Heroic "Poilus"
Who can describe the condition of affairs in the shattered fort of
Douaumont on that night when the gallant Bretons of the 20th Corps
hurled themselves against the captors of the position? The whole of
the fighting round the salient of Verdun since that eventful 21st
February--now seemingly so long ago, for so much had happened, yet in
reality less than a week--had been marked by the incessant thunder of
guns, the continuous detonations of exploding shells, the intermittent
rattle of machine-guns, and by the crescendoes of rifle-fire mingled
with the shouts and shrieks of men, the cheers of triumphant attackers,
and the grim, hoarse commands of officers leading their sections.
There had been many a silent, yet grimly ferocious struggle with the
bayonet; when men stood outside their trenches or struggled with the
enemy in what remained of their battered positions. Such scenes we
know had taken place inside the fort of Douaumont, for had not Jules
and Henri participated in such an adventure on the stairway? And now
they were being repeated--those scenes--in many an odd part of that
fortress.
Bursting in by a gateway to the west, the Bretons forced their way
forward; while the Brandenburgers, beating a hasty retreat, threw up
barricades and fought for them. Thus, as Henri and his chum crept
along that gallery, comparatively silent for the moment, for the fight
had drifted forward, and the Brandenburgers were holding a position
farther to the east of the fortress, they came within sound of the
combatants, and heard the shouts of men and the crack of rifles. Yet
never a sight did they catch of Max, the German, though here and there
torches threw a fitful gleam about the masonry.
"Then on!" said Henri, now rising to his feet and staggering forward.
"Where's the beggar gone to? And what's he up to?"
"Can't say. Perhaps he's merely trying to escape; or more likely he's
trying to join his own people, for you can tell quite easily that they
are still holding a portion of the fort."
Yet to follow in the tracks of the German was an impossibility; for,
let us explain, the interior of a fortress such as Douaumont is not so
planned as to make progress easy and direct at the best of times. Such
a place is designedly erected in sections, so that, should one portion
suffer capture, the others may be held intact; while often enough such
works are constructed so that one portion of the fortress commands by
its fire the works immediately surrounding and attached to it. That
gallery, then, did not run in a straight line for long: it curved
abruptly to the left just as it had done before at the point where the
German contrived to evade our heroes. It dropped down a flight of
steps, and opened into a wide hallway much like that other in which
Jules and Henri had already seen some adventure; and from this hall
galleries led off, some reached by means of stairways, and others once
barred by doors, now for the most part lying blackened and shattered on
the flags which floored the galleries.
"Which way? Which one? How can a chap choose?" cried Henri peevishly,
running the fingers of one hand through his matted hair, and looking
from one to the other of the openings.
"A conundrum," smiled Jules, though he looked grim enough as Henri
stared at him. "And those German shells have not made the question any
the easier, have they? Who knows? The beggar may have disappeared
down this hole, and one almost hopes so."
Gripping a torch suspended in a crevice between two fallen blocks of
stone, he stepped towards a huge, jagged hole near the end of the hall,
and held the flaming torch over it. Beneath there was a pit, with
crumbling earth sides, and at the bottom a mass of shattered stonework
and debris. Then, holding the torch overhead, he pointed upwards, and,
glancing there, Henri saw a corresponding hole with jagged edges,
through which the ponderous shells had entered. There, indeed,
displayed at their feet, and just above them, was as fine an example as
could well be discovered of the work of modern shells--of shells of
huge calibre--projected by guns of such weight that weeks are required
to move them, and filled with such a mass of high explosives that
little can resist them. Indeed, let one of the huge projectiles sent
by those German or Austrian howitzers hit fairly upon some building,
and, be it a church--their favourite objective--a peasant's cottage, a
convent, or even a mass of concrete and steel--such as, for instance, a
modern fortress, such as, indeed, this fortress of Douaumont--and the
result was likely to be little different. Destruction followed in the
wake of those ponderous shells, and wreckage resulted. Here, then,
before Henri and Jules, was displayed direct evidence of the wisdom
which had caused General Joffre to dismantle every fort round the city
of Verdun, and to convert the salient into an ordinary defensive
position. A fortress might, and indeed would, be smashed by German
artillery; but trenches were more movable, more replaceable, objects,
and the picks and spades of _poilus_ could easily repair damage.
"Nice little hole--eh?" smiled Jules. "But I don't see any sign of
that German."
"Nor I. Let's get on. I've an uneasy feeling in my mind that he's up
to some particularly vile sort of mischief. Let's push on," said Henri.
"And which way?"
"Which way? Any way! Straight ahead! The noise of rifles is getting
closer, so that any way is likely to lead to the spot we're seeking."
"Then you think he has gone towards the fighting?" asked Jules.
"Yes!" came abruptly from Henri. "He's sneaking up behind our fellows,
I feel sure. From what I've seen of this Max, this German, I feel
positive that he'll think of escape last of all. To do him bare
credit, he'll consider his own safety only when he's done his worst to
our people. Let's push on! We've got to get to the beggar."
Glancing about them doubtfully for a second or two, they finally chose
a central opening, only to be forced to turn back when they had
progressed a dozen yards, for a fall of masonry blocked egress.
Returning, therefore, to the hall, they skirted the edge of that giant
pit the shell had burrowed through the flooring, and entered another
gallery, where, attracted by loud shouts ahead and by heavy firing,
they pushed on as fast as they were able.
Meanwhile; outside, the combat had for the moment subsided, for the
dash of the 20th Corps of those gallant Bretons had taken them right up
to the trenches hitherto held by that thin band of noble _poilus_ who
had sustained and held off the first German onslaught. The Bretons,
indeed, were now repairing, in furious haste, and consolidating the
trenches running along the edge of the plateau of Douaumont right up to
the eastern corner of the fort, almost, in fact, surrounding the
fortress and cutting it off from the Germans.
Yet a portion of the works projected beyond them to the east, and there
an underground passage gave shelter to the Brandenburgers, and, indeed,
allowed the enemy to reinforce their troops still holding a portion of
the interior. Elsewhere there was little fighting; for on the Cote du
Poivre and the Cote de Talou no German attack was possible, French guns
on Mort Homme and Hill 304 still commanding every avenue of approach,
and already having given the Germans practical, if dreadful, evidence
of their deadly work. But along the whole line shells still plunged
about the positions held by our allies, and, as the snowflakes whirled
and the wind swept first from this quarter and then from another, the
distant thud of cannon came in one low, continuous, muttering roar,
which never stopped, and which for seven days now had gone on
practically without intermission.
Pushing along that gallery, stumbling over blocks of fallen stone, and
every once and again coming upon the bodies of fallen Brandenburgers,
Henri and Jules at length reached a part where the gallery broadened
out, and where the sound of combat was louder. In the distance they
could see moving figures and the flash of rifles, while every few
seconds there was a dull thud or a curious scuttling noise on the walls
of the gallery as bullets flew by them. Then, as they drew nearer, the
faint light shed by another torch showed them a number of Bretons
sheltering behind an opening which led on eastward, while others lay
full length on the floor, their packs in front of them to protect them.
A glance into the room on the left--a store-room, no doubt, in which
shells had been piled in other days--disclosed a number of wounded
Frenchmen in the care of members of their ambulance corps, while,
almost opposite, was another room packed with Bretons waiting to
reinforce their friends when called for. Yet there was no sign of the
German.
"Strange!" thought Henri. "Then where can he have gone? Surely he has
not slipped from the fort elsewhere?"
"Hist! I thought I saw some fellow moving along there at the top of
that flight of stairs," Jules said suddenly, pointing to the right just
behind the room occupied by the Bretons in reserve, where stone steps
led upward to another corridor, which itself gave entrance to another
row of gun-chambers.
Darting to the foot of the stairway, Henri and Jules began to climb it
cautiously and as noiselessly as possible; not that they had much to
fear from noise, for, what with the shouts of the combatants and the
sharp crack of rifles, rendered all the louder by the containing walls
and masonry, there was little chance of their footsteps being heard.
Then, too, there were the voices of those French reserves, those
gallant and gay-hearted little Bretons of the 20th Corps, assembled in
that room to their right, waiting till their comrades had cleared the
way before them, or until a shrill whistle should call them to dash to
the attack. The last peep which Henri had obtained of them had shown
those very cheerful and collected individuals seated on the floor
smoking heavily, chatting and laughing uproariously, as if, indeed,
they were gathered miles away from the conflict, and as if fighting,
and bullets, and sudden death were things of no consequence whatever.
"Hist!" Jules gripped his friend's arm again and pointed.
It was not so light in this higher gallery, and for a while it was
almost impossible to make out their surroundings. But Jules had seen
something, and presently Henri, too, caught a fleeting vision of a
man's figure--a figure which stooped, and which crept along the farther
wall, perhaps some fifty feet from them. More than that, there came a
glimpse of the face of this individual on which a few scattered beams
of the torches, smoking and flaring down below, happened to fall.
"Max! That German scoundrel!" he whispered to Jules. "What's he up
to? Certainly not trying to make his escape. Let's close in on him."
They crept to the top of the stairs and along the gallery, their pulses
fluttering not a little. For intuitively they realized that they had a
struggle before them. And yet, judge of their disappointment, now that
they had reached this higher gallery, for to all appearance it was
empty. It was so dark up there that a man might have stood within ten
paces of them and not have been discovered, while any sound he made
would have been drowned quite easily. However, Henri pressed on
cautiously, bent almost double, one hand against the wall to guide him,
while Jules came immediately behind him, peering over his chum's
shoulder. Then, when they had covered perhaps twenty feet or more,
both suddenly stopped again--Henri so abruptly that Jules bumped into
him.
"There!" Jules heard him say in a hoarse whisper, "There! See him!
Watch him! What's he doing?"
Farther on, round an abrupt corner in the gallery, where it skirted the
large room down below filled with Breton soldiers, there was a strange
illumination, the source of light being uncertain. A moment or two
later both those young Frenchmen following the tracks of that sinister
German realized that a shaft led up from the room down below, and
either the room itself borrowed its light from the gallery which in
turn borrowed it from the embrasures and gun-emplacements on the
farther side, or the shaft was merely for ventilation purposes. In any
case, it was a wide affair, perhaps five feet square, and could the two
of them have peered down it they would have discovered that it sloped
steeply, and that, looking through it, they could see the happy fellows
down below still smoking heavily, still chatting and joking, waiting
patiently for the moment when their services would be called for.
And opposite that opening, peering through it, the upper part of his
frame illuminated by the torches flaring down below him, was Max--Max,
that sinister, dried-up, snappy German officer, who had already on more
than one occasion given Henri and Jules some indication of his brutal
nature. The man was gripping a heavy bag--a bag which undoubtedly
required some effort to lift and handle--and, as he stood with his eyes
glued upon the men down below, was slowly extricating some object from
the bundle he carried.
"What on earth is it? What's he up to?" Jules asked breathlessly.
"He's taking something out of the bag, and is fumbling. Look! He's
put the bag down now, and has lifted the something so as to take a good
look at it. It--it's----"
"A bomb--a hand-grenade of sorts. The beggar's got a whole bag of 'em!
He's----"
They watched, rooted to the spot, as the German lifted that object in
one hand till the light from the room below fell upon it. And then,
fumbling at its base, presently extracted something. Then they saw him
stoop over the heavy bag placed on the floor, lift the flap, and
commence to insert the object. It was just then that Henri realized
the villainy intended by this ruffian. Perhaps you will say that "all
is fair in love and war", and that Henri himself had but a little while
before given the Germans an exhibition of bomb-throwing. But that was
in order to save his friend about to be executed, about to be murdered,
indeed, by this selfsame ruffian. Now, taking a leaf from his book as
it were, this Max was preparing a load of bombs to thrust down among
the Bretons.
One grenade alone might be expected, exploding amongst them, to kill
numbers, but what would happen if the whole bag of them, detonated by
the one he had just prepared, fell into the crowded room below and
exploded? It would mean death to every man there; death to many of
those outside; and might easily break down the work already done by
those gallant Frenchmen, and enable the Brandenburgers to push on again
into the fort and eject them. Even Henri and Jules might not escape
unscathed, and Max, too, might be injured. It was, indeed, a moment
for action, for swift decisive action, and, though Henri had felt
rooted to the spot a moment before, any hesitation there might have
been was gone in an instant. His whirling brain cleared, as it were,
as need for swift movement came, and, at once bounding forward, he
gripped the German by the nape of his neck and seized the hand which
was lifting the bag upwards.
And then commenced a struggle in that gallery, for, to do him credit,
as we have already done indeed, this German was a tenacious fighter.
Making frantic efforts to throw off Jules and Henri, and to toss the
bag into the room below, he staggered about the gallery with the two
Frenchmen hanging to him, and then, of a sudden breaking loose, he
dashed away from them. It looked, indeed, as though he would make good
his escape; but Jules raced after him, while Henri dipped his hand in
the bag before he moved, and then went rushing down the gallery,
shouting for the German to stop and deliver himself up as a prisoner.
A sharp crack, a flash in the darkness ahead of them, and the fleeting
vision of a man pointing a revolver at them followed, and then a swift
movement of Henri's hand. Bringing it back over his shoulder he
suddenly jerked the grenade forward, and hurled it at the German, the
flash which followed lighting up the gallery from end to end, while the
blast of the explosion drove the two Frenchmen backward. As for Max,
that sinister German who seemed to have dogged their footsteps from the
very commencement, from the days, indeed, when they were helpless
prisoners in Ruhleben, the bomb made short work of him--just as short
work as it would have made of those gallant Bretons. He was dead!
Hoist, indeed, by his own petard!
"And one isn't sorry!" Henri said, as the two of them returned and
descended the stairs to join the Bretons. "I'd sooner kill a roomful
of Germans than that one Frenchman should be hurt. And here, all that
we've done is to reverse the numbers. Come along, Jules, and let's get
out of the fort and back to an ambulance! My head's splitting, and we
shall both want rest before we can take a further part in the fighting."
No need to follow them back to that ambulance, nor to tell how those
two gallant young Frenchmen, now corporals, were soon promoted to the
rank of lieutenant when they returned to their regiment, and for weeks
and weeks saw fighting along the Verdun salient. As we write they are
still there; for German attacks surge all round the trenches on the
heights of the Meuse, and, though here and there the line has been
dented, Verdun, that sleepy old town down by the river, is still
French, still beyond the grasp of the Kaiser.
The ruthless War Lord who caused this terrific contest to break out,
who has deluged Europe and Asia and Africa with blood, and who has been
instrumental in the slaughter of hosts of people, is still thwarted.
True, he has gained certain yards of land--French land--the steep,
sloping sides of that plateau of Douaumont, and the lower ground
opposite the Mort Homme and Hill 304. But at what a price! The slopes
are thick with dead Germans. Returning again and again to the attack,
hounded on by their War Lord, German soldiers still advance over fields
carpeted with their fallen comrades; and still French guns and gallant
French _poilus_ smile grimly down at them, as if to say:
"Come! Come on! Here is Verdun behind us. There is yet land to sell
between these trenches and the city. Come, then! We will sell that
land at a price as heavy, nay, heavier, than that which you have
already paid. Come! But only so far! For Verdun is ours, and shall
remain so always."
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_By Blackie & Son, Limited, Glasgow_