Before leaving one another we made each other the same promise as we
had made before the Champagne battle (September 25, 1915), that if
one of us fell so severely wounded that there was no hope of escape
the other would finish him off with a bullet in the heart rather than
let him await death in lingering torture. He showed me his revolver,
saying, "I have more luck than you. If I can still use one arm I shall
have no need of any one," and then we rejoined our different sections.
About 4 o'clock the order came to get ready for the attack. None could
help thinking of what the next few hours would bring. One minute's
anguish and then, once in the ranks, faces become calm and serene, a
kind of gravity falling upon them, while on each could be read the
determination and expectation of victory.
Two battalions were to attack Belloy-en-Santerre, our company being
the reserve of battalion. The companies forming the first wave were
deployed on the plain. Bayonets glittered in the air above the corn,
already quite tall. Scarcely had the movement begun when the enemy
perceived them and started a barrier fire (artillery fire to bar any
advance), the quick firers started their rapid, regular crackerlike
rat-tat. Bullets whizzed and shells exploded almost as they left the
gun, making a din infernal. And the wave went forward, always forward,
leaving behind the wounded and the dead.
The losses were heavy and the enemy made a desperate resistance. The
company of reserve was ordered to advance with the second wave of
assault. "Forward!" cried the Captain, and the company deployed "in
files of squadron," advancing slowly but surely under the enemy's
intense and murderous fire.
The first section (Alan's section) formed the right and vanguard of
the company, and mine formed the left wing. After the first bound
forward, we lay flat on the ground, and I saw the first section
advancing beyond us and making toward the extreme right of the village
of Belloy-en-Santerre. I caught sight of Seeger and called to him,
making a sign with my hand.
He answered with a smile. How pale he was! His tall silhouette stood
out on the green of the cornfield. He was the tallest man in his
section. His head erect and pride in his eyes, I saw him running
forward, with bayonet fixed. Soon he disappeared and that was the last
time I saw my friend.
"Forward!" And we made a second bound, right to the wave of assault,
which we left behind a little, and down we threw ourselves again.
The fusillade became more and more intense, reaching a paroxysm. The
mitrailleuses mow men down and the cannons thunder in desperation.
Bodies are crushed and torn to fragments by the shells, and the wounded
groan as they await death, for all hope of escaping alive from such a
hell has fled.
The air is saturated with the smell of powder and blood, everywhere
the din is deafening; men are torn with impatience at having to remain
without moving under such a fire. We struggle even for breath and
cries resound from every side. Suddenly a word of command, an order of
deliverance, passes from mouth to mouth. "Forward! With bayonets!"--the
command that Seeger had awaited so long.