The Death March
By Doctor Duwez, Army Surgeon to the Regiment of Grenadiers
There is very little improvement in the situation. The Germans are
holding the trenches from Het-Sas as far as Steenstraete. Their attacks
are getting more frequent. To-night, the Zouaves are to attack Lizerne.
At the present moment, all our batteries are raging. It is six
o'clock in the evening. The 75's are yelling at short intervals. Our
seven-fives, with the noise of anvils, send out their volleys into the
vibrating air, with a piercing, shrill whistle.
We saw Pypegale, with its ruined houses. English couriers, concealed
here and there, watched us pass by. To the left, the green plain
stretched out before us as far as the tall trees of Kemmelbeeck. They
were standing in groups, with their branches still bare. Farther away
were hedges and little gardens, and in the corner, where the valley
is cut into two by the road, in the midst of the green coppices, were
pear-trees covered with blossom. We could see the red roofs of the
little village of Zuydschoote, with its white church all charred.
The big German shells were falling all the time on these wooded
places. Great black convolutions rose in the air in balls, or, if the
shell burst in the houses, the pink dust of the pulverised tiles could
then be seen. We could hear the roofs cracking, the walls giving way,
and the beams falling down.
Above the road occupied by the column, the white clouds of the little
shrapnels were rising. They stood out clearly against the clear blue
sky. The wind stretched them gently out, changed their shapes, and
wafted them towards us. Farther still, the horizon was gradually veiled
in a mist composed of smoke, rubbish, and dust.
On our left was the farm, to which this road led. We passed through the
devastated barn. Balls began to whistle and crash against the walls.
The windows had no panes and the rooms were full of rubbish and rotten
straw. A Grenadier dragged himself along towards us, his face drawn and
his forehead covered with cold perspiration. His trousers were sticking
to one of his legs with blood, and, on cutting them away, a big wound
was to be seen with a dark background, formed by the muscles, and a
long, red stream which was trickling down. Next arrived a Zouave, short
and broad-backed. He came along merrily, supporting his arm which he
showed us.
"I think they've broken it this time, the pigs!" he said, with
a Marseilles accent. "They had me, anyhow." He spoke with great
eloquence, gesticulating energetically. When his arm was dressed, he
turned suddenly pale and was silent, as he leaned for support against
the wall.
We looked out to see where we should cross the fiery barrier. Every
man gave his opinion on the matter. The Zouaves over yonder were
going along, in single file, near the hedges, in the direction of
Zuydschoote. We could see their yellow jackets and the blue veiling
covering their _chéchias_. Holding their guns in their hands, they were
advancing cautiously, hiding like Indians on the war-path.
As we approached Kemmelbeeck, the bullets whistled, snapped, and whined
more than ever. We saw the footbridges, the sentinel's niche, all
covered with grass, and the big, bare trees, with their out-stretched
arms. All along the coppice, in the ditches, the Grenadiers, with dark
coats and red badges on their collars, could be seen lying down among
the Zouaves in their light costumes. To our right, the farm in ruins,
with nothing but fragments of walls, level with the ground, was hiding
its bricks in the grasses. The zone here was fired on to such a degree
that it was wiser to hasten along. We had to cross the road in order
to reach the little guard-house. This was sheltering a whole group of
soldiers, who were in the garden taking refuge near the walls and among
the green plants and tufts of jonquils. Their uniforms stood out in
vivid colours, all the more vivid as the sun was sinking in the horizon.
The little house was intact and this was a miracle. The men were
chattering like magpies. They were relating all kinds of exploits
amidst the din of the battle. Those near the walls were crouching down
close to each other. The others were lying flat down. The wounded had
taken refuge inside the house.
Two small rooms were full, and the wounded were lying down on straw.
One of these, a Grenadier, was near the wall. He was dying from a
bullet in his head. A Zouave, crouching in a corner, was pressing his
arm against his breast. He did not speak and was gazing with a fixed
stare in front of him. Others were tossing about and moaning. The floor
was strewn with bandages covered with blood, with scraps of dirty
uniforms, with knapsacks, guns, and bayonets. A hand that was stretched
out towards me had the fingers almost torn off. A young Corporal, very
plain-looking, with dark hair, his moustache cut in brush fashion, and
with twinkling eyes, was joking at his own expense, as he pointed to
his wound. "What am I going to do," he asked, "for I cannot sit down
again?" In the adjoining room, there were more wounded men, all crowded
together. The army chaplain, in one corner, was giving the absolution.
Two officers were taking their supper at a table, whilst reading their
orders. Coming out from under this table, could be seen the iron-tipped
boots of a dying man.
"Doctor, Doctor, am I going to be left here?"
Moans could be heard on all sides and everyone was talking at the
same time. It was a mixture of languages, in which slang and Flemish
predominated.
"My bandage is torn, Doctor; I am losing all my blood!"
There was a poor fellow whose leg had been nearly blown off; another
one, bent double, was leaning his head against the wall. Another man
had his head bandaged and bleeding.
"I was advancing," he said, "the first of the section, when all at once
I felt a shock."
He gesticulated with his dry hand, trying to explain what had happened.
There were many others in a similar plight. It was getting dark and
the red wounds looked black in the darkness, and the expression in the
men's eyes seemed more profound. A candle was lighted and the shadows
on the wall now grew longer and looked enormous. A wounded man, in a
corner of the room, had just ceased suffering. His eyes were wide open
staring fixedly at the room.
From the windows, the green light of the shrapnels and the red flames
of the shells lit up the darkness with sudden flashes. Tiles kept
falling and lumps of earth thudding against the roof. A strange
heaviness weighed on everyone, numbing the brain and drying the eyes.
Was it fatigue or torpor? No, it was something indescribable.
Outside, the human bunch was still there. To the right could be heard
the regular _tac-tac_ of a machine-gun.
"Ah the animals!" cried a Zouave, shaking his fist. "We shall have
them, though, just now, with the bayonet!"
Shells went whizzing over the house, exploding in the coppices with
a whooping noise. Then came the heavier, jerky whizz of the big
"Fifteens," _Ram ... ram ... ram!_ They exploded and kept coming in
threes, at regular intervals. From one minute to another the great glow
might appear, the final destruction which would send all our human
islet to its death.
Our first line trenches were over yonder. There was the Lizerne Mill.
The village was to the right. The ground looked black, the plain was
lighted by the moon, so that one could see a heap of bricks which
reminded one of the Mill. In October, we had seen it in all its glory,
with its sails in the form of a cross. Through the cloud of dust
which rose from the battle-field, lighted up by the shrapnels which
kept rending the darkness, and in the midst of the wan light, the
scene before us looked like a dream picture. We could see the spot we
wanted to reach. With our eyes fixed on it, we went along as though
hypnotised. Over there was the hill-top that had been laid waste, the
accursed spot where craters had been made in every direction.
Bullets were whizzing through the air and clods of earth kept falling
with heavy thuds. Fragments of shells kept burying themselves with a
whirring sound. Onward, onward, we must get there! As we advanced, the
outline of the spot we were aiming at grew bigger and bigger. We kept
stumbling, falling down and getting up again. Now we saw the house all
in ruins, the hill on which the mill had stood before it fell in. A
shelter had now been dug in the hill. I pushed the door open, a whiff
of hot air nearly choked me, the light dazzled me and, in the heavy
atmosphere, I could scarcely recognise any faces. There were about
twenty men there, some wounded, who were waiting, and officers who were
there at their posts. We had to go still farther on than this. We could
stay only long enough to exchange a few words, and then, shaking hands,
we said "Adieu! Good luck!" How many of us would never return!
It was now the last stage of our journey. There was a communication
trench here. We glided along, sheltering near the house, dark shadows
in the night. The trench had been blocked and was almost destroyed. We
had to climb on heaps of sand, stride over, jump and then let ourselves
fall again into the holes. It was a labyrinth of fragments of walls,
and of moving earth, above which tall, branchless trees stood up like
black skeletons. Shells kept coming regularly, every quarter of a
minute. Between every explosion we ran, hurrying forward. Our hearts
were beating fast. The bullets kept snapping. We did not think of
death. Our one idea was to arrive, to advance. It was a deadly race.
And then the odour that rose to our nostrils, at the same time as the
odour of the powder, became stronger and stronger.
At last we came to Yperlée, to the footbridge. Only a rush now and we
shall be on sheltered ground.
The tree that used to be there is split up. Its dark branches were all
intertwined as they fell, and we could see the white of its sap-wood,
with its enormous prickles. On the ground were four Zouaves. One of
them was crouching down, with his gun between his legs and his head on
his chest. The others were lying down, as though they were asleep. And
that terrible odour became persistent. Agreeable at first, something
like jasmine, it finally became sickening. It had been pursuing us for
a long time, and, at times, it was most violent. The band seemed to
be tightening round our temples. Our eyes were burning and tears were
running down our cheeks. There were little drops of moisture in the air
which settled on us.
Here was the trench, and the moon made the shadows seem enormous. The
sudden gleam from the shrapnels rent the darkness overhead. The shells
yelled as they passed heavily along. It was as though they found it
difficult to advance. Suddenly some "seventy-fives" rushed along. They
ceased and then began again wildly. The horizon was brilliant with
sudden flashes. In the distance we could hear the stifled "Boom!" of
the big cannons, the bell-like sound of the 380 which went on and
on. The cannonading became slower and we thought it was stopping,
but, after a moment's silence, one cannon began again, then another,
and then all of them together. Our Grenadiers were there, lying on
the parapets, crouching in the trenches, big, dark shadows on their
still greyer sacks. They fired. Bullets smashed into the sacks, into
the earth and the trees. Shadows could be seen gliding about, men
bending double, with their guns in their hands. On the right, a great,
red light was to be seen, gradually covering all the sky. Ypres was
burning. The ruins of Ypres were in flames. The bullets sang and
whined. Others plunged into the bluish darkness with a reverberating
noise. They went a long way and then suddenly ended in the ground. They
came from the front, from the back, from everywhere. A fuse came down
from the sky, a green star lighting up the trench with an unnatural
light, like a diabolical smile. The whizzing began again. Shrapnels
burst with their greenish light, again and again, and all the time. It
was a wonderful and terrible hour. Flanders was bleeding from all her
veins. But no matter, the Germans did not pass!