Saturday, November 2
We had a more restful sleep last night and woke up in a better mood, thank God.
This is the day Catholics honor their dead. We saw large numbers of soldiers fall in battle. My God! What has become of Christianity? We cannot calculate the losses on both sides. I cannot help but think that millions of mothers are on their knees at this moment imploring God for the dead and for us the living.
We have been preparing today’s general offensive; we expect it to be our decisive blow against the enemy. The fighting is intense all along a front more than 150 miles long. We have been taking thousands of prisoners, including very young and very old soldiers. They are all thoroughly exhausted from the demands of the war and present a pathetic picture. They look awful, although they are also happy to have survived the fighting and entertain the sweet hope of seeing their loved ones. We have heard that we will no longer exchange prisoners. This will discourage taking more prisoners and help us avoid shedding more blood.
The wireless brought us the good news that the Kaiser has abdicated his imperial crown. His crown got so “hot” he could no longer keep it on his august head. The worst of it is that he will have to find refuge in a neutral country. This will be unfortunate because it keeps us from completing our mission. Someone will be denied the great reward for the Kaiser’s head. Good pilots and captains go to the bottom with their ships, but the Kaiser has been a bad leader who has merely tried to save his skin. What hope does he have while alive? To be the recipient of the civilized world’s loathing? Will he have the same fate as the sad and famous crown prince Franz Ferdinand? What awaits the Kaiser? Suicide, if he had any shame. The blood that was shed at Verdun clamors for justice against this bloody barbarian. The same wireless message informs us that the no less barbaric Turks have also surrendered unconditionally. The messages were received and decoded on the battlefield when the fighting was at its height, when death was waving its inexorable scythe over our heads, when life had become so difficult and uncertain that very little mattered. The news should have lifted our spirits, but it had little effect on us because of what we have seen and are seeing now. It is tempting to see the news as a strategic invention with military value. My friends had been so eager to hear this news, but they no longer get excited. I translated it into French and am the first among the troops to hear about it along the entire front. I pray to God the news is confirmed for the good of all mankind.
Our 90th Division has suffered many losses while assuming the major responsibility in this sector. They calculate that we have registered a 40 percent loss of dead or wounded soldiers. The figures seem overstated but I keep seeing the battlefields littered with the unburied bodies and other soldiers who continue to fall. The brutal consolation is that the enemy has suffered more because they are seeing losses while fighting on the entire front against all the Allies. What a slaughter! How many men must have lost their lives just yesterday and today? Our line is advancing evenly. The Germans are not stopping us anywhere. This is horrible for a people who have invited the rage of God and man. The wireless also informs us the Germans are retreating so fast we cannot catch up with them. We are using planes that are continuously returning for more bombs to drop on the units of German soldiers that are scattering all around. Our pilots tell us that most of the “Boches” are not carrying their weapons and that they are running. They say the Germans are only resisting with truck-mounted artillery and that all they need are wings on their feet to make a flying retreat.
It is one in the afternoon and we have been ordered to march and join the advancing line of fire ahead. Food rations and ammunition are already being handed out. The threat of rain might bring us bad weather. A large number of soldiers are resting on their backpacks and waiting for their marching orders. I see nothing but unwavering courage in all their faces as they wait to move out in a few minutes. I should make special mention of one of my buddies. He is Feliciano Carter from El Paso, a bright soldier who has little or no education. He took out his small knife while we were resting, grabbed a piece of wood from the bottom of a box for canned tomatoes, and began to whittle the shape of an American soldier. His problems, worries, and the fear of dying were far removed as he focused on his art, his unrealized dream. Carter was carving the soldier while thousands, perhaps millions of men were only thinking of the possibility of death. What was his purpose? He wanted to carve a souvenir. It was the most perfect work of art when one considers the place, the material, the tools, and the terrible circumstances.
As soon as the officers gave out their order to “fall in,” the sudden muffled sounds of military gear cut through the silence as each soldier adjusted his backpack and picked up his rifle. Carter approached me and said, “Sáenz, I didn’t have enough wood to include the rifle that I have made for other carved soldiers, but keep it as a souvenir from your friend.” After receiving the little wooden soldier, I responded, “I will definitely keep it. The souvenir will bring back memories, most of which fade away with time.”
Carter’s work of art needs to be seen to be appreciated, but my observations in this diary must suffice. It is also necessary to have carried the unbearable load of our backpacks and to have advanced through “no man’s land” as we attacked the enemy or pursued them over well-defended trenches to understand how well the wooden soldier reflects our feelings and appearance.
The wooden soldier’s helmet is hung low over the head to shade his view so he can scan the position of the enemy who is lying in wait for the best moment to fire at him. The mask that protects him against the poisonous gases is on his chest and ready for any danger or emergency. His small water canteen, which spells survival during the supreme hours of the offensive, appears on his right side, by the hip and very close at hand. Our inner garments and other utensils for shaving, writing, etc. are in the upper part of the backpack. It includes the three rolled blankets which become our bed and a uniform wrapped in waterproof tent material that we use to shelter us from the rain while on the march. He carries the famous campaign shoes (hobnails) on top of the backpack. A small magazine of one hundred rifle cartridges and a dozen hand grenades are attached to his belt and another one hundred cartridges for his rifle on a bandolier across his chest. My soldier only needs two large cans of tomatoes, another one of devil’s meat (cornwilly), or hash, and a rifle swung across his shoulder in the position of attention with five cartridges inside its magazine and a fixed bayonet. Anyone who has carried an entire load on his back can imagine the wooden soldier at a moment of critical importance, at the well-known Verdun front. He strikes the same pose as we did when we forced the fearsome German soldiers from their hardly impregnable trenches.
The sky was gray when we marched through the field of uncovered bodies. Artillery shells were still landing everywhere. It was rare to find a foxhole without dead soldiers, our own or theirs. I have been especially struck by the fact that our dead are mostly lying on their stomachs while the Germans are on their backs. Many of the bodies are in pieces. I remember a German body in this condition as we neared Aincreville. His steel helmet only contained a head connected to the windpipe and lungs and heart. This may have been a gruesome sight under other circumstances, but that was not the case then. He was a young man with pubescent stubble and a natural appearance due to the cold and rainy weather. The rain had washed away the blood and a possible unbecoming appearance. He was very handsome, with silky and curly brown hair. The young man looked more like a wax figure than a disgusting cadaver.
Fellow soldiers care little about these scenes while I cannot help being interested and taking notes. It is impossible to remain indifferent to the many bodies scattered throughout the battlefields. Many have been there for days, others fell yesterday or the day before. Still others fell a few moments ago. They are exposed to the elements, some are whole, others in pieces. Some of these sights cannot be imagined. They are on the battlefield, in the trenches, behind tree trunks, and in foxholes. Some bodies are completely or partially buried by the exploding shells. When I see all this I cannot help but think of the ungrateful nature of man. The dead are destined to be forgotten. History has no room for them and society will forget their sacrifices. Who will care about the soldiers of my raza after the sacrifice? There they are, Simón González, José González, José García, Moisés Carrejo, and so many others. This will not happen. Whoever survives this devastation should be responsible for selecting the right time to convince our people to erect a memorial worthy of the sacrifice of brave men who fell in the greatest war in history.
We passed by some fields with sugar beets and vegetables and could not resist eating some, though we are forbidden to do this. Aincreville was in ruins. A terrific shelling slowed us down and we sought shelter behind some old walls where we found many dead. This is where we had decided to set up our command post but since the Germans are retreating, we cannot stop. We have to try to catch up with them. We resumed our advance in the dark and, to make matters worse, in cold and rainy weather.
We arrived in Villers-devant-Dun at ten. Our headquarters was in a damaged house that also housed the French command post. All of us gathered at the same place. Barrera, Gómez, and I settled down under the table, in royal comfort. No one was really sleeping, but they acted like they were so no one would order them to do something. We were overcome by the cold, humidity, and exhaustion, but could not sleep. So much was going on.
The French were in another room but they made enough noise to keep a drunk awake. I was interested in what the French were saying and listened like “aunt Cleta’s pig waiting to be discovered.”1 This is how I heard the latest news from the French. I said nothing because my buddies would have kept me from resting with all their questions. French messengers were constantly coming in from the front with news that the Germans were retreating and abandoning all the towns and other places of importance. This explained the noise with which the French were welcoming the news. I would have liked to have a map to know the exact location of our offensive, but since I did not have one and did not expect to get one, I continued to tolerate the miserable weather, the sleeplessness, and the good news. Continuous messages announced that the Allies were taking new military positions and advancing.