on the fort? How far off are the German
curtain fires, and at what points are they directed? The sortie is
exceedingly risky, but the French cannot be very far away.
The first who jump into the ditch, at half-past ten at night, are
volunteers: the two signallers of whom I have spoken, who are going to
restore communications. With beating hearts their comrades listen: the
noise of the fall, then silence, no rifle-shots, no rockets, merely the
usual bombardment. Their range has not been found.
The detachments of the 101st and the 142nd, whose departure has been
settled upon, now fall in.
“Go,” says Major Raynal to them, “and if you escape, tell our comrades
how we stand and how we are resisting.”
The two groups salute. It is the moment for the sortie. It is half-past
one in the morning, and it seems as if the shower of “heavies” were
growing less violent. Cadet Buffet is in charge of the detachment
from the 142nd. He makes use of an uncovered gap at the south-eastern
corner, and is the first to descend, followed by a scout and the
quartermaster’s corporal. The company proceeds behind them, leaving
intervals so as not to attract attention. A pebble has rolled down,
and the German look-out men, from the top of the fort, are at once on
the alert, send up rockets and fire their rifles. Almost at the same
moment their artillery opens an appalling curtain fire at the immediate
approaches to the fort. The cadet has got through, with a small group
at his heels. They reach the French lines, which are quite close at
hand. The first is received by a rifle-shot, which misses him. He makes
himself recognized, not without difficulty. Explanations follow, a warm
welcome is given, while the bombardment rages at the rear of the little
group. Others are on the way; our comrades must take care not to shoot
at them. They are awaited, but after a long interval only two or three
arrive. The rest have been unable to cross the zone of death.
A private of 142nd, wounded in the flame attack, gives the following
account of the expedition:
“When the C.O. had finished speaking, I saluted and made my way to
the dormer window, from which I had to jump a depth of three yards.
I passed my hand over my stiffened limbs. Then, without further
hesitation, I let myself go. I certainly felt acute pain. I heard
rifle-shots aimed at me, and I flung myself down and shammed dead, for
the Boches were still watching. I don’t know how long I stayed like
this. At any rate, after a good minute, I began to crawl on my belly
over a lot of corpses. Gently, gliding from one corpse to another, I
managed to get over the ditch and cross the line. I could scarcely
breathe under the endless bombardment, and at last I succeeded, I don’t
know how, in reaching a dressing-station. I don’t remember the end of
the adventure, but I woke up in hospital!”
The upshot of the sortie was not very fortunate. It had to be
undertaken all over again. On June 5, at sunrise, there was another
attempt and another set-back. The day slipped away, a day still more
cruel than any that had preceded it. The struggle at the barricades
began again, with grenades and flame-jets. Water was now distributed
only drop by drop. The wounded implored their comrades to put them
out of their misery. Quicklime had to be thrown upon the dead, who
could not be carried away. The hardships were more severe than ever,
but a gleam of hope had appeared. The fort was no longer isolated:
the two signallers who went off the previous evening had succeeded in
their task. When the fort spoke, it was heard, and the reply came:
“Courage! we shall soon attack.” The defenders are not forgotten.
Their deliverance is at hand. One day more, and relief will come. One
day--how long it is, how hard to live through! Still, it will pass,
like the others.
The numbers will have to be cut down. The contingents of the 101st
and 142nd, whose presence is not indispensable, once more receive the
order to depart. During the night, more than a hundred men succeed in
getting away. Here is the story of one of them, since a selection must
be made: one cannot recite the names and fortunes of the whole hundred.
One shall be chosen, for there is no better way of making the reader
realize such tragedies than to lay one’s hand on a human heart and feel
its beats.
Stretcher-bearer Roger Vanier, of the 101st Regiment, received the
Military Medal for his conduct at Sabot Wood on February 26, 27, and
28, 1915, the official report being as follows:
“Gave proof of heroic courage and self-sacrifice. Worked for three days
and three nights without taking a rest. Went several times under enemy
fire to look for wounded between the French and German trenches, and
brought them in. At the same time identified several who were killed.
Won universal admiration from the battalion to which he showed such
whole-hearted devotion. Was registered for non-combatant service at the
mobilization, but asked to be sent to the front.”
General Joffre decorated him personally on March 25, 1915, at
Courtisols.
In the Champagne battle, on September 21, he is mentioned in army corps
orders:
“Seeing some comrades hesitate to go out of the trench for the attack,
he took off his Red Cross armlet, jumped up on the parapet and shouted
‘Forward!’ He was instantly hit in the leg by a bullet.
“He belongs to the 1916 class: of middle height, rather delicate in
health, with a tanned complexion, a faint shadow of a moustache, his
face frank, eager and all aglow, as it were, with the fire of his eyes.
‘When there is any danger,’ he says, ‘I no longer know myself; I have
to go.’ And he goes. He comes of a humble family at Montfort L’Amaury.
One of his brothers, a school teacher, a corporal-telephonist in the
146th Regiment, was killed on March 2 at Douaumont; his leg broken by
a shell, he was carried to the Les Fontaines ravine, where he died
shortly afterwards. His body remained on the spot. The stretcher-bearer
of the 101st, coming in his turn to the Vaux district, might well have
found himself face to face with the corpse when he went to look for
water in the ravine. Before the war he had been a valet. But since he
has served his country and lost his brother, his only desire, after the
war, is to enter the service of God instead of the service of death.”
Who is it that moulded such hearts as these? Vanier always carries
about with him a letter from his mother. The worthy dame of Montfort
L’Amaury writes to him on February 29: her spirit is resolute, but her
spelling is a trifle shaky:
“I know that your poor brother is at Verdun, that is to say at the post
of honour, for it is a fine thing for the French Army to hold up that
hord of savages there. How happy our Lou must be to see the war outside
the trenches! Oh, how glorious it is. I haven’t heard from him yet,
but I suppose he can’t find an oportunity of writing. I always feel
firmly convinced that nothing will happen to him. And you, my darling
boy, you must have a lot to do, be very careful, my precious, though,
of course, be brave, more and more brave than ever. Save all those poor
wounded lying there in the blood and snow. My blood boils at having to
stay here while there is so much to do down there, picking up all those
poor dears. Why don’t they want women in a place where they are so
necessery? Ah, yes, it is the business of mothers to pick up all those
poor children and speak soothing words to them. Well, my dear boy, you
must take the place of a mother, and do everything, even imposible
things, so as to be of some use to them, yes, of great use. I see you
walking, running, crawling to look for all these wounded. I should like
to slip in and come along with you, laddie, for I feel that I ought to
be by your side. Cheer up, cheer up, I know that it is the beginning
of the end, a glorious end for all who have fought in the cause of
justice....”
These mothers of France--are they not all at the front with all their
children, bleeding from all their wounds, but thrusting them forward,
in the path of duty, for their country’s sake?
Stretcher-bearer Vanier has been at the fort since June 1, doing duty
at the dressing-station with his comrades, under the command of the
admirable doctors Gaillard, Conte, and Boisramé (I think there is one
other whom I have forgotten). At all costs, then, the garrison must be
delivered. The sortie of the evening of June 4 has proved a failure.
The 5th is a gruelling day; at its close the defenders themselves are
amazed at the fact that they are still withstanding the foe. What will
befall on the morrow? It is better not to wait for it. What is left of
the 101st and of the 7th and 8th Companies of the 142nd will try to get
away.
Vanier attaches himself to the men of the 101st. They are thirty-four
in number, and among them there are some wounded. The order is to leave
the fort at no matter what cost; every man is to look after himself,
not troubling about the others. During the day each of them has
registered the direction he will take. Vanier, at half-past 10 P.M., is
the first to jump into the ditch, accompanied by a comrade. Both crawl
up the side of the ditch and, once on top, start running along at full
speed.
“_Wer da?_” (Who goes there?) “_Halte-là!_” (Halt there!)
They stop and throw themselves into a shell-hole. Vanier thinks he has
heard the German words “_Wer da?_” (Who goes there?). He loads his
revolver and whispers to his companion:
“Don’t come with me, chum. I don’t want to be a prisoner; I’d sooner be
killed.”
“But it’s a Frenchman,” answers the other.
They draw near and make themselves recognized. At barely 200 yards
from the fort they have come upon a detachment of the 298th. They are
taken to the rear, they are given wine to drink--wine, when they have
drunk no water for thirty-six hours!--they are examined.
Out of thirty-five only five miss the roll-call. Vanier goes to rejoin
his colonel at the rest billets, where he finds his regiment once more.
“I promote you to corporal,” said the colonel, embracing him.
That is how Stretcher-bearer Vanier won his stripes.
IV
SOME ONE RE-ENTERS THE FORT
Cadet Buffet, of the 141st Regiment, who assisted Captain Tabourot
when the latter was dying, and who left the fort during the night of
June 4-5 with a detachment of his company, also belongs to the 1916
class. He is the son of a working man. When quite a child he lost his
mother, and was brought up at an orphanage. He proved an excellent
pupil, gained his Bachelor’s degree in classics, and was being trained
for the teaching profession when the war caught him in its grasp. The
would-be schoolmaster is short and slim. He wears a small beard, and
his face is scarred with the marks of bomb-splinters and flame-jets.
When he arrives at divisional headquarters his eyes are almost haggard,
and he seems to be in that state of agitation which precedes a nervous
breakdown. Nevertheless, in dealing with the combats in the interior of
the fort, with the German field-works, with the German positions, he
furnishes such accurate reports and draws such shrewd conclusions that
the Divisional Commander sends him to the headquarters of the sector.
Arrived there, he resumes his account and his explanations. The General
listens to him, watches him, then orders him to take a rest. The young
man, at the end of his tether, goes to bed. A few hours later, having
washed, shaved, and had a meal, he already looks a different being.
Once more he goes before the General. Matters are urgent; a serious
problem has to be solved. An attack has been arranged to relieve the
fort. It will be started in a few hours. Major Raynal may contribute
towards its success. Let him signal, if he can, the position of the
enemy machine-guns on the fort, let him thus direct the artillery fire
during the night; he will help in the operation. While the work is
going on elsewhere, let him detain the enemy in the interior passages.
But how is one to get into touch with him? Several times, reconnoitring
and water fatigue parties have tried to do so. They have not been able
to cross the gorge: they have been brought to a halt or mown down by
the German curtain fires, or perhaps by the machine-gun which the
commandant himself has had installed to guard the southern ditch. One
who is thoroughly acquainted with the fort, who knows its ins and outs,
might possibly carry out so hazardous a mission. Cadet Buffet is the
only one who possesses these qualifications.
“I’ll go,” says the lad, without letting the General finish.
The General, whose only son has been killed, beams at him with a
paternal look.
“This is not an order, my friend”--he must have been very nearly saying
“my son”--“what I ask of you is something more than your duty. To get
away from the fort was a fine performance. I don’t _order_ you to go
back there.”
“I’ll go,” repeats Buffet stoutly.
“Of course you’ll be rewarded: the Legion of Honour or the Military
Medal.”
“Oh no!” protests the cadet; “I’ll go for nothing.”
A staff officer asks for the privilege of accompanying him.
“I would rather go alone,” he says. “When we get there, things will be
easier if I am alone. Besides, I want entire freedom of movement.”
The Chief of Staff hands him his orders. He reads them, rereads them,
imprints them in his memory and returns the paper, for he must not
carry anything away with him.
Night comes, and he is taken by motor-car as far as motor-cars dare go.
He shakes hands with the officer who is with him, then lightly runs off
into the darkness, where his outline is soon lost.
It has been arranged that, if he re-enters the fort, the searchlight
will end up its next signals with “Long live France!”
At 11.20 P.M. the visual message transmitted from Fort Vaux, after
an opening which the bombardment made it impossible to understand,
contains this phrase: “You will intervene before we are utterly
exhausted. Long live France!”
V
THE LAST WORDS
The effort to extricate Vaux has not been relaxed for a moment, but the
German attacks and ours succeed each other, dash against each other,
anticipate each other, cancel each other. Neither side contrives to
forge ahead. On the right, the enemy is unable to debouch from Damloup,
and spends his strength in vain against the battery. On the left, his
way is blocked in Fumin Wood, and R¹ continues to withstand him. The
battle drags along in the hard-pressed, flame-ravaged, starving fort,
where the energy of a handful of men makes the resistance seem likely
to last for ever. But we cannot retake the external earthworks, which
bristle with machine-guns. The whole tableland and its slopes are swept
to such an extent that the ground is like a mass of cinders.
In the course of the morning of June 6, we might have fancied for a
moment that we once more held the whole fort and that the garrison
was delivered. An attack had been prepared, and was to open at two
o’clock. At four, a German pioneer of the 27th Regiment was brought
into divisional headquarters, scared out of his wits, his uniform in
rags. He was found in our lines, without weapons, wild-eyed, running
breathlessly. On being examined, he stated that he had escaped from
Fort Vaux when the French surrounded it.
The attack was to approach the fort by its three fronts: towards the
western front, a company of the 238th; towards the gorge, another
company of the same regiment and a section of engineers, commanded by
Major Mathieu; finally, towards the eastern front, two companies of
the 321st, commanded by Major Favre. The signal was to be given at two
o’clock in the morning by a series of rockets.
On the right, the two companies of the 321st, vigorously inspired by
their leader, reach the ditch of the counterscarp in two waves; they
are received by a curtain fire of bombs and machine-guns. Their ranks
thinned by the fire of these machine-guns, which crown the parapet
of the escarp, the first bomb-throwers fall back. In their turn, the
two waves unroll themselves successively. Their leaders, however, are
almost all struck, and that almost at once: Major Favre, killed by a
bullet in his head; Lieutenant Ray, Second Lieutenant Rives, seriously
wounded; Lieutenant Bellot, wounded but revived; Second Lieutenant
Morel, killed; Second Lieutenant Billaud, killed; Second Lieutenant
Desfougères, wounded; Lieutenant Aymé, wounded. What a roll of honour,
what a book of martyrs! Robbed of so many officers, the troops waver.
Captain and Adjutant Baume takes over the command of the battalion,
restores order in the ranks, appoints the subordinate commanders, and
holds himself in readiness to thrust back a counter-assault which,
in face of the attitude of his men, does not come off after all. The
scouts keep the regiment and the brigade posted as to the situation.
However violent the curtain fires may be, they scour the volcanic
country, the survivors taking the place of the wounded or the dead.
Farther to the left, the attack of the 328th on the western front and
the gorge has met with similar obstacles. For a few moments it has
contrived to encircle the fort, but has not been able to hold its
ground. It has even been impeded by the fire of our artillery upon the
superstructure, to demolish the enemy machine-guns placed there. This
attack, too, has had to fall back on the positions from which it set
out.
With what throbbing hearts have the various phases of the struggle been
followed from the interior of the fort! To feel that one’s comrades are
approaching, that they are there, that they are bringing deliverance,
and then that they are shipwrecked when almost in harbour--what thrills
of hope, and what a disappointment! At twenty past six in the morning
the following message, half of it undecipherable, is transmitted from
the fort:
“... without having attained the objectives. Enemy machine-guns on top
of the fort: these ought to have been shelled....”
Where are they, then, these mysterious machine-guns which our artillery
cannot manage to demolish? In what hidden lurking-place, under what
shelter?
This is an account of the battle so far as observation of it has been
possible from the fort. A few minutes later the fort speaks again. This
time its words ring with the grandeur of honourable achievement, and
the sadness of grim resignation.
Reopen the _Song of Roland_, at the verses where Roland, victorious but
grievously wounded, journeys through the vale of Roncevaux in search of
the peers of France, brings back their bodies one by one, and lays them
at the feet of Archbishop Turpin, who will give them the last blessing:
“Roland departs. Alone he scours the battlefield, goes up and down
the valley, up and down the mountains. He finds Gérin and his comrade
Gérier, he finds Bérenger and Otton, he finds Anséis and Samson, he
finds old Gérard, Count of Roussillon. He carries the barons one by
one, comes back with them to the archbishop, and lays them in a row at
his feet....
“Roland returns and searches all over the plain. He has found his
friend Olivier, he has pressed him tightly to his heart, and he
returns as best he can to the archbishop....”
After the failure of the final attempt at deliverance, Fort Vaux does
not know how many hours or minutes it still has to live. In a message
resembling a last will and testament, the Commandant musters the names
of his dauntless comrades-in-arms, pays a tribute to his men, and
offers them to the high command. At half-past six his signals transmit
the following message:
“I have no more water, in spite of the ration system of the last few
days. It is essential that I should be extricated and that a fresh
supply of water should reach me without delay. I think our resources
have nearly touched rock-bottom. The troops--officers, N.C.O.’s and
men,--in all circumstances, have done their duty to the bitter end.
“I mention: Lieutenants De Roquette and Girard of the 53rd, Bazy,
Albagnac of the 142nd, all wounded; Alirol, Largnes, Cadet Tuzel,
Sergeant-Major Brune of the 142nd, Lieutenants De Nizet and Rebattet,
Artillery, Lieutenant Roy and Cadet Bérard of the 2nd Engineers,
Corporal Bonnin of the 142nd.
“Losses: 7 killed, among them Captain Tabourot of the 142nd and
Lieutenant Tournery of the 101st.
“Seventy-six wounded, among them 4 officers and the auxiliary doctors
Conte and Gaillard.
“I hope that you will once more intervene with vigour before we are
utterly exhausted.”
The chief’s duty is fulfilled. He has forgotten nothing but himself.
After this the fort maintains silence. For the whole day of June 6
the visual signalling posts, on the watch, will not register a single
message. The fort retires within itself to face all the suffering piled
on suffering: the barrages, the bombs, the flames and the gas and the
suffocation, the horror of unspeakable sights and smells, and, above
all, thirst, the thirst that makes men howl like wolves, and lacerates
their tongues and their lips.
Is it dead, is it alive? Is it captured, is it still free? The outside
world no longer knows. The longing to know keeps the whole army in
suspense. This longing is contagious at a distance. Like the signals,
it flashes to the end of the country, to the end of the world. In sober
truth, the whole earth awaits with intense eagerness the upshot of the
drama of Vaux. And it is the miracle of the defence, and that alone,
that has aroused this great thrill of admiration and anxiety.
Yet the fort is not forsaken. The whole army is concerned with working
its salvation. Without delay, a new offensive is planned. A regiment of
Zouaves and a regiment of colonial infantry, formed into a composite
brigade, are brought up into the neighbourhood. As soon as methodical
preparations will allow of it, they will be drafted into the line.
The enemy is seized with no less determination. Amazed at the
protracted nature of the struggle, he seeks to overpower the defence at
any price. At any price? What an exorbitant price he has already paid
for each square yard of the tableland slopes! Our observing-stations
signal that the German infantrymen are coming up in column of companies
to storm Fort Vaux. It is half-past 7 P.M. Once more the tornado is let
loose. The artillery rages over the whole chaotic scene.
And the Commander-in-Chief’s headquarters, at half-past 8 P.M., sends
to the army headquarters the following telegram, which is to be
transmitted to the fort by visual signalling:
“The Commander-in-Chief wishes to express to the commandant of
Fort Vaux, and the commandant of the garrison, as well as to their
troops, his satisfaction at their superb resistance to the repeated
onslaughts of the foe.
JOFFRE.”
Amid the lightning flashes from batteries and rockets, amid the uproar
of the storm that makes the hills tremble, the message is put through.
The fort, however, does not reply. Red rockets in sheaves are descried
above it. Is it dead or alive? Is it taken, or still free?
At 9 P.M. the voice of the Commander-in-Chief is heard once more,
drowning the hurricane of fire and steel:
“Major Raynal is appointed Commander of the Legion of Honour.”
To transmit this order, the impossible has to be achieved. It is the
express desire of the supreme commander. In vain is Vaux summoned by
signals of all kinds--Vaux no longer replies. Suddenly, at daybreak on
the 7th, at 3.50 A.M., Vaux awakes and issues an appeal. The signalling
posts make out these three words: “Don’t leave us.” “Don’t leave
us”--the cry of a dying man holding the hand of one he loves. After
that, nothing more. Fort Vaux will not speak again.