Diary of Albert Ledrean, volunteer for France in the war of 1914. Aged
18 years. In the 10th Regiment of Infantry. Fell on the field of honor,
October 17th, 1914, in Champagne. (This diary was found on his body and
sent home to his mother.):
"Auxonne, Cotes d' Or, September 15th, 1914—At last this
long-wished-for moment has arrived. The great clock on the facade in
our barracks marks 12:45, it is the hour for our departure; the clear
notes of the bugles announce our colonel's approach; he appears, his
fine horse curvetting and prancing, and our battalion stands rigidly
at attention as he passes us on review. He draws his sword and gives
orders to advance. The regimental music shrills loudly, our troopers
with quick steps and alert bearing, start for the battlefields, which
we have so long desired to see.
"We have decorated our rifles with huge bunches of flowers. On our
route the people have strewn autumn leaves. More than one woman weeps
as we go by, for our passing recalls so vividly to them, those poor
women, their husbands, or brothers, or sons, who are fighting out
yonder in the defense of the sacred soil of France. At the railway
station a large crowd awaits, hands are shaken, adieux are made to
those comrades who remain. We climb into the waiting train. Our colonel
calls us to the windows and stirs our souls with a speech of patriotic
feeling. He gives the accolade to our commander, and through him, to
us all. The train starts, as the strains of the Marseillaise float in
the air. From all our throats burst the cry, "Vive la France!" The
regiment, massed near the station, salutes us, the bayonets glisten in
the pale autumn sun and the drums and bugles sound gaily. We lean far
out of the windows waving our kepis joyously to the crowd. The train
moves faster and faster to our unknown destination. Who knows where?
But what does it matter? It is for our country.
"Wednesday, September 28th—We were marched today to Dugny, by Verdun.
Our adjutant ordered us to descend from our train at 8 a.m., and
with enthusiasm we stepped through the clear morning air towards our
destination. In traversing the village we met large Parisian autobuses
heavily ladened with meat for the ravitallement of our troops; it was
droll indeed to see the great vehicles with signs "Trocadero, Odeon,
Porte Maillot, Louvre, Versailles, etc., in big letters here in the
silence of the Champagne plains, so far from the crowded Paris streets,
where before the war, they carried their human freight.
"We find the bridges destroyed everywhere, so to cross the streams we
have much ado, the little makeshifts being very shaky and uncertain. We
see many things of interest in our march. A captive balloon balancing
in the blue air above a hill at the entrance of the village of
Rangiere. We perceive the piteous results of the marmites of William,
the Kaiser, vast holes of great circumference everywhere. Even as we
arrived we heard the noise of two huge marmites which burst 500 metres
from us. We saw a great black smoke, and dirt and earth springing into
the air. Then our great cannons answered, our 75s joined the party,
five minutes of cannonade and we no longer heard the shells of William.
"We were then allowed a short rest after our fifteen-mile walk, before
descending to the village, where we are now resting in a barn with some
Chasseurs d'Afrique. They are good comrades, these Chasseurs, we make
friends at once, and have much to say, each recounting his thoughts and
ideas of this war.
"Thursday, September 29th—At 7 a. m., we left Rangiere to find our
regiment. We met a Taube flying above our heads. Our batteries fired on
it, we deploying to offer less of a target. Later it flew towards the
German lines, and my company reached a little wood where we spent the
night. The shells whistled over our heads all the time; it is not gay,
that noise.
"Friday, September 30th—Our Battalion has 24 hours' rest. The shells
and shrapnels from Germany shriek all day and all night. I asked if
these were the big ones. A man laughed and said "No, mon ami, ce sont
les enfants." (No, my friend, these are the baby ones.) It never stops,
this cannonade and shooting.
"Wednesday, October 4th—We are since four days in the front line, in
the trenches, like foxes in their holes. The French and German shells
never stop howling over our heads. On all sides, noise! noise! noise!
"Friday, October 6th—We are of the reserve; we leave our trenches to
rest back yonder. On the way I saw the graves of two French soldiers,
two crosses of wood at their heads. Ah, how obscure, but how noble,
these graves of two sons of France, fallen on the field of honor.
"Monday, October 9th—We are back in the trenches. A funny thing has
happened. Our sergeant hung his flannel shirt on the parapet of the
trench to dry. A German shell burst at 50 metres. He ran in terror to
save his shirt. 'Ah!' he cried, 'that would be too much, the dirty
Germans, after they have destroyed the Cathedral of Reims, they want to
burn my only flannel shirt.'
"Tuesday, October 10th—Went to the trench at 6 o'clock. At 7 o'clock
our batteries commenced their fire. Our '75' swept the earth for 80
metres in front of us, the enemies' cannonading ceased. Our '75'
redoubled in speed; we could hear the boches howling with pain. Then
the German marmites recommenced. We assisted at an artillery duel which
lasted till noon. The rest of the day and night was quiet.
"Wednesday, October 11th—We left this morning at 6 a. m., for an
unknown destination. At the entrance of the wood we ate our 'Soupe' and
then started on our route. Adieu! woods of the Woevre, we have not been
too unhappy in thy valleys and on thy hillsides, although for a month I
have not undressed. In the trenches we had little straw and no warmth,
rain and cold were our constant companions, but we shall still regret
thee, for we may find much worse further on."
So he did... He found his death.
Extracts from a letter written to his family by a sublieutenant from
the battlefield of Champagne, October 23rd, 1915:
"At 9 o'clock we were all assembled on the first line. Orders passed
from mouth to mouth. Bayonets are fixed to our rifles, each looking to
his equipment, paying attention to the last detail. Nothing must be
lacking on this momentous day, longingly awaited since many months.
We all shake hands, some even embrace, wishing each other good luck;
some with eyes brilliant with impatience, await the longed-for
signal; others, calmer perhaps, although equally eager, polish their
muskets with their handkerchiefs. It is raining heavily and mud is
everywhere, but all our spirits are high. 9:15—The hour has come! The
artillery increases the range of its shells. The first wave of men
hurl themselves out of the trenches. What a magnificent moment. A
rain of shells falls round, blowing to atoms some of the first line
of soldiers. All along our immense front the infantry springs from
the trenches, the bands playing shrilly the 'Marseillaise.' The bugle
and the drums sound the charge. A roar of voices answer. With fixed
bayonets we rush towards the German trenches, while their mitrailleuses
mow us down. Our way is strewn already with corpses and wounded. Blood
lies in pools or soaks in streams into the broken soil. From time to
time the survivors fling themselves on the ground to escape the gale of
shells. Notwithstanding this hell-fire, or the sharpshooters, we press
through the woods. The cannons! The cannons! We must save them!
"All of us understand that this is a great day of battle for us French.
We must win. Without hesitation, we must sacrifice our life and blood.
We must fight to our last breath."
Here are quoted some reports made by the commanders of regiments and
brigades. Words coming often from humble mouths, but inspired by the
highest patriotism: A Colonial infantryman wounded in the foot in the
beginning of the action limped to a "Poste de Secours" and said, "Here,
quick, put on a strong bandage, I have only killed one so far. I am
wild to get back." He was last seen climbing frantically up the slopes
of "la Main de Massiges."
A captain, his face streaming with blood from a ghastly wound, refused
to retire. "Today one pays no attention to little wounds, it is only
death that will stop me now!"
A boyish lieutenant, as the first wave of men swept forward, shouted to
his command: "Allons, Forward! Heads up, eyes straight. Fight! Fight!!
Fight!!! Today we are going to enjoy ourselves. We are going to protect
the sacred soil of France." He fell five minutes later.
A colonel of Colonial infantry, nick-named the bravest of the "Poilus,"
although severely wounded in the head, pushed forward to climb the
"Entonnoir" of the crater. As he fell he shouted: "Onward! Onward, my
brave lads. I would lead but I have lost too much blood. You are heroes
all. En avant mes enfants!" ("Forward, my children, for France!")
Let me note a few words of personal experience: It was a gray cold day
in early November. The little ferry-boat which runs between St. Malo
and Dinard tossed heavily in the yellow-green waves rolling in from the
channel. The decks were awash with spume and water, the sharp north
wind whistled around our ears. I huddled down in the corner behind the
pilothouse. Nothing but necessity would have driven me forth on such
a day, but when one hears of 130 wounded arriving the day before in
a remote convent hospital, one puts personal comfort aside and goes
forth. The wind was piercing and brutal, even my fur coat was a poor
protection against this bitter assailant from the north. Miserable and
shivering I crouched behind the weak shelter, sincerely wishing I had
never come.