“‘An officer,’ he said to me, ‘literally must give all his existence,
all his life-blood to his country; he must not spare a drop; less than
any other is he allowed to invoke the relief of the “slightly wounded,”
which permits him to go to some luxurious hospital in the Côte d’Azur
and there appeal to the tender hearts of the Sisters of Charity.
Wounded, sick, limping, he must be able to say to his soldiers who are
complaining, “But do I not march, too?” Then they will follow him.’
“On the morning of October 4, 1914, the 41st attacked near
Monchy-le-Preux.... All went well at first. From time to time, whenever
the ground was uneven, they rushed forward; a few unlucky ones are
dropped out on the way. With the rest, Lemordant, although himself
wounded in the hand, reached the enemy trench and carried it.
“A second bullet at this moment grazes his right temple; a third, a
little while after, wounds him on the top of his skull. It is now broad
day, but it is northern weather, gray, cheerless, dark, uncertain. In
the four great stages of his military life this painter soldier knew
different climates; he has run the tone-scale from the burning blue of
Charleroi to the bottomless night of Craonnelle, with the clear starlit
heaven of the Marne between.
“Is it of that he thinks, if it be that, in such a moment, he can think
of anything except the safety of his men?
“Confused movement on the plain—on his right frantic silhouettes which
stand bolt upright, whirl about, collapse; another section of his
company engaged on the same side is caught on the flank by machine
guns set up in a sort of blockhouse behind a mound, in front of a pile
of ruined huts. Without hesitating, with the firmness of decision
which never abandons him in the most critical circumstances, Lemordant
gets his men together, rallies the fugitives, and throws himself on
the blockhouse—the battery of machine guns is put out of action. But
Lemordant, climbing the slope, receives a bullet pointblank which goes
through his right knee.
“It is his fourth wound of the day, and his men wish to carry him
off; he refuses, feeling that his presence is more necessary than
ever. In spite of the pain he merely had his leg set in splints, then,
fortifying the positions on the side toward the enemy, he sends a
runner to Major Bernard to keep him in touch with his advance and to
call for supports. The man is killed on the way. Another meets the same
fate, and in the interim the German counter-attack breaks loose.
“It is launched by a whole company, and it is terrifying to see this
gray wave rolling over the plain, rising, sinking, rising again, and
growing at each rush which brings it nearer the mound. Lemordant, by
rigid demand, compels his men not to fire, to control their nerves. The
charge gets within twenty meters of the mound, where it gathers itself
up to come over in a single mass with the cry ‘_Vorwärts!_’
“‘... Rapid fire—fire at will!’ roars Lemordant.
“The charge vacillates, stops. Our men leap out of the trench to charge
in turn. Lemordant, though wounded in the hand, in the forehead, on
the head, and in the knee, charges with them, supported by a young
soldier of his section. Chance brings him face to face with the
_Oberst-leutnant_, who commands the counter-attack and whom he seizes
by the throat; just then a fifth bullet strikes him over the right eye,
breaking the frontal bone. It seems to him that his head has burst and
that his eyes have spurted out into space. He falls heavily. It is all
over!”