‘EIGHTEEN DEGREES,’ shouts Baboin.
‘Twenty-five paces,’ I reply.
We note down the figures on a sheet of paper, then walk round a traverse. I count my strides until the next elbow in the trench, and push my stick into the ground. It has a red thread tied to it. Baboin looks through the viewfinder cut out of cardboard attached to his compass and tells me the degrees of deviation from true north; I tell him the distance. We are making a map of the sector. This entirely safe activity fills the afternoon, when we’re free, and we intend to make it last as long as possible.
Baboin, a highway engineer in civilian life, is the batman for the lieutenant commanding our company. He’s a small man with a beard and short legs, quiet and meticulous, who accepted this servant role to avoid the disadvantages of the front line. He’s attached to the lieutenant’s command post, where he more or less has the role of housekeeper: sweeping, emptying dirty water, warming up the meals, doing the dishes, washing underwear and cleaning clothes. He rarely leaves the shelter of the command post unless he’s forced to. His only pride is his small, careful handwriting, which is a perfect copy of the models of calligraphy. His script reveals a natural submissiveness and a lack of imagination which goes with his character: he follows orders with the respect of a petty bureaucrat. He explained his position to me, which is a wise one, though I don’t think I would be capable of such wisdom if it made me perform a role like his: ‘Here it’s a matter of not trying to be clever and getting home alive.’ I have pretty much the same plan, but I know that in my case it can suddenly be compromised by an outburst of temper, that some instruction that I find offensive will make me quickly lose patience, even if it endangers my life. But I don’t blame Baboin for the path he has chosen. He doesn’t seem to find it degrading, or if he does he hides it carefully. I am grateful for his friendship, which is that of an equal, and which shows itself through gifts in kind, coffee and tobacco, of which he gets a copious supply from the kitchens. He holds me in esteem because I ask him for professional advice.
When I got back to the front I was lucky enough to find a job which I owe to my social status, something that had already gained me the attention of the nurses in the hospital. I also owe it to the skeletal state of the company to which I was attached. We are reinforcements, sent to fill the holes in a regiment that has returned from Verdun, where it suffered great losses. To restore the regiment’s structure, they drew on the new arrivals, relying on the information contained in the regimental roll. The lieutenant summoned me to check that I matched my profession, and made me a runner.
Being is a runner is far better than being an ordinary squad soldier, which is ‘the lowest of trades’. Every man’s ambition is to get out of the squad. There are only two ways: get some stripes or get a job. In the middle of 1916 it’s too late to try to move up through the ranks and the only chance of rapid promotion is in the attack units, where NCOs and officers are quickly decimated. But in units like these, being an NCO or junior officer does nothing to reduce the risks and offers few advantages. And anyway we’re all civilians, only temporary soldiers, and whatever rank we may reach, our intention is to go home when the war is over – soon, we hope. The ambition that might have driven a sergeant in 1800 is denied us: field-marshals don’t come from the ranks any more. This war brings no distinction, no advancement to those who risk their lives, it doesn’t pay. For all these reasons, jobs are more sought-after than stripes. A cook is considered better off than the leader of a battalion in a great many cases and a company commandant can envy a colonel’s secretary. A man who leaves for divisional headquarters is considered saved, without any doubt. He may still get killed, but it would be accidentally, by fate, like civilians can get run over or die in an earthquake. The problem for soldiers was how to get away from the front line, from the parapets and loopholes, how to avoid lookout duty, grenades, bullets, shells, to find a way back through the lines to the rear. You do this, and get a degree of safety, by becoming a telephonist, a signaller, a carrier pigeon handler, cyclist, observer, secretary, cook, interpreter, stretcher-bearer, sapper, etc. Those who got such jobs, ‘cushy numbers’, were called dug-ins[25] by the men of the forward pickets beyond the front lines. As soon as you leave the front line, you belong to the dug-ins, a category with many branches extending right up to the Ministry of War and General Army HQ. Once you’ve been ‘dug in’ your greatest dread is to be sent back to the squad.
So I am, to an extent, a dug-in. And therefore, unless something unexpected happens, my days as a bomber are over. I thank my lucky stars, because my unfortunate initiation the previous year has put me off fighting with hand grenades for good.
There are four runners (one per platoon), always at the beck and call of the company commandant, either to accompany him or to take his orders to the front line and bring back information. I am also secretary and topographer, when needed. These extra duties got me dispensation from fatigues.
Every evening at about six o’clock I go to battalion HQ to make a copy of the day’s report for the company logbook. It’s a twenty-minute walk through a deserted zone.
I return later along a pleasant path known as the Reaper Trench. There’s nothing grim about this reaper – the name comes from an old piece of farm machinery half-buried in the ground. The trench isn’t deep and on one side you have a view across a broad meadow covered in wild flowers; in this month of June you can breathe in the sweet scent of the countryside. Mountain breezes make the grass ripple and wave like corn before harvest in peacetime. On the horizon the sun goes down over the dark pine forests like a hot-air balloon in flames on a holiday evening. On the other side of the trench the war is slumbering, but the sleeper can awake at any moment and treacherously dispatch the bucolic calm of the sunset, like a sentry caught unawares, crowning our positions with fire. This constant menace adds to the solemnity of the dusk.
We are occupying a rest sector in the Vosges where there was a lot of fighting a few months ago for possession of a few ridges that we now hold. This battle has lent a tragic aspect to the landscape, with piles of broken, twisted equipment and collapsed shelters, mysterious and silent like ancient burial grounds, dark and damp as catacombs. But still the men have got a bit of peace, and vegetation has reconquered the land, covering it with creepers and shoots and pistils and colours, spreading its blanket of perfumes that have driven out the smell of corpses, bringing its train of insects, butterflies, birds and lizards to dart and dance across this now benevolent battlefield.
Along the trenches overhanging plants brush our faces, and on the right of the sector, well back from the lines, I’ve found a place where no one goes, a place so green it dazzles you. The wind murmurs in the leaves of tall trees, still standing, and a pure stream cascades merrily over the rocks, before disappearing into the brush. It is there I live out the hours I steal from the war.
Down in the valley a road runs between the German trenches and ours, a distance of three hundred metres, a pretty, country road, bordered with spindly plane trees and covered with the fallen leaves from last autumn, a road forbidden on pain of death.
This empty highway has great charm and though men cannot venture on to it, their thoughts can wander there. As the mist of morning clears, the ploughmen in their look-out posts must be waiting for the crack of whips and clanking of harnesses as the horses are led to the fields. In the evening it can become a forsaken avenue leading to some mysterious castle, where ancient shades roam in the twilight beneath the trees. What makes this road so striking is that it leads nowhere, if not to the unreal, to peaceful places that now exist only in memory. Between the two armies, the phantom road offers a silent path for dreams.
At a desolate crossroads, I found an old metal Christ-figure, stained with rust like dried blood. On its stone plinth, scarred by bullets, a clumsy hand had scrawled: ‘evacuate to rear’. I do not think there was anything blasphemous in it, no allusion to the divinity of the subject. The soldier wanted to say that the man on the cross had already paid his debt and had no further reason to remain at the front. Or perhaps he had wanted to show that, to have the right to be evacuated, you must have suffered agony, like the agony of Christ, in all your limbs, in your body and your heart.
Our front line runs along the foot of the mountain whose heights we control. Battalion and company HQs are spread out on the plateau, and a reserve company is stationed behind, in the forest. We overlook the German trenches that run round the ruins of the hamlet of Launois. Our over-extended sector is defended by sentries provided by the platoons to cover the flanks, posted at fifty to hundred-metre intervals. Very little artillery fire comes our way. Once a week, four German guns sprinkle us with about thirty shells. Once that’s over, we can be sure we will be undisturbed for another week. Our own shelling is more random. From our second lines that snake round the cornice, I sometimes see shells from our 75s hitting the German earthworks or bursting in the countryside. But neither side is trying desperately hard; the gunners are simply carrying out exercises, because it is still a war and in war you fire guns. Nonetheless, one has to watch out for an unlucky shell: ‘Those stupid bastards are quite capable of blowing you up for a laugh!’ And recently we were almost victims of our own stupid carelessness for scorning these periodic bombardments: a 77 burst in the wall of the trench, three metres from where we were standing.
As for the infantry, it does its best to avoid disturbing such a peaceful and pleasantly rural sector. Any provocations won’t come from us, unless orders from the rear force us to be aggressive. Activity is limited to rigorous sentry duty, fairly relaxed in the daytime, more attentive at night. We have got used to this sector and all we want is to stay here.
Every two days, a cyclist goes down to get supplies in the village of Saint-Dié. The following day he tours the shelters with his packs like a travelling salesman, distributing shoelaces, pipes, mirrors, combs, soap, toothpaste, notepaper, postcards, tobacco, and jotting down new orders like a proper tradesman.
Each group sends a man laden with water bottles to the canteen and he comes back after a three-hour walk, with thirty or forty kilos of wine hanging from his belt and shoulders. These devoted comrades are usually drunkards and one can be sure that generous sampling en route has lightened their load. ‘Reckon we can hold out here all right!’ say the men.
My duties allow me considerable freedom. In the mornings I sleep in, after staying up late, and by the time I’ve finished washing in a bowl, breakfast arrives. In the afternoons I set off with Baboin. And in the evenings, back at battalion HQ, I work alongside the lieutenant drawing up a map of the sector, using our notes and measurements. Around eleven I take my cane, a revolver and a gas mask, and make a tour of the trenches to find out what’s happening and gather accounts of the day’s events. If any grenades are going off ahead of us or if there is machine-gunning (they use enfilade fire against some communication trenches), I wake up a comrade. If it’s a calm night – as it usually is – I walk alone. I go along the front lines, identifying myself to sentries who recognise my steps and my voice in the darkness, and exchange a few words with them. When I’m not in a hurry, I may stop and keep one of them company for a moment. Sitting on the fire-step, our heads above the parapet, we look out at the night, listen for sounds. I have discussions with the platoon leaders, who wait for me at agreed times. An hour later I wake up our company commandant, a primary school teacher who treats his men cordially and his staff with a hint of camaraderie: ‘Nothing to report, sir!’ ‘All quiet around the 3rd platoon?’ ‘Completely quiet, sir!’ When it rains, I heat up the last of the coffee on Baboin’s spirit lamp. I bid goodnight to the lookout who has his post ten metres from there, and I return to our shelter where my three comrades are snoring.
One night I woke with a start; someone was shaking me roughly. I groaned, eyes still shut. A voice quivering with rage said: ‘Jump to it, for christ’s sake!’
It was the voice of Beaucierge, the runner for the 1st platoon, a good lad, rough and ready, who did not usually speak to me like that.
‘What’s got into you?’ I demanded, crossly.
‘The Boche are at the front line . . . We’ve got to go and see what’s happening.’
What? . . . I understood: his voice wasn’t quivering with rage but with panic. Still befuddled by sleep, I got my kit together mechanically, in silence. Outside, the night air was cool on my forehead and eyelids. There were no sounds of fighting. Had the enemy already occupied the forward trench?
‘Where are these Boche?’
‘No one knows. We got to go and look.’
‘Who said we must go and look?’
‘The lieutenant.’
Dirty business! I remember the embankment in Artois. I slip some grenades in my pockets, tighten my chinstrap, cock my pistol which I keep in my hand . . . who’s going first?
‘You know the trenches better,’ claims Beaucierge.
Behind me I hear him sliding the bolt on his rifle, which he holds in one hand like they do in the colonial infantry.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Putting a round in the chamber.’
‘Oh no, old pal, I don’t want to get a bullet in my arse! In that case, you go in front . . .’
He prefers to remove the bullet. I move forward slowly, to give myself time to think: we have a choice of three routes to reach the front lines. I finally make up my mind:
‘We’ll take the covered trench.’
It’s an old underground trench, constructed by the Germans, and comes out by the shelter of the leader of the 2nd platoon. If we are at all uncertain we can use our torches to see what’s happening. We advance nervously, trying not to make a sound. The silence of the night is more terrifying than the sound of a grenade fight, which would at least tell us where the danger was. All of a sudden the underground trench opens up in front of us like a trapdoor. We go down a few steps, we lose sight of the sky which guided us, we descend into darkness. Holding one hand out in front of us, feeling the trench wall, we step forward one foot at a time, not putting any weight down until we are sure the ground is solid. It’s fifty metres to the first elbow in the trench, after that it descends straight ahead. It takes us an infinitely long time to cover this distance. All we can hear is our breathing and our heartbeats. Beaucierge (clumsy as ever, the dolt!) bangs into something with his rifle. We freeze in terror, and stay stock still for a minute, dreading the flashes of fire that may be about to pierce the blackness.
But now here we are at the curve . . . Further down, some sixty metres ahead, a faint light glimmers, and we can make out the murmur of voices. What voices? I stop my companion with my hand.
‘We’ll call out.’
‘What if it’s the Boche?’
‘Then we’ll know it. Better than walking straight into them.’
I call and the answer comes: ‘Who goes there?’
‘France!’
Soon the beam of my torch reveals a man who is one of ours. Phew! . . . We run up to him in relief. Down in the shelter, everyone is on the alert.
‘So what happened to the Boche?’
‘They’ve left again.’
We learn that three Germans jumped into our trench and attacked a lone sentry who, though taken by surprise, managed to shout the alarm. Luckily, not far to his right, Chassignole was still awake, and he is a man who doesn’t easily lose his nerve. Chassignole is the one who claims that the damp gets into grenades and half of them don’t work. After striking the exterior percussion cap he would hold the grenade up to his ear to make sure that the fuse was burning properly inside: a method of verification that could take your head off! If you pointed out his recklessness, he’d say: ‘You’ve got five seconds, plenty of time!’ So Chassignole started running at the Boches, throwing his famous grenades, his favourite weapon. The attackers took fright, jumped back over the parapet, and disappeared into the night.
The sentry is in a corner of the shelter, still dazed from a blow from a revolver butt that cut his head. We congratulate him for raising the alarm and not letting himself be taken prisoner. It’s agreed that the raid was well planned and could have succeeded, that the Germans had found the weak point in our positions. It seems likely that their patrols had been observing the movements of our reliefs for several nights. And we are careless: sentries make a noise and light cigarettes without any precautions. Always hiding doesn’t suit our temperament.
This was the first event to disturb the calm of the sector for a month. From now on, we will also patrol in front of our lines.
We have decided to celebrate the Fourteenth of July. The Republic has already given the troops one cigar and one orange each, and a bottle of sparkling wine for every four men, but we would hope for something a bit better in the way of festivities than this meagre generosity. The lieutenant had the idea of organising a fireworks display for that night, using flares; he had to abandon the idea of coloured flares in case it alerted the artillery. A conspicuous spot was chosen, in an abandoned trench, and the runners went to tell the platoons so that they could enjoy the show, and also keep on the alert in case the enemy reacted. In the end, it isn’t so much a display of patriotism as a means to break the monotony of our lives for a few short moments.
A little before the event is due to start the lieutenant leaves his shelter accompanied by his runner, his batman, some quartermasters and observers. A dozen flares are arranged in a semicircle next to the parapet. At exactly ten o’clock we light the touch-papers. The flares whistle up into the night, and turn into twelve flickering light bulbs, spreading a pale, luminous dome beneath them. A few flares answer us from the opposite lines. We stare in wonder at this new lunar landscape, and, after counting three, we all shout ‘Vive la France!’ But our shouts are lost in the ring of mountains looming in the darkness and have no echo. The flares die, and our artificial joy goes out with them. No sound come from the German trenches, silence and darkness reclaim the land. We’re disappointed. The party’s over . . .
The only onslaught in this sector is of paperwork. The men at the rear bombard us with notes, and not a day goes by without the company having to provide the battalion, always as a matter of urgency, with reports and inventories, on stocks of food and munitions, on supplies of clothing, on specialists suitable for one task or another, on fathers of a certain number of children, etc. So much, indeed, that the runners are always dashing about to keep up with all the nonsense.
Thus I have got to know everyone, and everyone knows me, asking me questions about what’s happening at the rear: a runner is also a vital source of information. Even the platoon leaders, who cannot leave the front line, hold me in respect and I sometimes help them prepare their reports. But the main benefit for me from this toing and froing, where the time we take isn’t rigidly controlled, is that it allows me to stop at different shelters and talk to the men. Their numbers swollen by successive reinforcements, the units are made up of men from every part of the country and every part of the front, most of them having been wounded and having belonged to other regiments. They all have their own memories. Through their stories, I get to know every aspect of the war, for it is their favourite topic of conversation, being the thing that has brought them together and filled their lives for the last two years.
Naturally Verdun comes up a lot. There the use of artillery, the accumulation of means of destruction, reached a level of intensity hitherto unknown, and everyone agrees it was a hell in which you lost your mind. With the help of their accounts, confused as they often are, I reconstitute the epic story of the regiment in this terrible sector. It’s a shameful epic, if, as historians will, you judge by the results. But a soldier judges from his experience under fire and knows that the conduct of a unit usually results from the situation in which it has been placed, and has little do with the courage of the combatants. This is what I learned.
Last April, the regiment was engaged in front of Malancourt, in a salient, a position ‘out in the open’, with no communication or support on the flanks, and it was kept in this position despite all the warnings from battalion leaders who had pointed out its vulnerability under concentrated fire. When the action started, two battalions stood to face the attack, but they were outflanked, overwhelmed by the masses of troops that swarmed out of the shell smoke, and taken prisoner, almost to a man. Only some support elements were able to fall back and these included one ambitious captain. This cunning officer, displaying considerable nerve in his presentation of the facts, estimated that no official enquiry would come and investigate what had happened on the ground. His report transformed our accidental defeat into a tale of defence to the last man, of the sacrifice made by a thousand soldiers, refusing to yield an inch of ground, and now buried in the ruins. This version, in perfect concordance with military doctrine, was immediately adopted by the colonel, who transmitted it to the division, adding a few amplifications of his own. For it is accepted, by some strange aberration, that a great loss of men proves the courage of those who command them – by virtue of that axiom of the military hierarchy which states that the valour of soldiers is created by the valour of their leaders, an axiom which does not have a converse form. So the colonel published a dispatch in which he exalted the nobility of the sacrifice and proclaimed his pride at commanding such valiant troops. The regiment would have therefore left Verdun crowned in glory, had a German aeroplane not had the poor taste to scatter leaflets on our lines in which the enemy command boasted of its success at Malancourt and added a list of the prisoners taken that day – several hundred men, officers as well as soldiers, all from that same regiment. There was no room for doubt: the sacrifice had not been consummated. Learning that these men, over whose loss tears were still being shed, were in fact alive enraged the colonel, who published a furious, scathing counter-dispatch.
The surrender of two battalions taken by surprise cast suspicion on a regiment that had been sent out into untenable positions. As someone had to be held responsible, the high command incriminated those who had disappeared, as they weren’t there to defend themselves. It was recalled that the regiment came from the Midi and absurd old grievances that dated back to the beginning of the war were used against it. This military vilification put it into the category of unreliable units which had displayed weakness under fire. And that has earned us a long stay in the Vosges, exiled from honour. The colonel, who sees his chances of promotion jeopardised, complains bitterly. But the men don’t hide their delight, and are in no hurry to regain ‘esteem’ which is so often deadly.
The survivors, men who have already endured dangers and torment beyond normal human comprehension, speak of Verdun with special horror. They say that when they got out they couldn’t eat properly for several days because their stomachs had been so knotted with fear, because everything filled them with disgust. They have remembered nothing from Verdun except terror and madness. Except one thing, which always brings a smile to their lips. They tell of a crossroads behind the lines where they saw three gendarmes who had been strung up from a tree by colonial troops as they passed through. This is the only happy memory they have retained from Verdun! It never crosses their minds that gendarmes are men like them. The hatred of the gendarme, so traditional in France, has been intensified in the war by the scorn – or envy – that soldiers feel towards the non-combatant. And gendarmes not only do not fight, but they force others to do so. Behind the lines they form a network of jailers who force us back into the prison of the war. It is also said that during the retreat of 1914 they killed stragglers who no longer had the strength to march. So the execution of a few gendarmes lifts the spirits and avenges the forced labour they have inflicted on the men. Everyone feels like that and I have not seen a single soldier show the slightest pity for the three hanged men. There’s no doubt that this ‘special operation’ has done more to boost the reputation of colonial troops that any brilliant military action would have done. Who can say whether it hasn’t indeed done a service to the High Command by getting the army of Verdun to laugh? Of course it’s immoral. So this is the occasion to use the famous phrase which has already excused so many other immoralities: It’s war!
A sergeant who has just arrived offers me another picture of Verdun. He describes a feat of arms:
‘I was a grenadier sergeant. One evening we take up position on the flank of a devastated slope. No trace of barbed wire, or shell holes, position of Boche unknown. Once we’d sorted ourselves out, the commander, Moricault, an old bloke with a big mouth, summoned me. I found him in his little dugout, smoking his pipe. Handing me a quarter-litre of brandy he says: “Ah, good, th-there you are, Simon. I have need of you. Have y’self a nip of this!”
‘He unrolls his map. “You’re there, see? There, on the side, is, er, Permezel (another NCO). Good! You see? And there is a Boche machine gun that’s bothering us. Now, you go and work it out with Permezel. You’ll come from the front with your chaps, and he’ll, er, come from the right with his. And at midnight, you blow the bloody machine gun to hell. Understood?” “Understood, sir!”
‘You can’t argue with the old buffer! So off I go and find Permezel, tell him the plan, sort out the details and synchronise watches. I pick three blokes to come with me: Rondin, a tall, beefy chap, Cartouchier, a miner from the north, and Zigg, an ace with the knife. Choice of weapons: bombs, shooters and shivs. We crawl forwards, hopping from one hole to the next, guided by flares. The racket from the bombardment helps a bit. The further we get from our side, the slower we go. It takes us a good hour. All of a sudden, Zigg tugs at my arm, makes a sign. I poke my head out of the hole, very carefully, and I see two helmets, maybe six metres away, Boche heads. I tell you, we were eye to eye, without making a peep. We all huddle down in our holes but don’t take our eyes off each other. Don’t stop to think! I give the nod to the others and, hop!, with one move we pile into them. There were three Boche, two get away and we nab the other one. But the pig rolls on the ground, trying to grab his rifle. Rondon catches him, gives him half a dozen good kicks in the ribs to calm him down and then we all get out quick, back to the commandant’s dugout. Once inside we take a good look at our Fritz, a young bloke, brand new uniform, his mug a bit the worse for wear thanks to Rondin. Old man Moricault interrogates him in German but he’s not saying anything. So our quartermaster captain gets up, and puts his revolver against his temple. My god, did he go white! And then he told us everything: they were all behind the ridge and were supposed to attack at four in the morning. That saved our bacon. The machine gunners put one belt through after another and at ten to four started firing even faster.’
‘So the Germans didn’t attack?’
‘Not at four they didn’t, but at nine. We were knackered, half-asleep. Only old father Moricault was up and about, with his pipe and cane and big mouth. He was the one who sounded the alarm, and then he grabbed hold of a machine gun. He had balls, that old bloke. The Boche were swarming around only sixty metres away and they were coming up fast.’
‘They didn’t get there?’
‘No chance. We had six machine guns in action right off. Can’t do anything against machine guns! . . . I never seen so many going down as I did then!’
‘Not as many as I have’, says the machine gunner sergeant who is listening to us. ‘When we were fighting in open country, I was with the Zouaves. There was one time when there were three of us gunners dug in behind tree trunks on the edge of a forest, on a little rise. We opened fire on battalions that were coming out at four hundred metres, and we didn’t stop firing. A surprise attack. It was frightful. The terrified Boche couldn’t get out of the way of our bullets. Bodies piled up in heaps. Our gun crews were shaking with horror and wanted to run. Killing made us afraid! . . . I’ve never seen such a massacre. We had three Saint-Étiennes, they spit out six hundred a minute. Imagine it.’
‘But when you saw the Boche six metres away in the shell-hole’, I asked the grenadier sergeant, curious to know more, ‘how did you decide to rush them?’
‘It just needs a nod and a wave, like I say. We know the way it works. While the Boche were still making up their minds, we got going. It’s the ones with balls that scare the others, and the ones who are scared most are buggered. You mustn’t think in a situation like that. It’s all bluff, war!’
Before moving to Verdun, for a long time the regiment had held the F— sector, which was so dangerous that units were replaced after three days on the front line. The men all tell me that during those three days they had practically no sleep at all, because of the great quantity of German trench mortars that were smashing up their positions. The ‘aerial torpedoes’ and heavy trench mortar shells are stealthy projectiles which cause terrible damage because of their considerable explosive charge. The explosion is not preceded by the whistle that alerts you to incoming shells. The only way to avoid falling victim to them is to spot them in the air after the small bang when they’re launched, and try to work out where they will land, so as to get out the way. At night they provoke an obsessive fear that makes this method of attack the most demoralising of all. And on top of all this the mortar shells necessitate an exhausting amount of digging in order to repair collapsed trenches; cases of men being buried alive are common. Nerves are strained to breaking point. After a while, depression makes soldiers capable of just about anything. It’s an open secret that at F— there were cases of soldiers deliberately injuring themselves. Many wounds were so suspicious that one brutal army doctor kept corpses on which to test the effects of projectiles fired at short range so that he could spot similar results on the injured men who were brought to him. This same doctor had some men court-martialled for having frostbitten feet. The soldiers who admit self-injury consider this is iniquitous: frostbite is an involuntary result of standing in frozen mud.
Initially, the easiest way of getting a good wound was to place your hand over a lookout slit that had been targeted by snipers. This had been used in several places. But bullets in the hand, particularly the left hand, quickly became inadmissible. Another method was to ignite the fuse on a grenade and put it and your own hand on one side of a splinter-proof shield: your forearm is blown off. It seems that some men had recourse to this. It could not be denied that to perform such an act of cowardice requires considerable courage and terrible despair. Despair, in the most punishing sectors, can provoke the most absurd decisions; men have assured me that at Verdun soldiers killed themselves for fear of suffering an agonising death. It is also whispered that at F— some veterans from the Bat d’Af wounded their own comrades. They polished shell shrapnel to make it look new, put it in a cartridge from which they had removed the bullet and then fired it into the person’s leg at a spot agreed on in advance. They charged for it, and made a bit of money out of this dirty work. I have certainly heard soldiers expressing the wish to have a limb amputated to escape the front line. In general, the rougher, simpler men fear death but can bear pain and mutilation. Whereas the more sensitive ones are less afraid of death itself than the forms it takes here, of the agony and suffering that precedes it.
Soldiers talk plainly of these things, without approving or condemning, because war has accustomed them to seeing what is monstrous as natural. To them, the greatest injustice is that others dispose of their lives without asking them, and have lied to them in bringing them here. This legalised injustice cancels out all morality, and in their opinion all conventions decreed by those far away from the fighting concerning honour, courage, noble attitudes, and so on, cannot concern them, soldiers on the front line. The shellfire zone has its own laws, of which they are the only judges. They declare, without the slightest trace of shame: ‘We’re only there because we don’t have any choice!’ They are the navvies of war, and they know that the only person who profits from their labour is the boss. The dividends will go the generals, the politicians, the factory owners. The heroes will return to the plough and the work bench, as poor as before. They laugh bitterly when they hear that word, ‘heroes’. They refer to themselves as good lads, that is, ordinary chaps, neither bellicose nor aggressive, the ones who march and kill without knowing why. The good lads, that is, the pitiful, mud-caked, moaning, bleeding brotherhood of the P.C.D.F.,[26] as they call themselves sarcastically. Cannon fodder, in short. ‘Coffin candidates’, as Chassignole puts it.
They approach the terrible conflict with a simple logic. The following exchange can give some idea of this. I had gone to get information from a sentry in a forward post. It was raining hard. The man was standing in the mud, dripping wet.
‘There’ll never be an end to this shit!’ he grumbled.
‘Yes there will, old pal, it can’t go on forever.’
‘Oh jesus! . . . If they stuck old Joffre here in my hole, and old Hindenburg opposite, with the lads on both sides cheering the bastards on, they’d soon sort out their bloody war!’
If you think about it, this reasoning isn’t as simplistic as it seems. Indeed it’s full of human truth, a truth that the poilus also express like this: It’s always the same ones that get themselves killed!
The idea of duty varies according to one’s place in the hierarchy, one’s rank, and the dangers one faces. Among soldiers it comes down to a simple solidarity between men, in a shell-hole or a trench, a solidarity that doesn’t consider the campaign as a whole or its aims, and isn’t inspired by what we like to call ideals, but by the needs of the moment. As such, it can lead to self-sacrifice, and men risk their lives to help their comrades. The further one gets from the front, the more the idea of duty is separated from risk. In the highest ranks, it is entirely theoretical, a pure intellectual game. It merges with concern for one’s responsibilities, reputation, and advancement, unites personal success with national success, which are in opposition for those doing the fighting. And it is used against subordinates just as much as the enemy. A particular conception of duty among men who possess unlimited power and not a trace of sensitivity to temper their doctrines can lead to vile abuses, both military and disciplinary. Such as this one, a decision made by a certain General N— worthy of Robespierre in its glacial ruthlessness, described to me by a corporal-telephonist sitting in front of his switchboard.
He had just been transmitting messages, his headphones over his ears, and I was asking him how the equipment worked.
‘Can you hear what people are saying?’
‘At a central exchange, yes. I just have to arrange the plugs on the board in a certain way.’
‘Have you ever overheard any unusual conversations, ones that might reveal something useful about the war?’
‘You learn more about people than events on the telephone. Important orders, unless they’re very urgent, are sent in writing . . . But yes, sure, I remember one short, and tragic conversation. This was back in autumn ’14, when I was telephonist for the division, before we were withdrawn. First you need to know that a soldier had been court-martialled. He had gone to the quartermaster to ask for new trousers to replace his, which were ripped. Clothing was in very short supply. The quartermaster gives him trousers that had belonged to a dead soldier, still bloodstained. Naturally enough, the chap is disgusted. “Take them, that’s an order,” says the quartermaster. He refuses. An officer turns up and tells the quartermaster to charge him with disobeying an order. Court martial straight away . . . Now, back to my telephone call. The colonel of the regiment asks to be connected to the general. I put him through, and listen in without thinking: “This is colonel X . . . Sir, the court martial has issued its judgement in the matter that you already know about, but I need to consult you because it seems to me that there are extenuating circumstances . . . The court martial has sentenced him to death. Don’t you think, sir, that a death sentence is really too harsh, and that it should be reconsidered? . . . ” Now listen to the general’s answer: “Yes, you’re right, it’s harsh, very harsh . . . [There’s a pause, long enough to count to fifteen.] So, the execution will take place tomorrow morning, do the necessary.” Not another word.’
‘They shot him?’
‘They shot him!’
I know of course that General N— was only thinking of the national interest, the maintenance of discipline, the solidity of the army. I know that he acted in the name of the highest principles. But when the ordinary soldier here at the front considers the fact that in the name of the very same principles, with the same inhuman rigour, the same dogmatic certainty, this same general will take similar military decisions affecting thousands of individuals, then he can only shake with fear!
There is a man in the company who was at the Butte de Vauquois, the centre of the infamous ‘mine war’. He tells of how in 1915 he witnessed an attack with flame-throwers aimed at capturing this disputed hill. The Paris fire brigade were brought to set it up. Tanks for the inflammable liquid were placed in a gully and pipes laid along trenches connecting them to the flame-throwers. The enterprise might have succeeded had it not been for the stubbornness of general S— who forced the fire-brigade captain to launch the attack on a day when the wind was uncertain. All went well to start with. The Germans fled in terror from the flames. But a sudden change in the wind direction blew the fire back at us, and our sector, in its turn, went up in flames. The installation of the equipment, which had cost us a great deal of effort, was completely destroyed, and we did not take the hill that day.
This same man, who is called Martin, also tells of how his company had been led by a young lieutenant, a graduate of Saint-Cyr, who had been trepanned and had also lost the fingers of both hands, and yet had returned to the front as a volunteer. This officer came from a wealthy family and every week his mother would send a big parcel of food for her son’s men. All this had made a great impression on Martin, who declared:
‘You never know. There are sometimes even posh types who’ve got guts!’
‘That’s for sure,’ agreed another. ‘There are some who really believe in what they’re doing.’
‘Yeah, old pal,’ says a third, ‘and they’re the most dangerous. Without them we wouldn’t be here. They got ’em in Boche-land too, believe you me!’
‘More than likely!’
‘It ain’t the same. Boche officers treat their lads a lot fucking worse than ours do.’
‘That’s what you hear but I reckon it’s just the same as with us, they’ve got all kinds.’
‘It ain’t so much that our lot are all bastards. But when it comes to loonies, we take the fucking biscuit.’
‘You remember that commandant we had in Besançon before the war, the old bloke who was completely barmy? What was he called, the wanker? Giffard, yeah, that’s right, Giffard. He used to come and wash his underwear in the barracks with us. And when he was cross with his horse he’d make it sleep in the guardroom, I kid you not, the guardroom. You ask Rochat. Mad as a bloody hatter!’
‘Biggest arsehole I ever knew was a captain who went around with a thing in his pocket that he used to measure the length of your hair. If it was too long, you’d catch it. In another pocket he had a pair of hair-clippers. He’d whack you across the nose with it, bang!, when you were presenting arms. So as soon as you had enough hair on your bonce for a parting, you had to get yourself to the barber.’
‘Me, the worst was old Floconnet, the commandant we had in Champagne. He spent his time hunting turds that had been dropped in the wrong place. The poilus used to go for a crap on a path on the edge of the village, and the old bloke never failed to come and have a good prowl round, every morning. He’d come up with this amazing scheme. He had a cane with a metal tip and he’d use it to pick up the paper on the ground and then he’d take it all to the adjutant and tell him: “Here, take this, see what it says, sort it out for me and give each of those dirty beasts four days in the glasshouse.” Now, since the poilus all used envelopes to wipe their arses, by now it was brown paper! But it had belonged to someone, and their name was on it. In the end we used envelopes on which we’d put the address of the old bastard himself . . .’
‘You ever hear about that adjutant they used to call Tapioca?’
Once they start a discussion like this it can go on forever. Everyone has his own store of tales to contribute and barracks life provides a large supply of them. It’s strange to see how often these memories, that one would think were a bit out of date, keep coming up in conversations at the front. Poilus like to recall the days of their training (now seen as ‘the good old days’ in comparison to the present) and the reproach they always make to the new recruits among their comrades, young lads who are generally undisciplined, is the following: ‘You can see that you’ve never done active service!’ Another thing is that most of their memories are coarse ones. That’s not because they choose those especially – it’s because they do not have any others. Military life has always offered them far more vulgarity than nobility, and they would be hard put to find any ideal role models – whether corporals or adjutants, those above them are their oppressors, not necessarily evil but always as ridiculous as they are ignorant. And as for the senior ranks, apart from line officers who share their dangers to a certain extent, they are all upper-crust types whose follies are frequent, dangerous and protected by divine right.
Still in the Vosges, we are now in a new sector, tougher than the last one, on the summit of a mountain whose ridges we also hold. Throughout this region the two sides have fought to control the mountain tops, which provide commanding views, and bombardments have left many bald patches on the pine-covered slopes. The names of these peaks have all earned mentions in dispatches: Hartmann, Syudel, Linge, Metzeral, La Fontenelle, Teischaker, etc. We are above the valley of Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines.
The battalion HQ and the reserve company are stationed on the reverse slope of the mountain, in camps along the road running up from the valley on the French side of the border. The line companies hold two adjacent sectors, one on the high point of the mountain, the other which follows the descending contours of the terrain and runs off towards the German lines. This second sector, which is ours, is more dangerous because the position has no depth. An attack which advances 150 metres would push us back into the gulley right behind us. At the bottom of this gulley we would be at the mercy of enfilade fire from the German machine guns, and no fallback position has been created on the opposite slope. Fortunately, the sector is quiet. But if there was a surprise attack, our situation would be terribly precarious.
The ground has been pulverised hundreds of times by trench mortars. Nothing remains of the forest but a few tree trunks stripped of their bark that look like fence posts. We made ourselves as comfortable as we could. The platoons have a few covered saps in the front line. Further back, shelters are rare, rickety, and uncomfortable. In general, our shelters aren’t as good as the German ones. This is probably because we thought we would be on the offensive. Our troops always believed they were holding their trenches temporarily and so it wasn’t worth the effort of undertaking major work.
I have started my nightly rounds again. This time they are rather more exciting since the German lines are very close to ours – around twenty or thirty metres away. And at one point the gap is only eight metres. This proximity prevents the construction of any solid defences. So, given the way our sentries are spread out, I find myself alone in the darkness, closer to the Germans than the French. The watchers opposite can hear me walking and at any moment I could be seized by men positioned by their parapet, who would only have to reach out their arm to grab me. I hold my revolver at the ready and I’ve got a couple of grenades in my pockets. Any confidence these weapons give me is completely illusory; they would be of no help at all against several assailants, leaping out of the shadows, able to get back to their trenches in a few steps, taking me with them, before our lads had the time to intervene. In any case, our front line is guarded by eight double sentry posts, that is, sixteen men in all, spread out over five or six hundred metres. Before running to my aid they would first have to alert their comrades, always slow to get going after being woken up.
On very dark nights, when I have to feel my way along the trenches, there are occasionally heart-stopping moments when something makes a noise in the blackness. Night distorts things, makes them bigger, lends them shapes that can be disturbing or menacing; the least breath of air can bring them to life. Objects take on enemy silhouettes, and I imagine soldiers holding their breath all around me, eyes peering to seek me out, fingers on triggers; at any second I expect the blinding flash of a gunshot. They could kill me for the sheer pleasure of killing. I know this sector quite well but I keep stopping, wondering if I haven’t got lost, and everything around me is strange, shifting, oneiric. A distance that I covered the day before without noticing now goes on forever, to the point where I begin to think our trenches are empty. But I am not here to be prey to childish fears: I try to laugh myself out of it . . . And at long last I find our sentries and go down into the warmth of an underground shelter where a candle is flickering and sleepers snore and splutter. I wake up the platoon leader, who signs my papers and gives me his. We exchange a few words and then here I am again facing the traps in the silent shadows. I stride off into the gloom, walking noisily, whistling a marching tune in the Germans’ direction, hoping that my confidence will impress any enemies who are waiting to ambush me. I make my presence known before reaching the point where the lines almost touch: I’m fooling them . . . All this noise, I’m thinking, must surely make the enemies who are there, a few metres way, think that those who are advancing are unafraid, and it would not be a very good idea to attack them. I think the noise is multiplying me, making me seem like a crowd . . .
Back at HQ, the lieutenant greets me normally, seemingly unaware that I have just fought a terrible battle with the phantoms of the night and my imagination, and my heart is still pounding in my chest . . . And I smile cheerfully as if I’ve come back from a pleasant stroll in the country. But one day I may well not come back. I may not have had any trouble on my rounds so far, but nonetheless I only survive them thanks to the goodwill of the Germans. Still, I don’t seriously think I am going to get killed. And when it’s a fine night, and my path is illuminated only by the searchlight of the moon, that friendly and vigilant sentry, then this walk has a certain charm, along the side of these silent, disdainful mountains.
In the end we are only fighting a little war here, a war of convention, entirely regulated by tacit agreements. It’s not to be taken too seriously, nothing to boast of. Very occasionally we face bursts of shellfire, coming from a ridge higher up where the Germans have their artillery. The noise of the explosions rolls around the valleys, making an avalanche of sound that crashes against the side of a distant mountain, which sends it on to another, until it is completely dispersed. Sometimes, too, we get attacked with hand- and rifle-grenades, to which we respond half-heartedly so as not to aggravate matters. In positions that are so close, so narrow, these things could quickly become very bloody. We never initiate any action ourselves. The regiment does its job decently enough but avoids any excess of enthusiasm like the plague. We leave feats of valour to others.
Every now and then one of our aeroplanes will fly over. They are Farman biplanes, old models, deplorably slow, known as ‘chicken coops’. We feel sorry for their pilots and have the feeling the Germans must laugh at the sight of such ancient machines, which seem to date to the beginnings of aviation.
In short, this front is protected by a very thin line of troops. This light deployment allows divisions to be concentrated in active sectors. Here we rely on the towering bulwark of the mountains which would make any big offensive difficult. We are here to watch over these natural fortifications.
At about five in the evening a series of violent explosions shakes the entire sector, prolonged explosions accompanied by the sound of tearing metal that characterises trench torpedoes. Here we go! Immediately the bombardment takes on the rapid rhythm of a barrage, the explosions forming a background rumble broken at regular intervals by the impact of the heavy projectiles, enough to shake the mountain. Our own trench artillery responds rapidly. We quickly grab our weapons and run from the command post, on a narrow spur where we risk being surrounded. We must get through the first detonations before it’s too late and the entrance to our trench is cut off. The reserve platoon, who have just climbed up a slope to join us, are pushing and stumbling behind, gasping for breath, shouting, rattling their weapons. We run under the whistling shells, through the yellow smoke, with huge pieces of shrapnel whizzing past like axes and smashing into the ground around us. For thirty metres the trench is as hot as an oven. Then we breathe cooler air, the menace of the flying cleavers is lifted from our necks, and we can see daylight. We’re in the communication trench.
As this trench pushes on towards the rear, skirting the flank of a spur, the mountain itself rises up and protects us with a steep slope still densely covered with trees. There are now forty of us with a lieutenant, three hundred metres from our positions in a place that is almost completely sheltered. Shells seek us out but they burst above us or drop down into the gulley. They’d be very lucky to hit us in this dead angle. We just have to wait patiently.
The front-line platoons are ordered to fall back laterally at the first bombardment, closing up with the neighbouring companies. We aren’t thinking about them, and it would be mad to try to link up with them right now. Each group is looking after itself, following set rules. Since shelling makes it impossible to hold this sector, the command has judged it preferable to abandon it altogether, then take it back afterwards with a counter-attack. But we know that this is simply a raid by an enemy group hoping to take prisoners. Caught by our own fire and finding the trenches empty, they’ll clear out.
We listen to the bombardment. Violent explosions shake the ground even here. Shells that pass too low make us duck. A cloud of smoke hides our positions and despite our relative security, we’re anxious.
After an hour, there are distinct gaps in the rumbling of explosions. The shelling gets less intense, falters, and quickly dies away. There are a few bursts of gunfire, then silence. Twilight descends. The reserve platoon forms up in battle order and advances cautiously. They don’t encounter anyone. We get back to the command post, jumping over a few shell-holes.
Runners are sent off straight away to gather information from each platoon. The sector is unrecognisable. Trenches are blocked and I often have to walk along the parapets. Nearing the front line I call out to avoid walking into trouble. I reach the shelter on the far right of the company, its entrance facing the Germans, and climb down the rickety ladder. I find a few men with their sergeant.
‘So, nothing serious?’
‘Look!’ says the sergeant.
I see a shape stretched out on the ground in a corner of the dugout, a broken body. One leg must be broken off at the hip because it’s pointing in the wrong direction. The trousers are torn and reveal the pale thigh, almost cut off, which hasn’t even bled. The other leg is also cut open.
‘Who is it?’
‘Sorlin.’
Sorlin, yes, I know him. A young man from class 16 who always gave me a friendly smile on my rounds . . . I bend down to look more closely. His eyes are shut but his mouth, that mouth that used to call out to me, is open and twisted. That young face that was always so cheerful bears an expression of terror. I hear the sergeant, a man of forty:
‘A good kid, in this state! This war’s a bloody disgrace!’
Stupidly, I ask:
‘No other trouble?’
‘Maybe you don’t think this is enough!’ he responds furiously.
I can feel how grief-stricken these men are, and their sadness is making them bitterly angry. I imagine what they’ve been through just now, the fear and panic under the bombardment, while I was back there in the trench, under cover . . .
‘Look, sergeant, I think it’s far too much, you know that. But I have to take back a report, they’re waiting for me. I’ll send stretcher-bearers.’
The other runners are also coming back to the command post. Two dead and four wounded in the platoon in the centre, none in the platoon on the left flank. In this now quiet sector, it’s another evening of war, an evening of mourning. The lieutenant dictates a report which I write down to take to the battalion. Outside stretcher-bearers are asking where the wounded are. We guide them, in the darkness.
Later on I make my rounds. There’s nothing but mounds of mud everywhere. Everyone is on the parapets, working. The trench, almost levelled, is being pegged out by a working party in a long line, their rifles lying on the ground beside them. Twenty metres away other shovels are clanging and you can clearly see shadows bending over the ground. The Germans are working on their side, and this whole part of the front is just one big building site.
Accompanied by a sergeant, we walk several metres out beyond our working party, driven by curiosity as much as bravado. A German shadow begins to cough loudly, to point out that we’re breaking the rules, going beyond the limits of neutrality. We cough in our turn to reassure this vigilant watchman, and go back to our side. With no trenches separating them, these enemies, who could surprise their adversaries with a couple of leaps, respect the truce. Is this from a sense of fair play? Isn’t it rather the wish, equal in both camps, to stop fighting?
About twice a month, our sectors get badly damaged by surprise attacks. Field guns and trench artillery, concentrating their fire on a narrow area, achieve a devastating density. Several thousand projectiles may be fired in just a couple of hours. Helped by the panic this creates and hidden by smoke, detachments penetrate the enemy lines with the aim of bringing back prisoners. In our first surprise attack we captured five Germans. Since then all our attempts have failed; it seems most probable that the enemy has adopted our method of evacuation, the only prudent one, and one which saves lives since units that remain in position will be annihilated. The Germans have never captured any of us.
A troop of about fifty men led by a sub-lieutenant, all volunteers, whom we call ‘trench raiders’, specialise in these little attacks. They live apart from the rest of us in the forest, and are exempt from other duties. They often go halfway down the valley where there’s an inn run by three women, known to us by the name The Six Buttocks. The inn often echoes with the noise of their arguments, their quarrels with the artillerymen, which are often ended by pistols or knives when they are drunk. We shut our eyes to their exploits, because of their dangerous mission. It is understood that a good warrior must be a bit of an outlaw.
In between surprise attacks, the sector slumbers. The first mortar shells always indicate the start of a raid, and we expect them an hour or two before nightfall. With every raid there will be casualties among the lookouts responsible for warning of an enemy approach.
A general of rather martial bearing, escorted by a battalion runner, turns up unexpectedly at the command post, and declares: ‘I have come to have a little look at your sector’. Giving me a wink, our lieutenant replies:
‘Very good, sir, let us begin on the left.’
I hurry off and tell the first platoon; the warning will then be transmitted all along the line. That done, I wait for them to join me. As he walks along, the general questions our lieutenant on German activity, the state of their positions below us, the quantity of projectiles fired, etc. Suddenly, he halts by a sentry and asks him:
‘If the Boche attack, my friend, what do you do?’
In a sector like this where we have the time to devote to the rule book, what to do in every situation is clearly prescribed and it’s been drummed into us: in this case, fire two rifle shots, throw three grenades, set off the sirens, etc.
But our man gets confused, imagines that this imposing inspector is looking at him either sternly or with astonishment. He works out that it’s a matter of making a quick decision since this is a surprise attack. And blurts out in panic:
‘Yeah, right, well, I get my arse in gear . . . !’
The lieutenant is terribly upset. The general, who’s got a sense of humour, leads him away and consoles him:
‘Obviously those are not the terms that one would use at GCHQ . . . But it comes down to the same thing! . . . What’s important is that he gets his . . . well, exactly that!’
I now find myself at the tail end of our little procession. We’re going back up towards the platoon on the right. Two bangs in the distance, to the left: two mortar shells fired. For us? Wait three seconds. Two whistles. For us! Vroom! Vroom! Look out for the shrapnel . . . Reflex: they’re using 77s.
‘That was pretty close!’
‘I’ve brought you bad luck,’ said the general, with a smile that was a bit too calm to be convincing.
‘No, sir, we’re used to . . .’
Two more! Big ones . . . we dive for the ground. Vrrroom! Vrrroom! 105 time-shells. Shrapnel clatters down around us. Two black clouds above our heads.
‘We should hurry, sir. This is a dangerous spot . . .’
‘Lead on, lead on, lieutenant!’
Two more 77s. We go as fast as we can, and there is no question of any inspection.
We’ve just gone round a lookout post. There’s a burst of gunfire. But I have time to hear a voice (good lord, it’s Chassignole!) shouting out behind me, at the entrance to the shelter:
‘Hey, lads! The shooting star has passed by!’
It’s two in the afternoon. We’re in the trench near the command post, not doing much. We hear a small explosion somewhere forward of us. We pay it scant attention: shells are always coming down somewhere or other.
Soon afterwards a man turns up, out of breath, asking for stretcher-bearers.
‘A casualty?’
‘Yes, rifle-grenade.’
‘Bad?’
‘Both feet more or less blown off. He was in the latrines – the grenade went off right there.’
That’s the explosion we heard. The stretcher-bearers come back, put the stretcher down in the middle of the trench, and go into the shelter to get a form.
We recognise Petitjean, a nice boy, helpful and unassuming. He’s very pale, but he’s not making a sound. Blood is soaking through the crude bandages on his feet and running out at an alarming rate. I cannot stop myself comparing what he is losing from his body’s total capacity with the time it will take to get him to the dressing station . . . There are three of us around him, fearing that it’s cruel to come near him, to display our intact bodies, something he has just lost, probably forever, but also fearing that to move away would make it seem that we didn’t care, that we were casting him into the isolation of the condemned, His silence makes us feel especially awkward: how do you show sympathy for someone who doesn’t ask for your pity? He stares up at the sky which gives his eyes a light reflection of pale blue, like fine porcelain. Then he shuts them, closing himself off in the misfortune that separates him from us. Is he aware of the catastrophe that has struck him? Beneath his little moustache his lips are clenched and on his chest his hands are squeezed together so tightly that they are red and trembling. He is taken away before we pluck up the courage to say a word to him, and the lieutenant, who comes out of the shelter to shake his hand, remains standing beside us, sharing our silence.
It’s a bright October day and we were enjoying the last warmth of the year before this unfortunate blow. You cannot lose yourself in any pleasure, the war is always there.
Early one morning a sentry at the bottom of the valley was woken from his reverie by the sound of footsteps in the trench. He turns and sees a German in front of him. His first reaction is to run. But the German raises his arm and cries: ‘Kamerad!’ He’s unarmed, has a little cap on his head and a package under his other arm. The sentry, still in shock and fearing a trap, calls the squad. They search the surroundings and find nothing suspicious: the man has definitely come alone. So they take him to the lieutenant. But no one speaks enough German to interrogate this odd prisoner who has dropped from the skies. He’s a feeble-looking little man with a dull face and an over-fraternal smile. His eyelids flutter rapidly over furtive eyes, and he seems very pleased with himself. He still holds his package under his arm. Beaucierge and I are ordered to take him to battalion command. He trots along the trench between us. I ask him a few brief questions:
‘Krieg fertig?’
‘Ja, ja!’
‘Du bist zufrieden?’
‘Ja, ja!’
‘You’re a bit of a shirker, eh, brother?’ says Beaucierge, giving him a friendly slap on the shoulder that makes him stagger.
‘Ja, ja!’
‘Not exactly belligerent, this little Christian, is he?’ says my comrade.
‘Ja, ja!’
‘We’re not talking to you, cabbage head!’
Our arrival is a big event. Word has got round that 9 company has taken a prisoner. Soldiers pour out of their huts and line the main street in the little village buried in the pine forest. At battalion HQ the excitement is similar. We all squeeze into the office, with poilus crowding the doorway. The commander appears and sends for a trench artillery officer who can serve as interpreter. Our German, estimating that his affairs are taking a turn for the better, stops standing rigidly to attention, and launches into a stream of protestations of goodwill while favouring us all with fraternal smiles. He tells his story to the officer who has just arrived, with rapid gestures, rather like a conjuror’s patter.
He is a former auxiliary who was sent to the front last week. The day after he took up his post was the day of our surprise attack: one of our shells killed four of his comrades right next to him, at the entrance to a shelter, and he tells us how dreadful were the effects of our bombardment. He made up his mind then and there that the war did not suit him and took the decision to get out of it as quickly as he could. He prepared his flight while waiting for the right opportunity, as could be seen from his beloved package, which he undid to show us a pair of new boots, socks, a hairdresser’s kit (that was his job), a shirt and a tin of fruit compote. That night, being on guard duty, he left his post, crawled to our lines and jumped down through a gap in our trench, at the risk of getting himself killed by both sides. He says that the war is a bad thing and seeks our approval. Which he gets, once the officers have left. Men run off to the kitchens and bring back coffee, bread, meat, cheese. We watch with sympathy while the deserter eats.
‘He likes his grub, eh?’
‘Gut?’ I say.
‘Gut, gut!’ he replies with his mouth full.
‘In Deutschland nicht gut essen?’
‘In Deutschland . . . Krrr!’
He mimes tightening his belt.
‘He’s a laugh, this Boche!’
We have no other word than Boche for a German. To our mind this isn’t a scornful term, it’s just handy, short and amusing.
Beaucierge and I profit from our mission by getting ourselves something from the kitchens. The kitchens are the platoons’ public forum; the citizen soldiers discuss public affairs there and get to hear news that arrives with the provisions. While a dirty, jovial cook grills up a bit of meat for us, we listen to what people are saying. Naturally the deserter is much discussed. The dominant opinion seems to be:
‘He’s not as fucking stupid as we are!’
The men nod their heads. But desertion remains the great unknown . . .
Relief troops are always sent to the front at night.
Our battalion is returning to the line after a fortnight’s rest in the village of Laveline down in the valley. The climb up takes several hours of stiff marching, because it’s a steep slope and the men carry full kits. The dark night, made even darker by the pine trees, obscures our path and our progress is erratic. We’re sweating despite the cold.
A piercing whistle rends the night like taffeta, the rush of a shell makes us bend like blades of corn, the sudden peril overhead stops our hearts. There’s a flash somewhere, like lightning. And then a clap of thunder, which reverberates down through the gorges to break on the valley floor. Then another, and another, explosion after explosion. Showers of fire light up the bare trunks of the pines. Furious, unstoppable blocks of metal, flying express trains, fall from the sky, surround us, drive us into panic. A storm of sound deafens us. We run up the slope, our legs breaking from the effort, our chests too narrow for bursting lungs that suck in air through the tight valve of our throats. Our hearts keep stopping, and we’re dizzy and the blood rushes into our veins and then out, leaving them empty. Our eyelids are shut but the glare of flames imprints itself on our retinas . . . We’re running for our lives.
Suddenly it stops. Men from different units, muddled together, sink to the ground to catch their breath. The night returns to protect us, the silence is comforting.
Then somewhere near me a risibly indignant voice is raised in complaint:
‘They should be ashamed of themselves, endangering the life of a man of forty, and a father of a family!’
‘Hey. Listen to this old codger who reckons he’s unsuitable corpse material!’ jeers a Parisian with a rough accent.
‘Shut your mouth you little whippersnapper!’
‘You’ve fornicated enough already, grandpa! Let someone else have a go . . .’
‘Watch what you’re saying, lad! You’re talking about our wives . . .’
‘Leave your wife be! She’s already had enough of your old mug and now she’ll console herself with some young blokes. It’s the old ones who have to croak first, everyone knows it!’
‘They should protect the life of a family man. Not married, you little cub? You’re useless!’
‘And you want me to tell you what you are? You’re an old pervert! You just want to stay nice and safe at home putting your wife up the spout while the lads are all here getting their heads smashed in. You’re a bloody sadist!’
‘Sadist!’ repeated the other, stunned. ‘Listen to this young hooligan!’
‘That’s what I said, a sadist! Luckily there’s some justice in the world and you’re a cuckold!’
‘You little swine!’ stammered the old man.
We could hear him get to his feet. But people held him back. The Parisian made his escape. He called back:
‘Don’t complain, old dear. It’s supposed to bring you luck!’
This exchange banished the memory of the alarm. We set off again. We learn that there were victims at the rear of the column.
Back at camp, well-built shelters are in short supply and all occupied by battalion command and officers. The reserve company are accommodated in two barraques Adrian,[27] equipped with individual bunks. The men spend a good part of the day inside, for their stay here is seen as a rest period, and their only duties are cleaning or restocking munitions.
A short while ago we were together in our hut, the four runners and the cyclist. We were all lying on our mattresses, smoking, except for Beaucierge who was passing the time with jokes in bad taste and an attempt to provoke the cyclist into single combat. The latter got rid of him by threatening to cut off his personal food supply. Further off the poilus were drinking and playing cards, or sleeping.
A shot rang out a few metres away, followed by screams. A soldier was looking gormlessly at his smoking Browning. It’s a common occurrence with automatics. Those who have them keep them loaded and when they want to take them apart for cleaning, forget to remove the bullet in the chamber. A number of accidents have resulted.
We went over to the injured man, who was still howling and pointing to his leg. While people went to get help, we started removing his trousers. The clumsy owner of the Browning was roundly cursed.
The young doctor arrived, looked at the injured man’s thigh and laughed:
‘Will you stop screaming! Can’t you see that you’ve struck it lucky?’
The man immediately stopped making a noise and his face lit up. The doctor probed his leg:
‘That doesn’t hurt? Or that?’
‘No!’
‘People would give a fortune for a wound like that! And to get it when you were asleep! You’ve got yourself three months at the rear!’
The wounded man smiled. We all did. Once the wound had been dressed, we called over the owner of the automatic. His victim shook his hand, thanked him warmly, and left on a stretcher, congratulated by the whole camp.
Since then the chump has been glorying in his clumsiness. You can hear him say: ‘It was me that got Pigeonneau out!’ And even talking about: ‘The day when I saved Pigeonneau’s life . . .’
Winter has come and it looks like being a harsh one.
In the beginning, icy blasts swept down the sides of the mountains, followed by the first frosts. Then one morning we woke up in a strange, heavy silence, and the daylight coming into our huts had a special glitter. Snow had fallen in the night and covered everything. It hung on the pine branches in thick layers, like tracery on a cathedral window. From now on we live in a cold, Gothic forest, smoke rising from our little Eskimo huts.
I had been back at the front for more than six months when we received two important pieces of news, which would change my destiny. Our company was to be attached to another battalion, and our lieutenant was leaving us.