Dark Night, Cold Night, Horrible Night in Villers-devant-Dun

The time is around six in the evening and it has been dark for a while. All my buddies are very tired from our difficult march over a battlefield littered with dead bodies—where both sides are still fighting with horrible determination.

We arrived in Villers as darkness set in under a constant rain. We had planned to sleep in the village as ordered in the afternoon. I learned of the counterorder after supper—we were to continue moving forward until we caught up with our line of fire, which is forcing the Germans to retreat in near disarray. At this time we are all leaning against our backpacks awaiting orders. I was letting some of my friends in on the order I had seen when a soldier stood up to accuse me of lying and to insult me sarcastically. This made my blood boil and I responded a thousand times louder and angrier. He did not dare respond. My friends were surprised to see me so angry. I felt embarrassed as I calmed down, but it was too late. The rain continued to come down as the bright flashes of the exploding shells tore through the intense darkness of that cold night. The sudden bursts provided enough light to make out the black walls and stones of the demolished buildings on both sides of the street. At that point we heard, as if coming from the center of hell itself, the overbearing voice of authority saying, “ready, forward!” We moved at a slow pace, pausing often. Once we were on the outskirts of Villers and out in the countryside, the darkness seemed to intensify. We could not see anything clearly, but we could detect the shelling with our feet. The awful smell of decaying blood and the numerous humps on the edge of the road or at the entrance of the dugouts told us of the many casualties that had occurred. When I realized how many bodies may have been in the area, I thought: “Forgive my trespasses as I forgive those of my enemies.” We continued through that dark, cold, and horrible night all the while stepping on the many dead bodies, the remains of “our fellow man.”

The underground area was the only available place for sleeping, but some dead Germans also occupied the place. We moved them to one side and prepared our beds. Some of our buddies were already snoring away. In situations like these we do not have to show too much respect for the dead since they are not too far removed from us, the living. Many of us will also be cadavers this evening or tomorrow. The danger that surrounds us may explain why the dead do not have a foul smell or an ugly appearance.

I had just gone to bed when I started thinking about the many events I had witnessed the past few days, especially the one from yesterday that I should include in my diary. I immediately started to write in the candlelight.

Yesterday, we saw the body of Simón González as we entered Villers-devant-Dun, a village in total ruin. He fell on November 1. I learned about his death from a friend of his who was marching to his right during that terrible attack on the village. The Germans resisted ferociously from their positions in the old houses. The demolished houses served the Germans well as our soldiers advanced in waves and without protection. They advanced like the waves of the sea over the fields of wheat and beets. The heavens were their only protection. In their final effort to hold their positions, the Germans have used machine guns and the “curtains of fire” against the fearless “tin soldiers,” so named by the German leaders when we arrived in these lands of the old world. “The turkeys were really gobbling,” I was told by the soldier who was relating the story to me. By “turkeys” he meant machine guns. In spite of it all, the waves of men dressed in olive uniforms continued to overrun everything in their relentless advance. Some fell and the others would step over their bodies to hold the ground taken with blood and fire. Our soldiers fired a bullet at every step and hit the ground at five paces, or they would kneel to load their rifles with five new rounds. Many of them would only get on one knee and then charge! This is how our squadrons moved forward, little by little, exposing their chests to steel and shrapnel.

Simón González, the humble farmworker and now overweight soldier (he had gained weight living the methodical life of a soldier), would not obey the order to kneel when loading his rifle. He never did, neither in the first front nor this one. He went after the Germans the same way he hunted quail and rabbits with his Winchester in the Texas brush country. When they came into his sights, he would shout, “Look at them, there they go,” and he would shoot, steady and from a standing position!

Simón was a good-natured person who always sported a smile while resting between the battles. Everyone who fought alongside him can attest to this. Whenever Simón spotted me, he would call out, “Sáenz, here goes González!” I usually responded with an encouraging word or with the truth, as in, “Forward, this will soon be over.” On other occasions, I would say, “Don’t back away from those Germans!” He would respond, “That will never happen. Look, I’m here because of the Germans from ‘Moronde’ [Martindale]!” Anglo friends knew him. They would overlook his behavior and treat him fairly. The rest of the soldiers who did not understand Spanish would just listen. Simón always laughed when he saw a German fall or when he saw them run, because in this front, we have always fought them at close range. He would only curse when they killed one of his friends. Simón was like an enraged lion when he cursed the Germans. He would quiet down for a long while and then walk without saying a word.

Our offensive continued in spite of the asphyxiating gases and powerful shells raining down on Villers. The steel-tipped rifle and machine gun bullets seemed to respect Simón’s stout body. He never suffered a scratch. But the moment arrived. A mortar shell landed practically at his feet. A black pall of smoke, flashes of light, whizzing sounds of shrapnel, and half a man disappeared. Everything happened at once. An enormous shell tore off a hip and shrapnel shredded a leg and ripped his body all the way to the right side of the heart. This is how the life of that humble laborer ended. He was unknown as a civilian and will probably be forgotten after such a glorious death. How many persons from Martindale who unjustly sent him to war must now envy his heroic death!

Simón González, serial number 2244262, a private with Company G of the 360th Infantry Regiment, fell on November 1 on the outskirts of Villers-devant-Dun.

Sergeant José García of Mercedes, serial number 2228951, with Company E, also fell on the same day, close to González. This brave noncommissioned officer headed his company. While bending down to load his rifle, a steel bullet entered the front of his helmet and exited at the base of his head. A drop of blood appeared, the hero’s body stood bent over like a dove, lifeless forever.

Monday, November 4

We did nothing in the Intelligence Office the entire day. The lieutenant left yesterday and we remained without anyone to assume the command. We have nothing to do but be bored and while away the hours. We get tired of talking about all we have seen, probably because we do this at the same time we are facing danger on the same battlefields.

We keep hearing from different places on the front that the enemy is practically defeated. We should carry on and keep striking while the iron is hot. We have had an easy time meeting all the objectives given to us and until now have been suffering fewer losses than the enemy. The 360th Regiment, as well as the entire 90th Division, only stops its forward movement to maintain contact with the troops behind us.

Tuesday, November 5

The enemy’s aerial activity was intense last night. They dropped a large number of bombs everywhere, especially close to the kitchens where our big cannon are located.

I spent the day watching numerous shells fall in different and random places. This means the Germans no longer have an appetite for killing and are busy running away from our “undisciplined soldiers,” the very ones they thought would scatter at the first sound of the big cannon. They have been the ones who have been soundly routed. Obviously, their superiors fooled them into believing they were invincible and that the Americans were the worst. Surely, they must be the worst if they made the Germans run the most.

Wednesday, November 6

I was so glad to see Pablo Pérez. He was gassed at the Saint-Mihiel front the same day we left for this place. He has already been cleared to continue fighting. His arrival touched off a very natural reaction. Barrera, who loves Pérez like a brother, was so happy to see him he could not contain his tears as he ran up and hugged him. When Pérez asked, “Why are you crying? I am here, alive and well.” Barrera responded, “They had told us you had been killed.” Oh, the fellowship we nurture while engrossed in the misery of war! The unforgettable Sergeant Irwin, who fell at Saint-Mihiel, used to say, “We will become brothers if the war continues any longer.”

Pérez tells of his difficult experiences in the French hospital. We recount ours in the last offensive when so many French hats, or chapeaus, littered the battlefields. Anyone who replaces us on the battlefields we have taken by force and with blood can obviously see that we came face to face with death.

We are still receiving news that peace will arrive soon. I hope this is true.

My sister Clotilde wrote and reminded me that if we survive the present troubles, loved ones will extend to us their dearest affection, and that if we fall, they will remember our passing with deep sorrow.

We continued sleeping among the dead in La Ferme de Sainte-Marie. Our officers have ordered us to the front to once and for all end our lives or finish with the war.

Thursday, November 7

The morning was somewhat cold. After breakfast we were told that Austria and Italy had stopped fighting. This was a welcomed topic of conversation. The rumors that the Germans want peace are still circulating. They should enjoy things now before it is too late. We will have to hold Germany accountable for the friends we are losing. It would be better to make peace before we start thinking about getting even. We do not harbor resentment or ill will toward our German, Austrian, Polish, and Hungarian prisoners, but we do not guarantee anything if we continue losing brothers and friends. We do not want to play out the obvious in the saying “blood demands blood.”

Sergeant Schwarz went in search of a new command post. I stayed behind to write letters to my family.

We received the good news in the evening that Germany and the Allies will hold peace talks in seventy-two hours. We passed the time talking into the night amid dead bodies. We were happy to see that the newly arrived wounded are being cleared for fighting on the front line. Peace is upon us, nobody can deny it. On the other hand, we cannot be sure that we will have the opportunity to enjoy it. At the rate we are going, many lives can be lost in seventy-two hours.

Friday, November 8

All was quiet in the early hours of the day. I went to breakfast and was ordered to move to the new post. We have to march back a good distance on the same route we took to get here. The sappers left very early, eager to do their work. We will once again pass by Villers-devant-Dun. Once we arrived at the village, we had a lunch consisting of beans and hard bread, the memorable “hardtack,” and then continued on our march. We reached the devastated village of Andevanne as it was getting dark; we found shelter in a large two-story house that was falling apart. We spread out some hay for a nest in a corner and rested so well. The march had been difficult and our break was satisfying.

The different furniture pieces suggest that the house belonged to schoolteachers. It contains a large collection of books that are in bad shape because the rain comes down through the large skylight-like opening the shelling caused. Our nest is in a corner of the top floor. The house has no roof or wall facing the garden. Some of the soldiers dry their clothes by the fire so they can sleep more comfortably. Poor fellows, I have seen them do this often. I am moved and saddened to see the difficult, demanding, and unappreciated lives of soldiers who come to this place to forge a nation.

Saturday, November 9

We did not sleep well last night on account of the heavy rain in the morning. We had to set up tents inside our shelter to avoid the rain, but we managed to get a bit of rest because we turned in early.

We stayed inside today and I read from the many books that were scattered all over the place. I also read some French newspapers that spoke of sweet but doubtful possibilities.

We were told we are to leave tomorrow at ten in the morning. This convinced us to turn in earlier than usual. Since we are well rested, we can expect a difficult day tomorrow. We are going to the line of fire once again. The troops are nervous because the enemy will now be able to concentrate their gun sights on the fewer of us who remain. We are comforted by the thought that many of them are “already cold and decomposing.” Neither they nor the retreating Germans will fire at us. It is six in the evening and we are already in bed. I am writing in my diary by a paraffin candle, my eternal companion in this calamity. “I have two items that I will never give up,” I tell my friends sarcastically, “my candles and my ‘cornwilly’ rations, even if I have to rid myself of my rifle and hand grenades.”

Since I am not sleepy or tired and have nothing to do this dark evening, I cannot help but recall some of my most important experiences in this great slaughter. For instance, I have been armed to the teeth ever since the fighting started. I carry between one and two hundred rounds of ammunition, twelve hand grenades, a beautiful rifle, and a brand-new bayonet. However, I have not fired a single shot, even though I have had plenty of opportunities. My buddies in the Intelligence Office can make this same claim. We have been ordered not to fire a single round or else face severe punishment and even execution. On the other hand, once the scouts submit their daily reports from “no man’s land,” I take my turn with the old and dilapidated Underwood typewriter to pass along intelligence to the artillery. This is how I play my part in the great slaughter without firing a shot. Some kill the steer, while others hold her down. I am an indispensable tool and contribute to the killing at a mass scale. We have seen enemy carts arrive at their front to deliver what appears to be hay and other animal feed and have passed along this information to the artillery. When our artillery fired on them, a number of soldiers jumped and started running. Many of them died. This is how we have crushed the enemy, when they have tried to supply their soldiers with food and ammunition. We have also seen flashes at night and have forwarded information on the size of the shells and the location of the cannon that have fired them. Our artillery has followed by destroying enemy cannon and the soldiers manning them. I maintain constant communications—the French would say that I serve as a liaison—with airplanes, messengers, and carrier pigeons. I also translate the French wireless messages from Paris or Washington. Although I have received little or no credit for all this work, it is important to me because I stay informed of everything under the sun like no other private in the army. I am up to date on our regiment’s war plans, and the experiences of my Mexican friends (they appear in “My Personal Diary”) and, probably best of all I have the time to write this memoir for my family.

Sunday, November 10

After last night’s heavy rain, a strong gust of wind blew the clouds away and left us with bad weather, cold enough to form a thick cover of frost that covered the entire area and burned our feet. Our orders changed, probably because of the cold weather. We left at 3:30 instead of 1:30 and returned to Villers-devant-Dun. From there we turned toward Doulcon and reached the historic Meuse River during the first hours of the morning. The Germans knew the importance of that crossing and shelled it continuously. They had blown up the bridge as they retreated, but our engineers repaired it so the infantry and small pieces of artillery could cross. Everything was destroyed, the bridge, the forest, and the town of Dun. The French and American officers had decided the bridge could not be crossed during the attack and ordered the soldiers to ford the river. Our soldiers entered the crystalline, cold water and swam in pursuit of the Germans. Imagine the sight of thousands of men jumping into the cold water at all hours of the day and night to achieve the victory that will bring an enduring peace.

A beautiful hill watches over the city of Dun-sur-Meuse, on the right side of the river. We can tell that Dun had been a lovely city of some importance, but the war has left it in an almost hopeless state. We crossed the bridge and passed Dun on our way to Milly-devant-Dun. The smell of burned gunpowder was still fresh in Milly. Numerous dead Germans were all over its streets, where they had offered resistance a few hours ago.

Before reaching Lion-devant-Dun, we came across a dead horse in the middle of the road. It was a strange sight that often occurs during terrible moments. A German soldier had made a last-ditch effort to save his life as he retreated with the “tin soldiers” at his heels. Life is so sweet it deserves all a genius can do to prolong it! The soldier disemboweled the horse with his knife, took out its intestines, and tried to hide from us. Our soldiers saw him climb into the horse, but did not understand what he was doing and opened fire with their automatic rifles. The German died as he was trying to save himself. He was not carrying a rifle or any other kind of weapon. He only wanted to save his life. The Americans did not know this. They just thought he was preparing to defend himself. War is war!—this is how soldiers from both sides justify these acts. Onward!

We also found numerous dead Germans in Lion-devant-Dun. The battle lasted all night until our troops stormed the place. We passed by a very beautiful hillside of semicircular shape and regular height. The town of Saint-Germain is at the foot of the hill, which also bears its name. The beautiful Catholic Church can be seen from afar.

We arrived close to noon and took cover in the Foret de Woevre. The name of this forest should evoke profound respect for all the patriotic Americans who shed so much blood for the cause of peace. An intense battle was being fought at an exit from the forest and the entrance to Mouzay. We could hear the shells from both sides as we waited for orders to march. We could also see the explosions in the small villages of the Meuse Valley.

During a scouting expedition in the middle of the rain, I visited the forest and several bunkers the Germans used as shelter from the rain and cold. I observed many places where heavy caliber cannon had been emplaced. They were probably the same ones that shelled us all night long. Both sides had fought a bitter battle for two days. We fought until this morning to dislodge them, at a cost of many lives.

We moved forward at two. The Germans had been shelling us heavily by the time we reached Château de Charmois, a beautiful castle that had been occupied by German officers. I cannot understand why their guns did not strike our troops. We were marching in a close four-man formation over the different roads leading to Mouzay, and the roads did not offer any protection. They could see that our serpentine movements were heading toward a definite point. We stopped briefly at the castle’s garden. The heavy shelling resumed as we were entering Mouzay at four in the afternoon. Our soldiers had barely removed the Germans from the town’s small buildings. The blood and the dead bodies were still fresh, and the considerable amount of gas in the air was making us sick.

The approximately four hundred French men and women who were native to Mouzay had decided they no longer wanted to live under German tyranny and decided to put their lives on the line. The Germans informed them of our attack and gave them time to leave. They refused and instead decided to expose themselves to our shelling and then the Germans’, with the hope of freeing themselves forever. The locals had been under German rule since the taking of Mouzay at the start of the war. We liberated those poor people who had endured humiliation, shame, and the Teutonic yoke for four years. They were suffering misery, hunger, and hardship at the same time that they were expressing great faith, selflessness, and French patriotism. Their tears say much about their difficulties under the tyranny and arrogance of the conqueror. Take a good look at this my fellow countrymen!

We are not able to describe their suffering or the dangers they faced. They said that when the German soldiers heard we were about to attack, they grew sad and called out, “Alles kaputt, Alles kaputt.” They added that when our shelling began, all they could do was to commend themselves to God and seek shelter in the basement of their homes. They said the rest was a nightmare. We can imagine the prayers they offered for our victory. Our people in the United States have never seen anything like this and we pray to God they never find themselves under these circumstances. They cannot appreciate the determination of these selfless citizens.

The shelling of Mouzay from both sides left many dead. It became more intense when we entered the village. The sky had cleared and the sun made an effort to shed its light on those Dantean scenes. Gas shells played an important part in the attack.

Some of the mess halls were set up in a house across from the plaza’s public fountain. Our kitchens had fallen far behind and lost their way. I had a hard time getting something to eat because the officers knew we did not belong to their units and told us to find our own kitchen. Nothing is impossible for the soldier. We even play tricks on death itself, but we cannot be blamed if they do not always work. I managed to eat well. Just when I had finished eating, a bomb exploded near the plaza. The Germans sent it to serve as our after-dinner topic of conversation. The pall of black smoke had scarcely come out of the roof of a nearby house when I noticed the odor of gas. I immediately felt something in my stomach and started to vomit. My eyes watered a great deal and I felt an unbearable burning sensation. Luckily, I was close to the water fountain where I rinsed my eyes with plenty of water and drank until I had cleaned myself well. I lost the meal but later felt great relief. The incident left me with an intense headache.

Gassed and all, I went to inspect the disaster as I had seen many soldiers at the house that had been hit. The bomb killed a French woman and one of our soldiers. The woman had been sharing her sad story of four years under German despotism and her happiness in regaining her freedom. Poor woman, she did not enjoy her new life for very long.

I could not stand the headache and decided to lie down. This brought me such relief I felt like resuming my walk through the town with the idea of discovering something new. I went to the city hall where our command post was now located. Our brigade general was there and had given orders to everyone who could carry a rifle to move to the battle line and be ready for action at sunup. Many men were missing during roll call. Some had died, while others were wounded or lost, and still others had no rifles, but no one could disregard the orders. “Everyone should get ready. If you do not have a rifle, get one from the dead.” Forward! Orders are orders! One of the officers tried to point out that the soldiers had not eaten or slept for several days. This did not work either. Once again, we were told the attack would resume the following day at six. Someone also announced that the soldiers with mortars and small cannon had left their rifles behind when they crossed the river. They were also ordered to secure rifles from the field and to form a battle line. Provisioning oneself on the battlefield is fairly easy because so much equipment is available and no one objects. At that point, we started to strengthen the line, which already included our machine gun and automatic rifle battalions. We were told to take the forest that leads into Charmois. This was not a forest, but a field with shrubs, plants, and grasses. The Germans had dug some foxholes to protect themselves from our machine guns and rifles while we were resting on our backpacks. Our battle line is weak, but we are comforted to know the artillery of the 90th Division has just arrived. I greeted many of my friends who have never been in battle and are here for their baptism by fire. The soldiers seem mentally prepared. All their equipment looked new; this inspired confidence since they were arriving at the most opportune time. Obviously, both sides will be able to claim an abundance of helmets tomorrow morning. In order to complete the line of attack, the division had to make use of “straw” troops. This is what we call the men who have only done office work. We need fighters and our reinforcements are still far away. To get an idea of our losses we only have to say that a unit of four thousand infantrymen now numbers 396.

I wanted to take in everything on that solemn afternoon and evening. My confidence grew when I saw all those cannon directing their mouths of steel toward the enemy. Hundreds of the famous 75-millimeter cannon were hidden in the vineyards, and the men who were manning them were lying prone next to them. They spoke to each other in low tones. Everything was ready. Huge ammunition caches were everywhere and prepared to supply the many cannon, as well as the rifles and machine guns. They were waiting for the late evening hours when the horrific shelling was to initiate the offensive. Our preparations lift our spirits, but thinking about the consequences makes us sad. Once it grew dark, I sought shelter with the other scouts in a house on the outskirts of town. We prepared a crude bed on top of a bale of hay used to feed the cattle in the stable. No one cared to ask about the news of the day any more. We were just waiting in anticipation of the Zero hour during the crack of dawn on the eleventh of November. The waiting was going to be a time of profound and sad reflection.