My regiment was stationed in a wood a little way south of Lassigny, and
for a time everything was very pleasant. The Prussians couldn't see us,
and we had to fear only an occasional shell which came our way. The
Boches had a habit of combing the whole line once every morning and
once or twice toward evening. I suppose it was just so we wouldn't get
too "cocky."
The regiment was divided into three parts. One-third stayed up in the
outpost trenches and did a little patrol work in the woods. A second
part was in the second-line trenches, repairing them and ready to move
up if an attack came, and the third part was in the rear washing up and
resting.
The men on outpost had to be pretty careful, because sometimes at
night the Boches would move up and throw a few grenades or take some
pot shots at them, but on the whole we were pretty comfortable in
the woods at Lassigny, getting used to the sound of shell fire and
occasionally experiencing what it is like to have some one shoot at
YOU, purposely--to kill you.
But this came to an end. One day the Prussians began to pay a great
deal of unsolicited attention to our sector. Their artillery hammered
at us incessantly all day and all night. We knew an attack would come
when the artillery fire ceased, and more and more men were moved into
our trenches all the time.
I was sorry for the outposts, who had little or no protection against
this kind of fire, but who had to stay out in the front to see when
the attack started. The French officers seemed to know about when the
assault was due, and one night they moved us out of the woods into a
more exposed position. Here we huddled in bombproofs about thirty feet
below the surface of the earth.
Shells were bursting all around us. We could hear the earth and stones
thrown up by the explosions come rattling down on the roof of our
shelter, and we always looked up at the raftered ceiling and wondered
if it was going to hold. To die here like rats in a trap was not what
we expected. I had never been in an attack and I dreaded it, but I
thought surely it must be better than this sitting here, waiting for
the top of the ground to fall down and crush me.
The muffled roar of the cannon fire ceased. The assault was commencing.
We sprang to the entrance of the passage which leads to the world
above. It was blocked by falling earth and rocks. With spades, with
bayonets, with bleeding fingers and tattered nails we flew at the
debris and clawed our way to the air, like sewer rats at bay and forced
to fight.
We wanted to fight. It was not all courage on our part. If the Boches
should win our trenches they would throw hand grenades in on us until
all was silent in our self-made tomb, just as we would do if we reached
their lines.
It is a rotten war!
We scrambled out just as the third wave of Prussians surged against the
barbed wire entanglements and died away. It did not break back upon
itself, like a water wave striking a breakwater. It simply melted,
because our machine guns were rat-a-tat-tatting and our artillery was
dropping a curtain of high explosives into a strip of No Man's Land
about as wide as a city street.
It was horrible. Yet as every shell burst we felt exultation, because
if those men passed the wire some of US would die. We wanted them
killed right there. We did not want them to get among us, stabbing and
shooting and clubbing.
It was my first fight. I could not help it--I was afraid. I wanted
to get on my knees and pray that the gray waves should not pass the
barrier, but my knees were too stiff. I prayed standing--prayed that
more men would be killed!
For three hours this kept up. I stood there horrified, but for the
first time in my life glad to see men die. No more waves were coming.
Night was falling. The red in the sky seemed to be reflected in the
narrow strip of ground before us, but it was not that. The guns spoke
more slowly.
Great God, it was over! They had not passed. I was glad, but I was sick.