THE ATTACK
_June 9._ In the silence and quiet of a little hospital room, near a
window where pink and white thorn-trees make a fragrant screen, I am
going to recall the nightmare of a month ago, and finish the record of
my first campaign.
As I read over the last few pages, the enthusiasm I felt when they were
written comes surging back. Neither time nor suffering can take it away
from me. But the horror of the hours that followed our offensive on the
terrible ninth of May is very nearly a thing of the past. It has been
lifted and smoothed away in this peaceful white hospital by the angels
who dwell in it—the sublime women of the French Red Cross. Not that I
have forgotten any part of the events of that day. The account I shall
give of them will be exact.
On the night before the attack, then, we were awakened about midnight by
the beginning of the bombardment. Unable to sleep, we arose and got
ready ahead of time. At last came the order to go forward to our
fighting posts. One by one we moved along the dark, narrow trenches
leading to the first lines. Above our head was the constant hissing of
our big shells on their way to the Boches. Once in the first line, we
spent the long hours of waiting as comfortably as we could.
Dawn came slowly. Through our loopholes we could discern the gray line
of the trenches we were to take, ploughed up by our artillery volcanoes.
Regularly, almost mathematically, our heavy shells dropped on the enemy,
demolishing their dug-outs, smashing their wire entanglements,
shattering their trenches. At times, through my field-glass, I could
distinctly see human limbs scattered in the air along with the earth of
the explosions.
Meanwhile coffee was brought, and it was welcome in the chill of early
morning. I went to each of my men in turn and spoke of that which was
nearest his heart. I knew them well, my _poilus_. I tried to make them
feel the confidence I felt, and in doing so, my own faith grew stronger
and the last faint doubt that oppressed me was driven from my mind.
The bombardment kept growing in intensity. It was seven o’clock. Several
artillery officers came into my trench to control the precision of the
fire, which was to clear our way of all outside obstacles—wire
entanglements, _chevaux-de-frise_, the enemy trenches. The observation
post was at a distance from the telephone, and the rectifications given
by the officers were repeated down the line from man to man. In a short
time, all was regulated and the storm began. It is impossible to realize
the din of this firing. Guns of all calibres spit forth their shells
with the maximum of rapidity. This lasted three hours, three deafening,
maddening hours. In the midst of the storm of steel and fire the
brigadier-general arrived. He said a few words to me. I told him I was
as sure of my men as of myself. He seemed satisfied and gave me the hour
of attack, ten o’clock.
Ten o’clock! Every one looked at his watch. Nine o’clock. So in an hour
then. It is an hour tense with emotion. Faces that are near give place
to other faces. The hand seeks some loved token, the eye lingers on a
letter, a photograph, or is fixed upon the Book of Prayer.
Five minutes to ten! I take my place at the foot of my ladder. In those
last moments thoughts come rapidly. On this ladder hangs our destiny. In
the trench there is relative security. What will become of us at the top
of those four rounds? But no one thinks of hesitating. We seem to be in
the grasp of some unknown and mighty force.
I seize my revolver and make sure of my grenades. One minute to ten. At
this instant comes a rumbling detonation which causes the ground to
tremble as if shaken by an earthquake. Our mines have exploded. This is
the time.
“Attention! Forward, _mes petits_, and _Vive la France!_”
This cry burst from every throat, and I sprang up my ladder, followed by
my men. From that moment I was carried forward by the intoxication of
the assault. I ran, gesticulating and yelling. I did not see, but rather
felt, my men close to me, running by my side, and, like myself, drunk
with a sublime madness. We reached the first German trench. We threw
hand grenades. But no living thing was there. Confusedly in my onward
rush I saw heaps of earth and corpses. The bombardment had almost
levelled the trench. Forward, still forward. We kept running
breathlessly, carried away by the strange fascination of victory and by
the joy of treading the soil we were giving back to France. I went
ahead, unconscious of those who were falling by the way. My intelligence
was numbed. A greater force was urging me on.
After passing the second trench, I noticed that our ranks had thinned,
but we went on and plunged into the third trench. A furious hand-to-hand
fight followed. I unloaded my revolver almost instinctively on a German
who was aiming at me. By this time our second wave of assault was coming
up to us. I quickly decided to join it and push forward. I was covered
with sweat and blood—with the blood of the Boche I had killed. I was in
a frenzy. I ran toward the fourth trench, the last one to be captured
before reaching our goal. I went on, hypnotized by that trench which
seemed to be running to meet me. I wanted it. It belonged to me. I could
see the enemy through the gaps our artillery had made in their defenses.
Suddenly I fell. I was alone. Above my head was the constant whizzing of
bullets; near by, the significant snorting of a machine gun. At first I
was a little stunned, then I attempted to rise and felt that my right
arm moved with difficulty. My coat was covered with blood. My arm hung
limp. I felt it. I tried to understand. Wounded, of course. But what of
my soldiers? I raised my head; a bullet struck the ground very near. I
fell back, but I had had time enough to see. Nobody in front of me.
Nobody behind me. Corpses all around. I was alone, ten yards from the
enemy’s trench. I could see the Boches moving in it. With my left hand I
got hold of my revolver that was still hanging to the fingers of my
other hand. But what was the use of firing left-handed? I should miss
and they would make an end of me.
To advance was impossible. To go back was equally impossible. The least
move would be my death. The bullets above my head kept up a fearful hum.
It seemed as if I could not possibly get out of this, and passive,
resigned, I flattened myself against the ground and remained motionless.
This situation could not last. If I did not get under shelter, one of
those bullets would surely find me out. Near by, within a few yards, a
slight rise in the ground indicated a possible cavity. With great care,
without apparent motion, inch by inch, I dragged myself to it. Think of
my joy. It was a large funnel, dug out by a German mine, and a score of
wounded had taken refuge in it. Still another effort and I found myself
among them. The cavity was five or six yards deep, and very wide at the
top. A few dead lay prone upon the edge, poor fellows, killed at the
moment when, like myself, they saw salvation in that hole.
I recognized in the crater three of my own men. One of them, wounded in
the thigh, was applying a bandage with the help of a comrade. When this
was done he cut the sleeve of my coat, then my jacket sleeve, and
finally my shirt sleeve. He poured a little tincture of iodine on the
wound. The elbow was pierced through and through. He dressed it with
bandages from the package every soldier carries, and made a sling with a
piece of tent-sheet. And then, profoundly moved to find ourselves there
after that mad race, officer and man met in a silent embrace, expressing
by that gesture what words failed to voice.
The captain of the company which marched immediately behind us was also
there, downcast, raging like the rest of us at being in this stupid and
terrible situation. Some of the men were slightly wounded, but one man
had a big hole in his stomach. The poor wretch lay panting and moaning.
At times he screamed in spite of our efforts to keep him still. The
cries were heard by the Boches whose trench was scarcely ten yards away,
and in accordance with their noble custom of killing the wounded, they
threw grenades in our direction. Fortunately, they fell short of us, but
they increased our anxiety, as well as our disgust and hatred.
Above our heads the air was lashed with a terrible cross-fire. The sad
truth began to come home to me that our advance had been checked after
the third trench. And what of my men, my _poilus_ whom I so loved? Dead?
Meanwhile our own plight was extremely critical. Our lives hung by a
very slender thread. For the present, the unceasing fire of machine guns
prevented our escape. Sooner or later the Germans would launch a
counter-attack and put an end to us with their hand grenades. And again,
if the French pursued the offensive, they would renew the bombardment,
and in all probability we should be struck by our own shells. As for
surrendering to the Boches,—they were near enough—every man of us would
rather starve in that hole. These thoughts and the pain from my wound
prostrated me for a moment. I felt myself losing consciousness and I
took a few drops from a flask of cordial that happened to be in my bag,
and I revived.
Then came a brief lull. Time dragged along slowly, very slowly. Toward
noon a fusillade broke forth in the enemy’s trench. A ray of hope. Were
the French carrying their attack to the fourth line? A man suddenly
stumbled into our crater. He was one of my own soldiers. He was without
his equipment. He saw me and, weeping and laughing, embraced me. I asked
him where he came from and why he had no gun, no bayonet, no grenades.
In a distracted voice he told me his story.
After I had been wounded and knocked down, my soldiers kept on running
forward and jumped into the fourth German trench. But their ranks had
thinned, and they were too few. Some were killed, others disarmed. The
latter were told by the Boches after a time: “You are not wanted. Get
out of here.” My men were bewildered. They could not understand. Again
they were ordered to leave, and finally they leaped out of the trench
and began running back to the French position. The brutes then fired
upon them from behind. All were killed evidently, with the exception of
this soldier, who owed his life to the crater into which he had
providentially fallen.
My grief was intense. I had lost all my brave men, and I was powerless
to avenge them. To this mental torture was added the suffering from my
wound. The hot rays of the sun came directly upon us. Hand grenades fell
again into the crater. We crouched close to the ground.
Presently French 75’s and 105’s began to burst over the German trench.
We watched the shells. They were very, very near us. One 75 exploded
just above our heads and the impact threw the body of a dead soldier
almost on top of me. It was a terrible feeling to be under the fire of
our own guns. Another shell burst and blew to pieces that very soldier
of mine who had escaped the odious massacre. We quickly threw a
tent-sheet over this abomination. We were fully conscious of the horror
of our situation. Another explosion cut off the foot of a sergeant, and
in spite of his screams I poured a flask of iodine on his wound. Then,
for the first time, I gave up all hope. We had made a sacrifice of our
lives and motionless, resigned, we sat silently waiting.
But an idea came to me. There were heavy planks in the bottom of the
crater, which had been used to prop the explosion chamber of the mine.
With much difficulty we moved them together, leaning them against the
side of the crater. Under this shelter we all huddled. Several times our
wooden structure was violently shaken by explosions, and our wounds were
racked at each shock, but more than that we were not hurt. This lasted a
long time, an infinitely long time. The hours do not seem to move under
such circumstances.
Finally the captain, the only man in the crater who was not wounded,
declared that he was going to the French trench to have the firing
stopped. In spite of our protests, for we knew that he would meet death
on the way; he went out under the bombardment.
A long time afterward the firing from our side ceased. Could the captain
have reached our trenches? And hope revived in us again. We all wanted
to leave this inferno at once. But the German machine guns started in
afresh. We must wait for the night.
The sun was getting low. The bombardment ceased and we came out from
under the protection of our planks. We stretched out on the ground,
which was all furrowed by shells. The wounded were moaning, some had the
death rattle. I was exhausted, and somehow I fell asleep. When I awoke
it was already dusk. The hour of deliverance was near. But as soon as
night came, rockets flashed from the German trench and a fusillade burst
forth. Possibly some of the wounded had tried to return to our lines and
were being shot from behind. Our hope grew dim, and we wondered if we
should ever get away. We were horrified to think we might have to spend
another day in that hole. Better die at once, die in an effort to get
back, die with hope in our hearts.
About nine o’clock the man least wounded among us decided to venture
forth. His plan was, on reaching the French line, to request that a
trench be dug out in our direction so that we could return in safety. We
agreed upon a signal to be given by our machine guns: twice four sharp
shots to establish the communication; three times three slow shots would
indicate that we must wait until they came for us; three times three
rapid shots that we should have to escape by our own means.
Half an hour or more elapsed. Rockets kept flashing in the night and the
machine guns never stopped. We began to fear for the fate of our
comrade. Yet at last came the signal—three times three rapid shots.
_Come back, come back, come back_, said the French guns. We had to count
on ourselves alone. Then we decided to crawl to our lines.
One by one, at long intervals, we left. Only one could not leave, the
man wounded in the stomach. “So you forsake me,” he moaned. I spread my
blanket over him and promised to send for him. I knew this was
impossible, but my deception might help him to die in hope. I also knew
the terror of dying there slowly, and alone, all alone. But he was
beyond our help.
The German guns were firing violently on the French positions. We did
not realize this during the day, as our anguish and pain kept us from
studying the battle. It was foolhardy to go forth under the bombardment,
but we were really crazed. A single idea, a fixed idea, remained with
us—to go back, to go back by all means, or die. For my own part, I was
not quite conscious of what I was doing.
I could not crawl on my stomach. I was obliged to lie on my back, and
advance head first toward the French trench. The rockets gave me a
glimpse of our lines. They were several hundred yards distant. I pushed
myself along with my feet as does a man when swimming on his back. As
soon as a rocket flashed its light, I remained motionless, feigning
death among the dead. And in those few instants of immobility, I could
hear my heart beat, and a vague horrible murmur made up of moans and
cries of men dying, and of wounded calling for help. I passed by a
soldier who was groaning feebly. I recognized him and tried to drag him
with me. With great difficulty I managed to pull him a few feet. And
then I saw that I was dragging a corpse.
This Calvary lasted long, frightfully long. Several times I bumped my
head into dead bodies. Crawling backward I could not see these
obstacles. At one moment, I found myself under a corpse. The body was in
a kneeling position and leaning forward. I had its face against my face,
and its open eyes seemed to stare at me. The magnesium light of a rocket
made that face appear still more livid. I worked myself free and went on
over that rough, chaotic ground, falling into shell holes, jostling the
dead. But my whole being was strained to the one idea—to go back, to
reach the French trench to which I was drawing nearer and nearer. I
began talking out loud. Without knowing it, I must have talked a good
deal. I found myself saying over half-forgotten snatches of Virgil:—
“Est in conspectu Tenedos, notissima fama
Insula, dives opum....”
It was indeed “in conspectu,” that trench, and likewise “dives
opum”—richer than any Island of the Blest.
Meanwhile German shells kept falling in rapid succession. I was covered
with earth several times, and once roughly shaken up. But now the goal
was very near. I shouted with all my might: “France, France, I am a
lieutenant of the Eleventh Company.” I dimly heard voices saying: “This
way, this way.” I directed myself by those voices. My strength was
almost gone. I got entangled in wire defenses. My arm hurt unbearably. A
shell that fell near stunned me. I felt myself being seized and pulled.
I fell into the trench—the French trench. Then I fainted.