_Told by a French Soldier_
Despite the horror of it, despite the ceaseless flow of blood, one
wants to see. One's soul wants to feed on the sight of the brute Boches
falling. I stopped on the ground for hours, and when I closed my eyes I
saw the whole picture again. The guns are firing at 200 and 300 yards,
and shrapnel is exploding with a crash, scything them down. Our men
hold their ground; our machine guns keep to their work, and yet they
advance.
Near me, as I lie in the mud, there is a giant wrapped in one of our
uniforms with a steel helmet on his head. He seems to be dead, he is
so absolutely still. At a given moment the Boches are quite close to
us. Despite the noise of the guns one can hear their oaths and their
shouts as they strike. Then the giant next to me jumps up, and with a
voice like a stentor shouts "Hier da! Hier da!" Mechanically some of
us get up. (My wound, which had been dressed, left me free and I had
forgotten.) I was unarmed and so I struck him with my steel helmet and
he dropped, with his head broken. An officer who was passing sees the
incident and takes off the man's coat. Below is a German uniform. Where
had the spy come from and how had he got there?
But the Boches are returning again massed to the assault, and they are
being killed in bulk. It makes one think that in declaring the war the
Kaiser had sworn the destruction of his race, and he would have shown
good taste in doing so. Their gunfire is slackening now, and ours
redoubles. The fort has gone, and if under its ruins there are left
a few guns and gunners the bulk of the guns are firing from outside.
The machine guns are coming up and getting in position, and our men
are moving on in numerous waves. I find a rifle belonging to a comrade
who has fallen and join the Chasseurs with the fifty cartridges that
I have left. What a fight it is, and what troops! From time to time a
man falls, rises, shoots, runs, shoots again, keeps on firing, fights
with his bayonet, and then, worn out, falls, to be tramped on without
raising a cry. The storm of fire continues. Everything is on fire--the
wood near by, the village of Douaumont, Verdun, the front of Bezonvaux,
and the back of Thiaumont. There is fire everywhere. The acrid smell of
carbonic acid and blood catches at our throats, but the battle goes on.
They are brave, but one of our men is worth two of theirs, especially
in hand-to-hand fighting. They bend and fall back, and the sound of the
song they sing to order, "Heil dir im Siegerkranz," only reaches us in
hiccoughs. Our reinforcements continue to arrive. We are the masters.
Our officers, with wonderful coolness, control the ardor of the troops.
The infantry action is over. By its tirs de barrage the artillery is
holding that of the enemy, and we keep awaiting the fresh order for
action in silence.