rushed on in its heavy, obstinate bravery; as an infuriated bull with
lowered head madly charges his foe, so the German brute in his blind
rage hurled himself toward us. In the path of the Hunnish Horde stood
French valor. THEY SHALL NOT PASS! Nor did they. But--what a struggle!
All the slopes which form the heights of the Meuse and are the ramparts
of Gaul, resounded as a monster forge. There Vulcan had set up his
furnaces. Such a battle is too great to be recounted. It is the story
of Thavannes, whose immense tunnel of approach sheltered a whole
battalion at a time. It is the story of the fall of Douaumont; then the
siege of indomitable Vaux, dauntless, resisting, panting, quivering
like a drum. There the shells fall at the rate of ten per minute.
Raynal is commanding there: that is enough. Ten times the German hurled
his force against the fortifications, and ten times he fell back,
baffled. The garrison stood its ground in a furnace of the damned. New
men entered by a breach, followed a narrow path, found the postern
gate, and leaped in. For every man who came, came a shell. Overhead
twenty airplanes circled about, directing the fire, like vultures above
the eagle’s nest; while the cannon on the surrounding heights converged
their fire.
Vaux! Heroic name, name never to be forgotten! Vaux, a rock burned
by acids, by powder, by the fires of hell. Vaux held out five days,
six days--eight days! The sky at night was a hot glow. The earth was
one continuous roar of explosions, enveloped in billows of smoke.
In that inferno men fought unto death. Trenches, shelters, stone,
and earthworks were wiped away by the shells; the battle left the
protection of the ground and swung into free space.
The regiments were brought from the rear. They were supplied with
food and ammunition by a whole army of camions, which looked like an
immense serpent twisting along the road. Beyond Verdun the men entered
directly into the furnace. Their units melted in the very act of going
to the relief of their comrades at the firing-line. No matter! They
advanced, leaping from one shell-hole to another, up to the lines where
the survivors of the preceding regiments still held the assailant at
a distance. They were one man against ten. Of a hundred who set out,
only fifty arrived. They felt the reassurance given by the strength
of Vaux. Vaux hammered by blows--but Vaux still living, still French,
withstanding the tempest and defying the German. One felt there the
heart of steel in the fortress of rock. In addition to the battle all
about was the spectacle of a mass of masonry holding an army in check.
Vaux fell. Only thirst ended its resistance. The enemy, stupefied to
count the handful of heroes who had thus held them at bay, rendered
the captives the highest honors. The Commandant Raynal kept his sword;
the Crown Prince, in humility before such glory, was glad to pay him
homage, and asked to be presented.
Vaux fell, but Verdun was not taken. There huge shells fell
unceasingly. The German loves the easy targets: a cluster of houses, a
town, is an object hard to miss. In the town, then, the storm swept the
streets. Entire quarters went down in dust. Like Rheims, like Soissons,
like Ypres, like Liége, Verdun was the victim of the Huns. People took
refuge in the citadel, in its enormous subterranean chambers of massive
masonry. There, where the stone corridors were damp as cellars, night
and day both soldiers and civilians found shelter. There young mothers
nursed their babes, there people of all conditions lived as best they
could; there, underground, helter-skelter, all piled together. They
could hear the shells of the Hun falling on the city, the houses
crumbling, the wounded shrieking.
All France and all the world had their eyes on Verdun the inviolable;
on Verdun surrounded by flames, in the vortex of action; on Verdun,
which did not weaken. Without respite, the Teutonic masses were hurled
to the assault. Like a sea of mud they poured upon the outposts of the
city. They were beaten down by grenades, shells, machine-guns, fire,
shot, and powder; and They did not pass!
All about were scenes most thrilling. It would be impossible to recount
them all. We must choose only one or two.
One day, then, of date unrecorded (Verdun held out eight months!), a
troop going up to the fortress of Thavannes found the railway below
and followed it. They came to the tunnel and entered, although it was
already much encumbered. In vain did the gendarme on guard try to
oppose their passage: the newcomers were too many. They numbered about
six hundred. Above them the battle raged. They were intending to stop
for breath, then go on up the slope and take their posts, where Death
awaited them.
No! They will never go so far. They seek a reprieve for an instant in
the tunnel, but Death comes to meet them. In the long black cavern
are piles of ammunition in transit. There are soldiers, and wounded
men, and mules, and general confusion. Some one, man or beast (no one
knows which), hits a case of explosives. In the dark tube there is a
flash, an uproar, a cloud of smoke: four hundred bodies lie mangled
and scorched, as when the fire-damp explodes in the depth of a mine.
The living make their way out as best they can, leaving the dead and
wounded. The two hundred who escape reform their line, mount the hill,
enter the real furnace: this other episode did not count. It was an
extra, for good measure. The accident could not prevent the fulfilment
of the task before them. What were left of the battalion went where
their order sent them. Four hundred fell on the way. Too bad. Orders
are orders: they are carried out by the remnant....
This is only one instance in a thousand.
* * * * *
We all had a great curiosity to see the famous precincts where the
strife raged so violently. It was almost with joy, therefore, that we
received our call. The day the order arrived the news ran quickly
through the ranks: “We are going over there, boys!” “Over there” meant
Verdun. That was understood. We hastened to get ready; we arranged
knapsacks; put our affairs in order. The vans were loaded, the horses
hitched. In the canteens we drank to Victory, to the Return, to Good
Luck. Eyes glistened behind the smoke of pipes, and we jostled and
laughed. Even those who feared the terrible adventure and dreaded death
concealed their uneasiness and cloaked it with smiles. On the other
hand, many danced for joy, happy to have a part in the fight, to be in
full action.
All together, pell-mell, happy and unhappy, we were punctually on the
spot appointed for the automobiles to receive us when evening arrived.
The entire convoy waited behind a hill. The drivers, muffled up in
pelts, chatted while waiting for us. They looked fantastic in the dim
light. Only two or three lanterns winked and blinked in the night. One
was dimly aware of a file of conveyances lined up along the edge of the
road, like great beasts asleep; the going to and fro of the officers
of the convoy, and their colloquy with the colonel. It was all more
felt than seen. One could distinguish only shadows; one heard the tramp
of men, the dull murmur of low-voiced talking, sometimes an exclamation
or a stifled oath.
Then orders were transmitted by cyclists. The first battalion set out.
Hurriedly each section climbed into the autos. These ought to have
carried twenty men each, but twenty-five and even thirty were piled
in, somehow, with their arms, their luggage, their knapsacks, their
side-bags, their canteens. As soon as a company was loaded in the
captain gave the order to go. One by one the cars fell into line. The
motors coughed and plunged forward like a dog unleashed. Then ten more
machines received a new company, and departed in their turn. They also
were swallowed up by the night.
When my turn came, by some chance I was assigned to an auto with the
officers, where we were much less crowded than in the large vehicles
of the privates. I therefore expected to gain some further information
concerning our destination. In this I was disappointed, as the officers
knew very little about it; besides, from the time the motor started
and the auto was on its way no further conversation was possible. We
could not hear each other, even when nearly shouting, and we had enough
to do in resisting the bumps which threw us against each other. We
inhaled the dust: a thick, heavy dust, raised by the wheels. It soon
covered us completely. One could feel it coating his face, and small
grains of sand rolled between one’s fingers. We could not see, for the
curtains were drawn down tightly, and it was very dark. We travelled as
in an interminable tunnel, with no light whatever, with no knowledge of
what we were passing or of the country we were traversing. Sometimes
there were sudden stops. The quickly set brakes brought us to a
standstill with a jerk. We asked the driver: “What is the matter? Where
are we?” He scarcely answered, for he knew no more than we. His order
was to follow the auto in front of him, and to keep his machine twenty
metres behind, that he might avoid a collision in case of a too-sudden
stop. He followed his orders, and knew nothing more. He did not even
know the road we were travelling. The car which led the procession
carried the chief officer of the convoy. Probably he was the only man
besides our colonel who knew our destination.
Thus we journeyed four hours before dawn. As the pale light invaded
our rolling apartment little by little, we saw how completely we were
covered with dust. We were white from head to feet, like a miller
dredged in his flour. Our clothing was white, our hair, our faces,
our arms. We appeared grotesquely like veritable old men. We looked
each other over and laughed. Then, as there was nothing more to fear
from the dust, a lieutenant raised a curtain. We found ourselves on
a winding road in a charming, gently-rolling country. Small trees
formed tiny groves on the hillsides, and the whole landscape was quite
different from that we had just left.
Suddenly the captain made a gesture. He had perceived an airplane,
soaring directly over us in a most disquieting manner. It was flying
too high for us to distinguish, even with glasses, whether it was
French or German; but its manœuvres were suspicious. It had command
of the road, and seemed to be preparing to fire on the convoy. In
fact, that was exactly what happened, a few minutes later, when the
flyer suddenly came lower and opened fire with his mitrailleuse. The
automobiles increased their speed and lengthened the distance from one
to another. Nevertheless, the aviator could move much faster than could
we, and he circled above us like a vulture over his prey. Fortunately,
he had no bombs, and his aim was too uncertain to inflict much damage.
As it was, he wounded several men, and would have wounded many more
if the special guns for the purpose had not opened fire on him, or
if three French planes had not appeared on the horizon. At sight of
them he made a hasty escape, amid our shouts and jeers. Our wounded
were rapidly cared for by a surgeon, and shortly after were placed in
the first field-hospital encountered on the road, amid the ruins of a
village. This village gave us the first knowledge of our whereabouts.
We were entering the valley of the Woëvre, and Verdun lay beyond the
hills. The roll of the cannon had become audible.
After a short halt we set out again. This time we entered the field
of action. It was evidenced by the constantly increasing number of
convoys encountered. Long lines of camions were climbing toward the
battle, loaded with munitions or food; or, like our own, with men. The
road became very wide, encroaching some distance into the fields. Some
soldiers, in the stream of conveyances, threw pebbles under our wheels
without as much as lifting their eyes to look at us: they had seen so
much already that the spectacle of troops going under fire interested
them not at all.
With our advance the scene changed rapidly. We saw some autos
overturned in a ditch and burning. Some dead horses stretched
their rigid legs in the air. Under some tents men bustled about
with stretchers, instruments, and boxes. These were the temporary
dressing-stations, where the men wounded on the route were cared
for: any who had met with accidents from vehicles, as well as those
who had been hit by shell-splinters--for we had entered the zone of
projectiles, and stray splinters reached even that far. The scene
became indescribable. It was a mob, where one felt nevertheless a
discipline, a sense of regulated, methodical order. We were in the
side-wings of the battle, in the midst of its movable stage-settings,
among the stage-hands, machinists, electricians, and supernumeraries,
whose activities are unseen by the public, but who make it possible for
the performance to go on and be brilliant. Long trains of horse-drawn
caissons followed each other at full speed. Field-ambulances, marked
with large red crosses, slipped into the moving stream. Vehicles of
every sort, gray with dust or mud-bespattered, rumbled, creaked, rolled
along, stopped, started, stuck in the ruts, freed themselves. The
moving line looked like the folds of a fabulous serpent.
The voice of the cannon increased in power and volume. It was like
hearing an orchestra of inferno. The ear received only a tremendous,
continuous roar, like the rolling of thunder which never ceases.
We could see the earth tossed high like a geyser when a shell struck.
We breathed the pungent odor of the battle. We were getting into it
now. Most of the houses were demolished. The buildings still standing
all bore the marks of war, with great ragged holes in walls and roof,
with stains of powder and fire. Enough of them remained in close rows
to indicate the streets leading into the town. We crossed the Meuse and
found ourselves in the city. It appeared deserted. We looked curiously
up and down the streets, without finding any sign of life whatever,
except an occasional hurrying soldier, a cyclist, or an automobile
racing at full speed between the silent houses. We made some détours,
crossed squares, and skirted gardens. The whole city lay open to our
view; and above the roofs the massive silhouette of the citadel spread
its protecting wings.
The locking of wheels gave us a jolt: we had arrived. Glad to tread
the ground once more, we leaped down and entered an abandoned factory,
where we were to camp. The windows had long since lost their glass,
but the roof remained. It was a fragile protection against shells,
but quite adequate against wind and rain. Along the walls was stacked
dirty straw, broken to crumbs by the many sleeping troops. That was our
bed. It would be for many their last sleep before the sleep of death,
for the orders came immediately: we would mount to the first lines at
nightfall.
The march into the battle was at first simple. We advanced in the
descending shadows, we left the town behind. Before us the heavens
were streaked with the light of explosives. We marched by sections, in
silence. We marched straight ahead, with heart beating quickly, mouth
dry, brain a blank. In spite of myself, I set my teeth and gripped my
hands. We could not distinguish the road we trod, but were dimly aware
sometimes of trees stripped bare, of low ruins, of puddles of water, of
general débris. We simply followed the man in front, scarcely turning
the head when a flock of shells fell at the right, or left, or ahead.
We only knew we were in the zone where they fell. We heard the hoarse
shriek of the projectiles high in the air, and the chorus of cannon
re-echoed in each breast. We no longer felt the chill of the night air.
We knew not if we breathed. The farther we went, the more difficult
did the walking become. We stumbled over the uneven ground, ploughed
up by the shells; but we were not yet in the place of torment, and the
missiles spared us. We passed many moving shadows: couriers, orderlies,
estafettes, officers, wounded, we knew not what. They were only dark
objects moving about in the night, outlined by the glow of the
projectiles; instantly swallowed again by the shadows and giving place
to others. We knew nothing about them. We knew only one great fact:
that we were always advancing toward the fire; we were approaching the
first lines, where the conflagration raged at white heat.
Then--we were in the midst of the shells. The frenzy was on. The
wounded cried out. We held together the best we could. We entered
chaos. Whirlwinds of explosives enveloped us. They were above, around,
beneath. The very earth leaped up and lashed our faces and hands.
Violent gusts of hot wind shook us. We ran. We joined some other
comrades. We could not proceed in lines, but moved in groups. There
were no longer any usable trenches. They were torn open, crushed in,
filled up, making any advance in them impossible. Therefore we marched
in the open, and we advanced. We would leap into a shell-crater, catch
our breath for a second, look out for another hole, and hurl ourselves
into it as quickly as possible. The rain of steel enveloped everything,
in a tumult unbelievable. We scarcely knew if we lived; we certainly
thought no more about death. The fixed, absolute, imperious idea,
the only surviving thing in our consciousness, was to arrive at our
destination, where we could give our service. We felt that we were near
the spot and must attain it.
We often lost our way. The officers looked for the road, asked the
direction, shouted orders. We understood as best we could. We ran at
full speed, threw ourselves flat on the ground, sprang up and ran
again. We knew only one thing: we _must_ succeed in reaching our
appointed post, we must reach the firing-line: we could not stop, we
could not rest, until we found the location of the regiment we were
sent to relieve.
For three hours we plunged across the jagged fields. The ground rose
and fell and rose again. Sometimes, behind a pile of earth, we found
some men. We shouted some questions. They knew nothing to tell us, as
they were not of the regiment which we sought. They were out of breath,
like ourselves; or they were wounded, or they had just been relieved,
or they had just arrived and were themselves seeking their post, or
they were hopelessly lost and joined in with us. If they were officers,
they questioned us:
“What regiment?” “Where are you going?” “What division?” “What army?”
“Have you seen such and such a regiment?” “No.” “Yes, at the right.”
“Over at the left.” “Make room there!”
Some ambulances charged past. We saw some first-aid stations in full
operation, with wounded shrieking all about. Some couriers, out of
breath, shouted instructions: “Go straight on. Your regiment is two
hundred metres from here, near the canal.”
Finally we arrived, under such a hail of bullets, machine fire, and
shrapnel that we were not even conscious of danger. We found some men,
half buried in holes, who went away and left us. They melted into the
night.
We had reached our post on the firing-line, in an unknown plain, which
seemed to be flooded with dead bodies, as a fallow field is a riot
of corn-flowers and nettles. We had no idea how we had succeeded in
reaching the spot.
There was nothing more to do but fight and in our turn, wait for the
Relief, or for Death.
XI
THE TOUCH OF DEATH
I have no intention, in writing this work, to describe the entire war.
It would be an impossible task, and I do not suppose that any author
who is a contemporary of the immense tragedy would have the presumption
to attempt it. To undertake such a task with success, it would be
necessary to wait until many years had effaced the secondary details,
leaving in the foreground only the principal facts. Then, too, each
person sees the war in his own way, from his own point of view, and
can relate neither the ensemble nor the particular detail after the
same fashion as his neighbor. It is all a question of individuality in
handling such a subject. That which one is able to tell is merely a
résumé of certain brief instants lived in the furnace; in long waits,
which are told by a few words, but which lasted for months. We must,
then, leave to the future historians the literary task of enclosing in
a single book the story of the events which have upset and transformed
the world; as Homer’s Iliad in its brief pages narrates the War of
Troy, which lasted ten years. All that the writer of the present day
may depict are separate minutes of the time in which we lived, and
the sensations of a man who is only one of the hundred millions of
combatants. Therefore I cannot add much to what I have told concerning
Verdun.
We remained there four days. So short a time! and yet in this brief
space a regiment melted away as the iron melts in the crucible. Four
days under fire, and two battalions disappeared. When our relief came,
scarcely one-third of our number survived; and of that third not one
could tell clearly just what had passed. We had lived, though we knew
not how, under the rain of steel, of flames, of flying earth, of
splintering shells, of breaking stones; knocked about, thrown to the
earth, rising only to fall again; eating little, drinking less; without
sleep, without rest, battered and torn, but still clinging to our post.
Automobiles had brought us, automobiles took us away. We were gray
with dust when we came; we went away looking like blocks of earth.
Nothing about our uniforms was recognizable. Mud and clay blotched our
faces and hands, matted our hair and beards, stiffened our shirts,
weighed down our clothing. We had all grown old. Our eyes were sunken,
our features drawn, our lassitude was extreme. Nevertheless, we almost
ran when permitted to go away. We knew that the danger pursued us,
and we mustered enough energy to escape. Again we ascended the hills,
descended the slopes; again we saw the same spectacles we had seen in
coming. It was our turn to cry to the arriving troops: “Count your
bones, boys, it is getting hot!”
Yes, it was getting hot! The surging flood of Germans beat upon the
French fortress like sea-breakers upon a rocky coast. The uproar
increased. It seemed that the utmost limits of the possible must be
reached, but each day those limits receded. Each day more cannon
crashed; each day the explosions were faster and more furious; each day
the storm augmented. One made his escape as from a horrible nightmare.
Our ears hummed. Our nerves, strained to the breaking-point, vibrated
and quivered like the strings of a violin. We could have dropped in our
tracks from suffering and weakness.
However, an immense pride sustained our waning physical force.
Mud-bespattered, thin, repulsive, we resummoned our stamina when we
heard a command, at the edge of a ruined village; a general was looking
at us. Instantly, backs straightened, heads lifted; bayonets were
fixed on gun-barrels. Our troop, panting with exhaustion, but proud,
impeccable, filed past that man, our chief, whose clear eyes were fixed
upon us. We understood each other. Without words, without speech, our
faces told him, “We have given our lives; ‘They’ have not passed!” and,
without a word, his look responded: “I know it.”
We had our reward. Somehow our physical pains disappeared. Our effort,
our sacrifices, our fears, our wounds, had been of service; the baffled
enemy was stumbling without progressing, was crumbling away. Verdun
held, and behind her protecting arm France still lived.
Just the same, the time had come to seek the automobiles. We could
not hold control of ourselves except when on our feet. The instant
we stopped moving about, the instant we were seated, or reclining,
no matter in what position we relaxed for a single second, we were
asleep. Neither jolts, nor knocks, nor sudden stops interrupted our
giant sleep. We slept without a remnant of physical sensation. We
slept violently, as heavy and inert as dead men. We slept with all
our body, all our heart and soul; fists clinched, mouths open; shaken
about, wholly unconscious, carried away less like men than like parcels
of cloth, earth, flesh, and accoutrement. We no longer had names or
personality. We were nothing but clods, utterly at the end of our
vitality.