_32nd Division, 158th Field Artillery Brigade_
During the offensive action near Brabant-sur-Meuse, Sergeant Hoover
was in charge of two trench mortars. Wounded by shrapnel and knocked
down by the explosion of bombs, he fired the one mortar that was
undamaged until it was destroyed.]
Finally comes the touchstone of character. Jan R—— wrote:
“In the early morning of the 13th the cannonading was resumed, and
again we had hours of exhausting expectation. Toward noon we noticed
that an unusual event was coming. The captain shouted something. I
could not understand a word. Gaston understood: the wire entanglements
in front of the first line of trenches had been shot to pieces. We had
to hold ourselves ready. There was incessant telephoning.
“‘They are coming!’ some one yelled.
“I could not restrain myself any longer and looked over the edge of the
trench.
“They were coming indeed; I saw them. In broad, irregular rows they
were running toward us. Straight toward me, it seemed. And behind them,
there came others, and still others, evermore. The German guns were
silent now. And then suddenly ours began to roar with redoubled vigor.
“Holes, narrow clefts, and fissures were torn in the massive gray
billows that came rolling toward us.
“‘Not a single one will get through!’ I heard some one shout.
“But behind the first wave came a second one, and a third one behind
that. I saw them approach, losing in vigor, yet remaining strong.
“We were ready. In that moment I felt no fear! Like the others, I was
burning to fly out of the trenches. Suddenly a strange silence came,
and then the call: ‘_Attaquez! Attaquez!_’
“We clambered up, jumped over the edge of the trench, and ran forward.
In front, to the left, to the right, everywhere there were French
soldiers, storming forward.
“I saw the Germans coming nearer, in their dirty gray uniforms, in
rows, in heaps, and in smaller groups, some even singly. I saw the
glistening and flickering of their bayonets. I heard them yell and
shout. My heart thumped so hard that I had difficulty in breathing.
Around me our men were shouting loudly. I was shouting too, and felt
relieved when I heard my own voice, however indistinctly. Now and
then a rifle-shot could be heard. We were running fast. ‘_En avant! En
avant!_’
“Suddenly I became aware of a desire to hold back a little, and thereby
to postpone, if only for a single second, the terrible moment of the
clash. I happened to be pushed by a comrade behind me and I flew
forward again.
“At last we had reached the Germans. Six steps in front of me I saw
Gaston bayoneting an officer. Not a second later the poor chap fell
himself—hit by a rifle shot, as I learned later.”
“BRAVO, CAPORAL”
“Suddenly a big German stood before me, a deathly pallor on his face,
his mouth drawn, his eyes crazed with fear. His terror gave me courage
and a feeling of superiority. I jumped on him. He tried to defend
himself, but, with all my strength, I plunged my bayonet into his body.
‘_Bravo, caporal!_’ I heard some one call. Scores of my comrades ran
past. I tried to catch up with them, stumbled over a body, and fell,
with my head to the ground. But immediately I got up again and ran
forward, more slowly however; my legs felt weak and powerless. Forward
again! The attack had been repulsed. The German guns began thundering
again; we had to return to our trenches.
“I took the death of Gaston (and of many others) more calmly than I had
feared. This is not so surprising after all. Death may strike any one
of us at any moment. We have accepted that chance. But if that is our
attitude toward ourselves, why should we not have it toward our friends?
“But it still seems strange to me that I can not reach a definite
judgment on my action in this last fight. Certain it is that the
circumstances absolutely required my doing what I did, even leaving
entirely out of consideration the fact that to every one his own life
is dearer than that of a stranger. I can not hesitate in the choice
between a French soldier and a German soldier. But it is equally
certain that killing men runs counter to my nature and is absolutely
irreconcilable with ideas which I had always accepted without question.
Efforts to remove the contradiction between these thoughts must
inevitably fail. It is in this way that I seek to explain the fact
that at one moment I am cheerful, and sing with the rest—that I am
invariably rejoicing over my good luck in the last fight, not merely
having escaped without even the slightest scratch, but having had
besides the good fortune of killing two Germans; while the next moment
I sit worrying silently, asking myself, ‘How did it come to be possible
that you are taking part in this frightful war—as a volunteer?’”
He was to receive an answer on another plane. The story of Jan R——
seems to have concluded with the three words, “Fell at Souchez.”