3 THE CHEMIN DES DAMES

‘Man in battle . . . is a being in whom the instinct of self-preservation dominates, at certain moments, all other sentiments. Discipline has for its aim the domination of that instinct by a greater terror.

Man taxes his ingenuity to be able to kill without running the risk of being killed. His bravery is born of his strength and it is not absolute. Before a stronger, he flees without shame.’

Lieutenant-Colonel Ardant du Picq,
Etudes sur le combat (1880), trans. Col. John N. Greely and Major Robert C. Cotton (1921)

WE ARE IN THE TOWN OF Fismes, an accursed place, with the sad, forbidding aspect of any large industrial centre. This one is a centre of the war industry, surrounded by railway tracks, bays and platforms for loading and unloading, encampments of Moroccan soldiers, and aerodromes; a centre which is a convergence point for endless columns of lorries, artillery, ambulances, etc. Long processions of men remind you of shifts leaving factories, and through them weave the motorcars of the generals, the ironmasters. Their foundries glow before us, up on the ridges, and the noise of their huge anvils fills the sky as their heavy hammers pulverise human flesh.

Our billets are disgustingly dirty but they are only there to provide a day or two’s shelter for men passing through, human sacrifices whom there’s no need to bother about. Mere cattle pens. We are in Fismes, gateway to death.

We are also in Fismes, the town of total debauchery. All along the streets there is nothing but grocery shops spilling out on to the pavement. We’ve never seen such great pyramids of mouth-watering charcuterie, of tins with gold labels, such a choice of wines, spirits, fruit. Not many objects, though, for this is not the place to buy things which last. Just food and drink, everywhere. The sharks who run these shops treat us like scum and announce their prices defiantly. We’ve never paid such prices and the soldiers complain. The salesmen reply with a cold, implacable look that says: what use is your money if you’re not coming back? A good point! A particularly large explosion in the distance decides matters for even the most economical; they fill their arms and offer their money.

In the street I stop an artillery NCO whom I knew in civilian life. He’s a tall, calm lad, a little older than me, with the direct gaze of a child. In the past, I’d never seen him angry, or even irritated. He doesn’t seem to have changed. We find a table in a café and I question him. He tells me he’s acting as a detached observer, alongside the infantry, living in the trenches with the men. I ask him:

‘Outside Troyon. I set off with the African troops, Mangin’s famous army.’

‘You know how it is. No one sees any more than their own patch. But in mine it was slaughter. I can tell you about it, I was part of the waves of assault under Colonel J—. In the battalion we marched with, only about twenty men came back.’[31]

‘Simple enough: the Boche were waiting for us. Our attack had been planned for months, and everyone knew about it.’

‘Yes, I’d heard that. In the Vosges they announced that we were planning something very big in the Aisne, that Nivelle had decided to blast through German lines with his artillery. In short, all-out attack, without any attempt at hiding.’

‘Imagine it! The Boche also had artillery, and several divisions of troops. They brought them up. While we were making roads and paths and setting up munitions depots, they were installing armoured turrets for their machine gunners, they were constructing entrenchments, tunnels, and concrete bunkers, they were putting up new lines of barbed wire. They had all the time in the world to prepare their trap. The day of our assault, they just fired at will. In two hours our offensive had stopped dead. In two hours fifty to a hundred thousand of our men were out of action. We’ll never know the exact number.’

‘By the day of the attack I’d been waiting in the line for more than a week. The caves and countryside all round, the “Creutes marocaines,”[32] Paissy, Pargnan, etc., were all bursting with troops. Shiny new heavy artillery had been put in position in the ravine, three hundred metres from the trenches. Men and wagons and artillery everywhere: it was a fairground. The Boches did nothing, but their aeroplanes flew over very low and calmly noted all this movement, all our guns, our stores, our assembly points . . . At seven in the morning on 16 April we went over the top. At first we were unopposed, and their forward trenches were empty. We moved across the rest of the plateau and went down into the German ravine. The Boches had evacuated and then dug in at their undamaged second lines on the ridges on the other side. They let us rush down the slope and get to the bottom. And then they unleashed their barrages of artillery and machine-gun fire. Nivelle’s great offensive was broken there, less than a kilometre from its start, without having engaged the enemy at all.’

‘There was no way of doing anything else. Those who hadn’t been cut down had dug themselves into shell holes to escape the bullets. We couldn’t move. We had literally buried ourselves right in the middle of a shooting range.’

‘He was in a tight spot! He’d sent black soldiers to the rear to ask for reinforcements several times but never saw any of them again. Then we heard the sound of grenades which meant the Germans must be counter-attacking nearby. “Do you know this sector?” the colonel asked me. “Not well, sir.” “Too bad! You’re going to take this note to the general.” He gave me a big black soldier to accompany me. But we had to get through this wall of fire. We crawled from hole to hole, clambering over the corpses . . .’

‘Lines of them, piles of them! There is only one way to describe it: we were walking through meat . . . At last I managed to reach the plateau with no other damage than having my kit bag smashed by a bullet; I lost my revolver, my gas mask, my field glasses . . . Once on the plateau we hurried along the trenches to the divisional command post, in a cave in the Troyon ravine. The cave was full of officers, all shouting at each other because they were so afraid. Quite a comedy! I show them my note and they start to shout at me, too: “First of all, where have you come from?” “Where were you?” “With Colonel J., sir.” “That’s a lie, Colonel J. was taken prisoner at nine this morning . . . ” These chaps were completely crazy! “No, sir, I have just left the colonel, who is afraid of being surrounded and sent me to ask you for reinforcements.” “What reinforcements? I have no men left . . . ” “There are still a few territorials,” said another. “We’ll have to see . . . ” I wait for maybe an hour . . . Finally a captain comes up to me, looking suspicious: “Are you sure you can find Colonel J. again?” “I think so, sir.” “In that case, you will take the detachment that is waiting outside.” Outside, I find about forty territorials, led by an adjutant, their faces drawn in terror, carrying boxes of grenades. And all these poor buggers start to curse me: “Shitty little artilleryman, fucking bastard! Why couldn’t you keep your mouth shut? What do you think we’re going to do down there? That’s not where we should be, at our age . . . ” What a bloody mess! I tell them: “Look, if you don’t want to come, stay here. But I’ve got to go back.” Their adjutant decided: “Go in front. I’ll follow at the back to make them march.” I set off once more through the bombardment, at the head of forty old codgers, more dead than alive, moaning and wailing and stopping every twenty metres to make up their minds. We arrived in the night, just in time to join the retreat.’

‘Of course we did. There were a few hundred of us survivors and there were thousands of dead and wounded.’

‘Nothing, all over! The Boche took back their old positions with no opposition from us. If in turn they’d attacked seriously they would have driven us right off the Chemin des Dames, no doubt about it. But they were happy enough just to shell us heavily.’

‘For sure. You know how passive the men are. They’ve all been sick of the war for a very long time, but they still follow orders. For the troops to actually revolt, they had to have been pushed to the absolute limit.’

‘I can’t comment on that, I can only tell you what I saw. As always a host of contradictory rumours were going round. It seems to me it can all be explained quite simply. When they wanted to make them attack again, the poilus felt they were lost, thrown into the slaughterhouse by pig-headed incompetents. The cannon fodder rebelled, because they had waded through too many pools of blood and they couldn’t see any other way of saving themselves. It was their leaders, some of their leaders, who provoked them. Just think how they sent poor chaps to the firing squad, men who had already endured years of suffering, but not one single general was condemned. The revolt was a consequence of the massacre and you have to seek those responsible for it among the General Staff.’

‘I’ve heard vague claims that it was the politicians who hindered the military action and without this we’d have been successful.’

‘No, absolutely not! People can argue the toss as much as they like but one fact remains: the sixteenth of April cost the lives of 80,000 men in the French army. After such a bloodbath, there could be no question of going any further. I’ve seen what happens when you are led by raving lunatics only too closely!’

‘You don’t still believe that intelligence plays any great part in war, do you? You would be the only one . . .’

Back at camp, I am discussing how long we’ll be on the front line with a couple of runners. A cyclist turns up bearing new information, gathered here and there. He says:

‘It isn’t a question of time, nor of whether an attack succeeds. To be relieved, units must have suffered at least fifty per cent losses.’

This news hits us hard. Losses of half our men! I think about this: there are four of us here, none older than twenty-five. Two must die. Which two? Despite myself, I look at the others for fatal signs, something which might mark out people chosen for a tragic destiny. I’m picturing their waxy, lifeless faces, I’m choosing two comrades in our group to become corpses . . .

Of course this logic can be wrong, and it could be that all four of us come back. But if you stick to the figures, it’s accurate.

Since this conversation I’m unable to be with a man from our unit without asking the question: him or me? If I want to live I have to condemn him resolutely, mentally kill my brother in arms . . .

The regiment goes through Fismes one last time, at a quick march with a band in front. A macabre parade before civilians who’ve seen plenty of them already and are only staying here to make money.

And suddenly: ‘Present . . . arms! Eyes right!’ On a little mound stands a general with shiny boots on his legs, a fearless expression on his face, and his hand on his képi. Something strikes me about that hand: his thumb is turned down, like the sign made by the emperor in ancient arenas . . .

We’re approaching the explosions. At the entrance to the village of Euilly we have to go over a canal on a wooden bridge surrounded by debris from shelling. Crossing the Styx.

Leaving the village, the road is full of craters, the newest distinguished by the colour of the earth. At any second a shell could come down on us. There’s nothing to do but advance as fast as we can. Model T Ford ambulances driven by Americans pass us by, creaking and clattering and looking as if they’re about to topple over. We can hear the groans from inside. As they jolt across the bumps their canvas covers flap up, affording us a glimpse of the ashen-faced wounded, and their bloodstained bandages.

A lull allows us to reach unharmed the foot of a steep escarpment below a spur of the Chemin des Dames ridge. Our commandant halts the battalion to get his bearings. But others passing shout to us that we should not stay there. So we rush up the slope, bent over with our heavy loads, using our hands to get a grip where the ground is slippery.

Twenty metres from the top we find the entrance to a vast cave system, big enough to shelter several battalions. As the last men get inside, a furious bombardment comes down above and below us. We were just in time.

In this bandits’ lair we await our turn to move up to the front. Shells whistle down outside the cave entrances, all day and all night.

Leaning on my elbows on a little table with a candle, I’m keeping watch in the depths of the shelter. We relieved our comrades a few minutes ago. Battalion command has been set up in a very long sap, a kind of narrow gallery with a couple of sharp corners, ten metres underground. The reserve sections are also sheltering in the same sap. Everyone is asleep, except the lookouts at the cave mouths, and me, separated from them by the steps down and the turnings in the tunnel, and by groups of soldiers lying on the ground, curled up in jumbled heaps in the shadows, dead to the world. There must be a hundred men in the sap and you have to walk over them to get through. I feel their heavy presence, and their trust in me; it’s a lonely feeling. Some of them toss and turn violently in their sleep, start and shudder, or suddenly cry out in anguish, which makes me jump.

While watching over these sleeping minds, my own mind, working feebly, considers our situation. We are at the Chemin des Dames. I read the names we all know: Cerny, Ailles, Craonne, terrible names . . . I study our position. Our front lines are at most a hundred metres in front of us, and behind us there is less than fifty metres before the ravine into which the Germans are trying to push us. At the foot of the ravine, the plain stretches off into the distance, a plain so pulverized and desolate that it looks like a sea of sand (I looked at it when we were coming to find the battalion command). Recently the enemy has been attacking strongly in an attempt to take possession of the whole line of plateaus, and these attacks have advanced. At the point we are defending we’ve just a hundred and thirty metres left in which to hang on to the heights. We’re at the mercy of a well-organised major attack. And here, deep in the shelter, if the front line breaks we are powerless – with fifty steps to climb to reach the surface – and would be captured or suffocated by grenades. Not a happy situation . . .

A lead-tipped cane whacks me on the head, makes my ears ring, sets off the visceral panic that I know only too well. A violent gust of air slaps me in the face, blows out the candle and plunges me into the darkness of the grave. A furious bombardment is crashing down on us, ploughing into us, making the timbers of the sap creak. I hunt for matches, relight the candle, shaking like an alcoholic. Up above me it must be total destruction. The bombardment reaches an extraordinary intensity, then takes on the rhythm of machine-gun fire, like a kind of backbeat broken by the deep explosions of big time-shells, seeking us out in our caves.

My comrades, shielded by the thick walls of the sap that muffle the sound, are still sleeping, exhausted, like sleeping soldiers everywhere. I leave them in their unconsciousness for a while, face the fear alone. The violent bombardment surely means an attack is coming. Will the sections at the front hold out? . . . We’ll have to fight. Fight? I click off the safety catch on my automatic pistol.

A powerful explosion makes the flame tremble once more. I hear cries of panic from the depths of the darkness: ‘Gas! Gas!’ Then I shake those around me: gas! We put our masks on, pigs’ muzzles that make us monstrous and grotesque. We look especially pathetic with our heads bowed down on our chests. Now a hundred of us in this pit are listening to the destruction above us, and inside us, listening to the prompts of fear eating away our nerves. Will it be this time, any moment now, that we will die, like you die at the front, torn to pieces?

We wait to hear their names, like the numbers in a funeral lottery. Their bodies must be disinterred, right away.

The battalion commander occupies a niche at the side of the trench, a little underground cabin that he shares with his adjutant. We hear him asking:

Machine guns! . . . The rattle of machine guns. The sound of these terrible weapons cuts through all the other noise, stands out from the bombardment . . . We go quiet, our hearts constricted: now it starts . . .

Two ashen-faced men move off slowly, hunched over. The adjutant holds up his finger, cocks his ear:

Yes . . . so it would seem. The bombardment is slowing down. The rumbling is replaced by bursts of firing. But nothing is sure in this unknown sector.

There’s a clatter on the stairs. Two runners have returned, streaming with sweat, eyes vacant. They give their news to the commander:

‘Badly enough, sir. Several shells in the trench. They’re calling for stretcher-bearers.’

‘Yes, sir. He says there’s no danger for the time being and if the Boche come back, they’ll be ready for them.’

Saved, this time! We get the list of casualties: eleven men out of action in the 9th and seven in the 10th.

Around nine o’clock, the adjutant takes advantage of a lull to inspect the sector. While he’s away the bombardment starts again. He is brought back wounded, gravely, it seems. The battalion doctor comes to attend to him and he is carried away. The run of misfortune continues . . . We stay with the commandant. Our fate depends on his decisions. In the quiet sectors his attitude was more than cautious, it made us smile. This may be good: he won’t lead us into any reckless actions.

On the second night I have to go and fetch provisions from the edge of the Troyon ravine, and I return loaded with loaves of bread wrapped in a tent canvas. A cluster of trench mortars nearly catches us just outside the entrance to the shelter. By the light of a flare we can make out Frondet, on guard duty, who is crossing himself whenever there’s an explosion, like an old woman in a thunderstorm. My comrades laugh as they tumble on to the stairs. And I am thinking: ‘Prayers, intercessions, get whatever consolation you can, you poor old man!’ Frondet is a well-bred chap of thirty-two, who had a good job in industry abroad, and he has kept his good manners here. He endures without complaint the promiscuity that war inflicts and the coarseness of his companions. But his well-known piety does not save him from being afraid. On some days he looks like an old man. He has one of those lined faces with sad eyes and a desperate smile that mark out a man consumed by an obsession. When fear becomes chronic it turns an individual into a kind of monomaniac. Soldiers call this being down in the dumps. But in reality it is a type of neurasthenia that follows excessive nervous strain. Many of the men are sick, without being aware of it, and their febrile state can make them disobey orders or abandon their posts just as much as it can drive them to fatally rash deeds. It is often the only reason for certain acts of bravery.

Frondet himself clutches at his faith and his prayers but I have often realised, through the poignant humility of his gaze, that these things do not give him enough consolation. I secretly pity him.

We have spent two days crushed together in this pit, where the air is tainted by our breath and stale sweat, and the bitter stench of urine.

We’re targeted with furious bombardments several times a day, for no obvious reason. The constant danger denies us any respite. We are always afraid of an attack, of being forced out into a desperate struggle, of hearing shouts in German at the entrances or grenades exploding on the steps. We cannot see anything at all, and depend entirely on the companies who are fighting in front of us.

The Germans haven’t shown themselves again. But on a front like this where soldiers are nervous and on constant alert, artillery will be called in at the slightest sign of danger; the guns splutter into action at the first enemy flare, and then set the whole zone ablaze. The alert spreads like a trail of gunpowder. Within a few minutes, the eruption spreads across the plateaus. There is never total silence, the trench mortars continue their stealthy work, so terrible for our nerves, and their shells land all over the place. The number of victims continues to rise.

Our commandant hasn’t even reconnoitred the sector and never sets foot outside his little cabin. Apart from the adjutant who takes his orders, no one has set eyes on him. He relieves himself in a dixie which his batman goes and empties over the parapet outside. His meals are prepared for him on a spirit stove and he seems to spend the greater part of his day lying on his bunk. He has lost all dignity and no longer even attempts to keep up appearances. We know too much about what is becoming of all of us to judge him too harshly, but we deeply resent the way he unnecessarily exposes his runners to danger. He despatches them two by two under shellfire and sends out teams one after another without giving the first ones the chance to accomplish their mission. There is no useful information these men can bring back and the squad leaders would be the first to ask for help if they needed it. We feel that our commandant, no longer fit for his duties, will get us all killed stupidly, that fear is driving him mad without removing the rights that come with his officer’s shoulder stripes. We have stopped believing that anyone is leading our battalion, and this makes us very confused. Fortunately, we are well aware of the quality, the courage, of the three company commandants, who know how to judge a situation and always stand firm alongside their men in the trenches. Lieutenants Larcher of the 9th, and Marennes of the 10th, both about twenty-six, are rivals in audacity. The former can always be found at the most exposed spot in his sector. The latter, according to runners, sits on the parapet to observe the German positions. Then there is Captain Antonelli of the 11th, who gets possessed by a raging fury whenever he goes into action, one which would certainly carry him to the front rank in a counter-attack; older than the other two, he wants to show he is their equal. All three would give their lives rather than surrender their trenches, and are an inspiration to their men. They compensate for the inadequacy of the battalion leader, receive his orders with contempt, and decide what needs doing between themselves. We count on them.

In a sap at the front line we discovered the bodies of some men from the battalion that we had relieved. We assume they died of asphyxia after a gas attack.

I have in my hand a little pocket Kodak that I found on one of them. I would like to keep it because the camera belonged to sub-lieutenant F.V— (of whose death I thus learned) whom I had known slightly at university where he was studying for a degree in literature. But I realise that doing so might be misinterpreted. So I put it back on to the little pile of personal effects, though I doubt it will ever reach his family. Others will perhaps have fewer scruples, without the excuse of remembrance.

Later on I slip the camera beneath the other objects. Not because I still want to take it. But it reminds me of its owner. F. V— showed great promise, and this death is heart-wrenching because just a hundred metres from here it struck someone who links me to the days before the war. The death of those whom we only knew in the war, however sad it is, does not have the same significance, the same resonance.

Our heavy artillery has begun methodical shelling at a rate of one round every five minutes. They fall short: 155s and 220s almost invariably come down on our own lines. One sergeant was thrown into the air, several men have been wounded. There is every reason to believe that during most bombardments we are getting hit by shells from our own side. Men keep running back, cursing, demanding they extend the range of fire. We send more and more messages and signals. To no effect. An angry sub-lieutenant comes to us:

‘It’s a disgrace! Where are the heavy artillery officers? We’ve never seen a single one and there’s nothing else we can do.’

‘What a bunch of swine! They’re afraid of getting their boots dirty! They save their skin and don’t give a damn about ours!’

He sets off again, tears of rage on his face. The firing goes on: regular, idiotic, unbearable. This is surely one torment that the men in the trenches could have been spared.

I am curled up in a narrow recess underneath a shelf full of papers, cards and bits of equipment. I am sleeping in the dark, forgotten, on a pile of sandbags that I found there.

The first thing I’m aware of is the thunderous roar of the bombardment outside. The second is the pain, which is now localised and makes me panic. But it’s nothing, surely . . . no need to get excited . . . it will pass. Except that I have to face the facts: I have a bad stomach upset. I have to go outside. Go outside? All hell is breaking loose up there. The shelter is shaking and shuddering under the crashing waves of heavy shells. The roar of drumfire comes in, blast upon blast . . . I cannot go out!

A ridiculous, obscure little drama, and one in which my life may be at stake . . . My guts are fermenting, distending, pushing at my muscles which cannot hold back for long. My body is letting me down . . . OK, I’ve got to go! . . . Up there? I think of the latrines, near the entrance where the mortar shells are landing. I imagine the shrill, blinding night, the flashes of fire, the screech of the shells that you hear a tenth of a second before the blast. I cannot go, I cannot go out there! No, look, you don’t get yourself killed for an upset stomach, you overcome it. It would be too stupid!

Alone, knees pulled up, hands clenched on my stomach, eyes shut, I am struggling with all my might, making a superhuman effort. I am writhing, sweating, holding back my cries. I’ve never endured anything like this. And it’s not stopping . . . Can I hold out? I must, I must hang on . . .

‘But just go and do what you’ve got to do!’ I see myself coming back normally, the deed done, freed of my burden, intact and proud, as if I’d just accomplished some heroic act (and would it not be one?). I see myself, my face calm, my body purged, thinking: he who dares . . . ‘But you know very well that you won’t go.’ No, I will not go . . .

I am weakening. The band of muscles is stretching, the safety valves will not hold. My joints are all knotted up by the effort, like an attack of rheumatism. I have to get out of here!

I extricate myself slowly, stand up, make my way across this mournful crypt, bent almost double, holding my leaden stomach which is making my legs give way, feeling for the walls, looking for space to put my feet in between the sleeping men. I keep stopping to hold back violent contractions, hopping about on the spot.

Once you leave the central area of the cave and turn right there is a long sloping passage leading to the surface. I am breathing cooler air now but it is acrid, and the explosions are becoming sharper. I can distinguish the slow glug-glug of the 210s, which have a very long range, and the way some speed up when they fall into the ravine. Short bursts of machine-gun fire. A faint crackling sound that must come from grenades. Trench mortars battering away, exploding slowly like mines in a quarry . . .

A sudden shaft of light, which seems to come from an air vent, illuminates the shelter and shows the entrance, the end of the tunnel, fifteen metres away. Then there is a strange kind of moonlight, a flare going off. This sight makes me freeze in the shadows and I begin to question myself like a patient hesitating at the door to the dentist’s surgery. I think I feel a bit better. Yes, I definitely feel better, it was a good idea to walk . . . But the spasms start up again. I go a bit further on and in the darkness I bump into the two lookouts, who have come inside to shelter.

‘You ain’t exactly picked the best of moments to drop your trousers! Just listen to it out there. It’s still hammering down.’

I squat down on a box. Being so close to all the flares and flashes is giving me more strength to resist. The lookouts continue:

‘You can be sure the Boche have picked out the spot from aerial photos. They’re chucking it down at us, the bastards! But anyway it’s daft to let lads go outside, since you can’t see a bloody thing. Everything’s going up, you don’t even know where the front lines are any more.’

The incoming shells are more distinct now, longer gaps between them. I’m going to try my luck.

I’m out, trousers undone, bent over. I find the plank and let myself go, eyes shut. All my faculties are concentrated in my ears on which I depend to warn of any danger, decipher the sounds.

Vouououou . . . I rush back to the entrance, holding my trousers up with my hand. The mortar shell bursts very close by, its storm whistles over me, shrapnel slams into the ground.

‘You can bet that would have stopped you in mid-flow! Pity you can’t even take a shit in peace round here!’

I have to go again . . . I wait for a bit. Silence and darkness are returning to the night. The din of gunfire is no longer constant, the pauses are longer. Now’s the time. My second visit lasts longer, and no shell disturbs me.

I make it back to the shelter and rest for a while with the lookouts, worn out and preparing myself for another attack of this treacherous colic. My body is empty and weak and the morning chill makes me shiver. My suffering has been pointless and ridiculous. My companions are complaining:

For long enough, I fear. That is, for a few more days. But the days last forever in this sector of condemned men, whom only luck can pardon.

The artillery’s fury continues to intensify. Day and night we have no peace of mind. Day and night the shells, like a host of madmen with pickaxes, are smashing their way through to us, digging ever deeper. Day and night the projectiles doggedly rain down on this scrap of land that we have to defend. We know that an attack is in preparation, that there must be a denouement to these days of wrath. We know that the general staffs of two nations have begun a struggle over these plateaus in which their vanity and military reputations are at stake, that the result of this will raise one up and bring disgrace to the other, that this bitter, relentless battle which brings only despair to the soldiers who are fighting it is an ambitious calculation on the part of a few German generals who measure on the map every day how many centimetres still lie between them and the objective they brag of attaining, that they are vexed at the obstacles and delays we put in their way and blame these on the lack of courage of their own troops. We know that it will take deaths and more deaths on both sides for the one who launched the battle to be frightened by their losses and stop their campaign. But we also know that it takes an awful lot of victims to frighten a general, and the one stubbornly opposing us is nowhere near giving up yet.

The great offensives on the Western Front, which have all come to a standstill, make available a vast quantity of weaponry which is making local actions extremely bloody. Since Verdun, artillery barrages have become standard. The most minor assault is preceded by a bombardment aimed at flattening the enemy defences, and decimating and terrifying the garrisons. When firing is well aimed, those men who escape only do so because it is impossible to hit every single bit of land with shells. Those who are spared start to lose their reason.

Nothing I know has such a devastating effect on the morale of men in the depths of a shelter. The price they pay for their safety is nerves shaken and shattered to a terrible extent. I know of nothing more demoralising than this stealthy pounding, which hunts you down underground, which buries you in a stinking tunnel which may become your tomb. Going back to the surface requires an effort so great that you cannot force yourself to do it unless you overcome your terror at the start. You have to struggle with fear as soon as you have the first symptoms otherwise it will possess you and then you are lost, dragged into a breakdown that your imagination precipitates with its own, terrifying inventions. Your nerve centres, once they’ve been shattered, send out the wrong messages; even your instinctual self-preservation can be undermined by their absurd decisions. The greatest horror, aggravating the breakdown, is that fear still leaves men with the capacity to judge themselves. So you see yourself in the depths of ignominy and cannot regain your self-esteem, cannot justify yourself in your own eyes.

I have fallen to the bottom of the abyss of my self, to the bottom of those dungeons where the soul’s greatest secrets lie hidden, and it is a vile cesspit, a place of viscous darkness. Here is what I have been without knowing it, what I am: a fellow who is afraid, with an insurmountable fear, a cringing fear, that is crushing him . . . It would take brute force to drive me out of there. But I think I would rather die here than climb up those steps . . . I am so afraid that I have lost my attachment to life. And I disgust myself. I depended on my self-esteem to keep me going and I’ve lost it. How could I still display any confidence, knowing what I know about myself, how could I ever put myself forward, ever shine, after what I’ve discovered? I could fool others perhaps, but I would know I was lying, and this sham sickens me. I think of how I pitied Charlet in the hospital. I have fallen just as low as him.

I have stopped eating, my stomach is knotted and everything disgusts me. I drink nothing but coffee, and I smoke. In this perpetual night I no longer know one day from the next. I just sit in front of my little table, leaning over papers; I write, I draw, and take my turn as lookout for part of each night. Men I would rather not see pass by and sometimes bump into me; the wounded cry out in the corner where they have been left temporarily. I concentrate on pointless tasks. But I only hear the shells. The whole of the Chemin des Dames is shaking, and inside I am shaking with it.

I believe that if I had sufficient willpower to go out and go through a bombardment, it would free me from my obsession, like a highly dangerous vaccine can temporarily immunise those who can tolerate it. But I do not have that willpower and if I did I would not be so prostrate. And even then I’d have to revive it day after day.

I have even suspended my bodily functions: I no longer need to go to the latrines. I spend my free time out of sight in my little cubbyhole, listening to the noise outside. Every explosion of the bombardment hits me in the chest. I am ashamed of the sick animal wallowing in filth that I have become, but all my strings have snapped. My fear is abject. It makes me want to spit on myself.

In my cowardice, I rejoice at the fact that I have found an empty litre bottle complete with cork under the sandbags of my bedding. Periodically I turn on my side and piss in it, in short bursts, so that no one will catch me at my shameful little ruse. I am careful to empty the urine slowly throughout the day, so that it soaks into the ground. What a swine I have become!

Death would be preferable to this degrading torment . . . Yes, if this must continue much longer, I would rather die.

‘It wasn’t a role I chose freely. And I’m not an example that anyone is supposed to follow.’

‘Because the war is in these questions, in this internal conflict. The more you can think, the more you must suffer!’

And so mental suffering, which saps a man’s morale and diminishes him, is added to physical suffering: ‘It’s your choice: degradation or shells.’

From Colonel Bail, commandant of the 903rd Infantry Regiment, to battalion leader Tranquard, commandant of the 3rd battalion of the 903rd.

Battalion leader Tranquard to make immediate preparations for attack. Two companies to join the attack. Reserve company to assemble in “Franconia” trench and be ready to reinforce assault troops.

Battalion leader Tranquard to follow instructions detailed in operations order regarding lateral liaison, signalling, ammunition supply, evacuation of wounded, etc. But he is to take all measures necessitated by the nature of the terrain or special circumstances which he judges will contribute to success of operation.

Battalion leader Tranquard to keep Colonel Bail informed on his preparations and to confirm to him at 4.30 a.m. by agreed signals that his unit is ready for action.

And, in the colonel’s hand: ‘The objective must be taken, the regimental division expects nothing less. I am counting on the 3rd battalion.’

It’s ten o’clock at night. We are bending over the adjutant’s shoulder to read the terrible document he has just received from the commandant.

The death sentence, the death sentence for many of us . . . We look at each other and our looks reveal our distress. We have not the courage to say a word. The runners set off, bearers of the tragic news.

The news soon travels through the cave, wakes the sleepers, fills the shadows with whispers, makes those lying down jump to their feet with a start, like men who know they are doomed.

And then there is a heavy silence. The men fall still again, take refuge in the darkness to hide the agony on their faces.

Everyone is stunned, knocked senseless, throats squeezed by a noose of anguish: we’re going to attack! Everyone retreats into his own forebodings and despair, tries to reassure, to control his unwilling, indignant, rebellious body, battles against hideous visions, images of corpses . . . The grim vigil begins.

I write. I write what the adjutant dictates, the words that prepare the massacre of my comrades, perhaps of me.

I feel like an accomplice. I also carefully copy several maps for the company commandants, drawing a line in red pencil to mark the objective. Like some staff officer at HQ . . . But I am part of this . . .

The orders are sent off. Now there is nothing to distract me. I imagine zero hour. For us, too, the day will be hard. There is no doubt we’ll also be moving to the front.

Soldiers are going to attack; soldiers are going to perish. Would I give my life for the ‘Helmets’ trench? No! And the others? No! And yet dozens of men will give their lives, of necessity. Hundreds of men, who are so unwilling to fight, are going to attack.

We have no more illusions about combat . . . One single hope holds me up: perhaps I will not be compelled to fight. A shameful hope, a human hope!

The battalion adjutant calls us together and we can tell from his troubled manner that this is something very grave.

‘No. Half of you will march with the companies. The other half will stay here to carry orders. How many are you?’

‘Not including signallers, cyclists and batmen, there are eight of us available.’

No one answers. The adjutant divides us into two groups. But when he is about to indicate which ones will go, which ones are condemned, he feels the weight of eight pairs of eyes fixed on him. He lowers his head, he cannot make the decision.

There is nothing to say to that. We accept. He tears up two bits of paper into strips of different lengths and hides them behind his back.

‘How do we do it? The short strip means you go to the front, the long one you stay here. OK?’

He offers Frondet the two thin folds of paper sticking out of his fist. We stare at the fist which holds our fates, four lives. Frondet reaches out his hand, hesitates . . .

The explosion of a trench mortar which has landed outside blows out the candle flame. We shudder. Frondet jumps back:

I pull out a strip which the men in my group stare at dumbly: it’s the short one. Opening his fist, the adjutant confirms it. There is an agonising moment for everyone.

‘All right, the question is solved!’ I say with as much indifference as I can manage and a little smile that is supposed to mean: I couldn’t care less!

The winners move away, shamefacedly. So as not to have to witness our pathetic attempts to keep a stiff upper lip. So as to spare us the cruel spectacle of their relief.

My three comrades are Frondet, Ricci and Pasquino. I guess that they resent me because I drew the wrong number. I put on a nonchalant air one more time, as much for them as for the adjutant who is observing how we are taking it:

‘You’ll see, it’ll all turn out OK. We’ve made it back before, haven’t we?’

No one is fooled by these assurances and I go off and huddle down in my corner where I do not have to hide my trepidation.

It is three in the morning. We will soon leave the shelter. I concentrate on my gear, to give myself the best chance. I know that freedom of movement is of capital importance. Since it’s summer, I decide to leave behind my coat and second pack. I will march with my food pack, my canteen full of coffee, my gas mask and my pistol. The pistol is the best weapon for close combat. Mine holds seven rounds and I have a spare magazine in my left pocket. I am not so afraid of facing a German: it is a duel in which skill and cunning play their parts. But the shells, the barrage of fire, the machine guns . . .

If needs must, I could get some grenades in the trench. I do not like grenades. Still . . .

But I can’t believe this is happening! . . . Ah, my pack of field dressings . . .

All around me men are now also getting themselves ready, cursing loudly, in a clatter of weapons and kit.

Then suddenly, from god knows where, the order comes which turns the terrible thoughts that preoccupy us into an immediate reality, and puts an end to our last respite:

Frondet, very pale, is at my side: we must march together. We are swept into the ranks and drawn along with the irresistible force of the crowd. As I’m going up the steps I bang my leg against a box of grenades. The pain makes me pause for a moment.

‘What’s your problem? Shitting yourself?’ growls a voice behind me, and I’m shoved forward with the brutality that comes from furious resentment and makes soldiers seem brave.

The fading darkness is still lit up by flares, cold shafts of light which dazzle us then leave us blundering in murky confusion. All our attention is focused on moving, marching. Force of habit is so strong, slavery so well organised that we go forward in good order, docilely, towards the one place on earth where we do not want to go, with mechanical haste.

We quickly reach the front line. Frondet and I go to meet Lieutenant Larcher, commander of the 9th. He calls to us from inside his shelter:

The first light of dawn sadly reveals the silent, dreary, ravaged battlefields where there is nothing but destruction and putrescence, reveals the ashen, dismal faces of men in muddy, bloodstained rags, shivering in the cold of morning, the cold in their souls, terrified attackers, praying for time to stop.

We drink eau-de-vie that has the sickly taste of blood and burns the stomach like acid. A foul chloroform to numb our brains, as we endure the torture of apprehension while waiting for the torture of our bodies, the living autopsy, the jagged scalpels of steel.

4.40 am. These minutes before the bombardment starts are the last of life for many among us. Looking at each other we dread already guessing who the victims will be. In a few moments some men will be ripped apart, flattened on the ground, will be corpses, objects of horror or indifference, scattered in shell holes, trampled underfoot, their pockets emptied, buried in haste. And yet, we want to live . . .

One of my neighbours offers us cigarettes, insists that we empty the packet. We try to refuse:

We take the cigarettes and smoke feverishly, before the inevitable. All possibility of retreat is gone.

A few trench mortar shells burst behind us. Machine guns rattle, bullets ping against the parapet that we must cross.

Our future is in front of us, on the ploughed-up, lifeless soil over which we must run, offering our chests, our stomachs . . .

The shell just exploded there, on my right. I got a blow on the head that left me dizzy. I put my hand to my face, and took it away, covered in blood, and I do not dare assess how bad it is. I must have a hole in my cheek . . .

I am surrounded by whistling shells, explosions, smoke. Screaming soldiers barge into me, madness in their eyes, and I see trails of blood. But I am only thinking of myself, of my own calamity, my head down, hands on the embankment, like a man who is vomiting. I don’t feel any pain.

Something detaches itself from me and falls at my feet: a flabby, red piece of flesh. Mine? My hand goes back to my face in horror, hesitates, starts with the neck, the jaw bone . . . I clench my teeth and feel the muscles working . . . Nothing. And then I understand: the shell has blown a man to pieces and slapped a human poultice on my cheek. I shudder with disgust. I spit on my hand and wipe it on my jacket. I spit on my handkerchief and rub at my sticky face.

The artillery thunders, obliterates, disembowels, terrifies. Everything is roaring, flashing, shuddering. The sky has disappeared. We are in the middle of a monstrous maelstrom, pieces of sky come crashing down and cover us with rubble, comets collide and crumble, sparking like a short circuit. We are caught in the end of a world. The earth is a burning building and all the exits have been bricked up. We are going to roast in this inferno . . .

Bodies whimper, dribble, soil themselves in shame. Thought prostrates itself, begs the cruel powers, the demonic forces. Tormented minds throb weakly. We are worms, writhing to escape the spade.

This is the consummation of ignominy. There is no disgrace we will not accept. To be a man is the depth of horror.

Just let me get away. Let me live in shame and infamy, but let me get away . . . Am I still me? Is this piece of jelly, this stagnant human puddle, really me? Am I alive?

Ashen-faced, stupefied, the men draw themselves up a little, check their bayonets. The NCOs bark out commands, like sobs.

My comrade’s teeth are chattering, shameful: my own image! Lieutenant Larcher stands in our midst, tense, holding himself up by his rank, his pride. He climbs up on the fire-step, looks at his watch, turns:

The line shudders, the men clamber up. We repeat the shout, ‘Forward’, with all our might, like a cry for help. We throw ourselves behind that cry, into the stampede of the charge . . .

The feeling of being suddenly naked, the feeling that there is nothing to protect you.

A rumbling vastness, a dark ocean with waves of earth and fire, chemical clouds that suffocate. Through it can be seen ordinary, everyday objects, a rifle, a mess tin, ammunition belts, a fence post, inexplicable presences in this zone of unreality.

Heads or tails for our lives! A kind of unconsciousness. The brain stops working, stops understanding. The soul separates from the body to accompany it, like an impotent, weeping guardian angel. The body seems suspended from a thread, like a puppet. Shrunken up, it rushes forward and totters on its soft little legs. The eyes distinguish only the immediate details of the surroundings and the act of running absorbs every faculty.

Men are falling, opening up, splitting, shattering. Shrapnel misses us, blasts of hot air envelop us. We hear the impact of bullets hitting others, their strangled cries. Every man for himself. We are running, each of us marked out. Now fear acts as a spring, multiplies our animal powers, makes us insensible.

The maddening chatter of a machine gun on the left. Where to go? Forward! There lies safety. We are charging to capture a shelter. The human machine is set in action and will only stop when pulverised.

Moments of madness. At ground level we can see flames, rifles, men. The sight of men enrages us. In that instant our fear is transformed into hatred, into the desire to kill.

We are there. The Germans wave their arms about. They flee their trench and escape down a communication sap. A few desperate ones are still firing. I see one, threatening.

I spring like a tiger, with admirable agility and coordination. I jump down in the trench next to the German, who turns to face me. He raises one arm, or two, I don’t know how many, or with what intention. My flying body dives, with unstoppable force, helmet first, into the stomach of the man in grey who falls on his back. And now I jump on this stomach, heels together, with all my weight. It buckles, gives way under me, like crushing an insect. Only then do I remember my pistol . . .

Now there is a second German in front of me, gaping with fear, open hands raised to his shoulders. OK, good, he’s surrendering, leave him be. Perhaps I should not have hurt the other one but he was taking aim at me when I was already only twenty metres away, the fool! And it all happened so fast!

I stare at the prisoner, my fury suddenly calmed, not knowing what to do. At that moment, a bayonet, forcefully thrust from above on the plain, goes through his throat, and sticks into the side of the trench, so that the rifle’s sights bang against the parapet. One of our men follows the weapon. The German remains suspended there, knees bent, mouth open, tongue hanging out, blocking the trench. It is ghastly. The one I stamped on is groaning. I step over him without looking down and get away as fast and far as I can.

Our assault wave has swarmed into the trench screaming. The poilus are like wild beasts in a cage. Chassignole shouts:

Another soldier grabs at my arm, pulls me along and, pointing at a corpse, tells me proudly:

It is an instinctive reaction, joyful savagery born of extreme stress. Fear has made us cruel. We need to kill to comfort ourselves and take revenge. Yet those Germans who escaped the first blows will come out of this unscathed. We cannot set upon unarmed enemies. We concentrate on rounding them up. From one sap where they had thought they’d die, twenty of them emerge, jabbering ‘Kamerad!’ We notice their skin, green from terror and grey from malnutrition, their shifty, nervous glances like those of animals accustomed to ill-treatment, their excessive submissiveness. Our men push them about a bit, not with malice any more but with the astonished pride of conquerors. Naturally, we go through their pockets. We feel a degree of contempt for these pathetic enemies, a contempt that protects them:

The poilus all crowd round, eagerly searching for a bit of booty to calm their overexcitement. We expected more resistance and our fury suddenly has no object.

‘Set up lookout positions straight away and post sentries. We must prepare to meet the counter-attack.’

Success has given us enormous strength and confidence. We feel extraordinarily resilient, which comes from our desire to live and our fierce will to defend ourselves. Our blood is up and right now, in broad daylight, we fear no man.

Our artillery is striking hard in front of us, to wipe out any reaction from the enemy. The German batteries haven’t shortened their range and continue to pound away at the positions we left. We are in a quiet zone. We take advantage of this to organise ourselves. Our fervour diminishes bit by bit, our courage vanishes like a drunkard’s stupor, anxiety about the future returns. The men demand to be relieved, since they have done what was expected of them. We are hoping we will be withdrawn from here tonight. But a lot of things can happen before nightfall.

The exhausted artillery has more or less ceased fire and there is no sign of the enemy. We take advantage of the calm to escort the prisoners to the rear. There are four of us to take fifty of them. They offer no resistance at all and on the contrary seem very happy with the way things have turned out, and keen to get safely under cover at last. No sap leads from the captured trench back to our positions. We have to cross the plain, in full view of the Germans, but we are shielded by their own men on whom they will not fire. This protection allows us to take a look around.

On ground that is still smoking, our men, who regained consciousness of reality along with pain, are lying, howling like beasts. They are pleading not to be left to die alone on this plateau that is now bathed by the warm rays of the sun, shining joyfully for men who are whole and happy. But we cannot help them before nightfall. Those who are less severely wounded drag themselves along on their broken limbs with desperate energy, driven by the horror of the battlefield and the lack of aid. In a shell-hole one of them manages to use his knife to cut off the last strips of flesh holding his foot, which is hampering his progress by getting caught in the rough terrain. We take him with us. The gravely wounded have their hands clenched over the gashes in their bodies from which their lives are pouring in fountains of blood, lives whose memories they are replaying behind closed eyes, talking to themselves in the gathering fog of death. Others lie stretched out and still, calmed, of no importance: dead, just identity tags that we remove from their wrists to add to the lists. We also find scattered limbs, an arm, a leg, inert objects. A grimacing head has rolled off on its own. Mechanically, we look around for a body with which to join it in our thoughts.

When we are about twenty metres from our trench, we signal to the prisoners to pick up and carry some of the wounded. Those at least will be saved if there is still enough life in them. Shells start to fall again in our vicinity.

Confusion reigns at the command post, the chaos that comes with critical moments. There is a constant coming and going of runners, stretcher-bearers and officers, everyone swopping contradictory news, good or awful, based on whatever remarks distracted men have made on the hoof and which the general anxiety has quickly twisted and exaggerated. The sap has been swamped by a unit of reinforcements, detached from another battalion, making a lot of racket because they are afraid they’ll have to join the battle. We push our way through this mob and get asked the same question as anyone who comes from outside:

We reach the adjutant and give him Lieutenant Larcher’s report and the list of losses: a quarter of the men. We recognise the voice of the commandant, who has not left his little dugout; he is phoning through to tell of our success, his success. We find our comrades again. They tell us that Ricci is dead, and in a corner we see Pasquino, completely dazed, struck dumb by shell shock, sobbing hysterically, making sounds rather like a muffled kazoo from his throat, and waving his arms around to signify the unbearable, like an idiot.

We ask to take the Germans to the colonel ourselves. Permission is granted. Together with Frondet we set off quickly, bringing Pasquino along so we can leave him at the first-aid post. After passing over the wounded to stretcher-bearers, we take the main trench on the opposite slope. Mortar shells are landing on the plateau and shrapnel whistles over our heads. The prisoners flatten themselves on the ground, jostling each other and emitting guttural cries. We force them to get up and march calmly. We have no wish to show fear in front of them, especially as we envy their luck: the war is over for them and they will be better nourished with us than they were before. We also know we are in a dead angle and not in much danger.

The shellfire increases. 210s are methodically hammering the ravine and the access routes; the enemy is trying to cut off our communications.

At last we reach the colonel’s command post. We herd the prisoners into the cave where they are immediately surrounded by curious onlookers, and we go to tell an NCO of their arrival. Then we make ourselves scarce as fast as we can so no one can give us a mission that would oblige us to go out again during the intensifying bombardment. We are trying to gain time, as much time as possible.

We find the corner where all the cyclists, batmen and cooks from HQ are waiting. They ask us questions, give us food and drink, offer us cigarettes; they cover us in kindness, atoning for the safety that they are lucky enough to have. Their company has a soporific affect on us. We listen to the distant noise of shells above the thick vault that protects us: the thought of going back out there frightens us terribly. We shuffle about indecisively for a couple of hours, waiting for a lull, and sometimes approach the exit then go back in again. The cave is packed with men like us who have found shelter here and are putting off the moment when they must expose themselves once more. You can tell them by their worried air.

But eventually we know we will have no excuse for further delay. Abruptly we throw ourselves out of the exit, and run towards the front.

Rolling fire has started hitting the ground around us, chasing us down into the bottom of the sap, making the beams of the shelter creak and filling it with gusts of warm air that smells of gunpowder. Candles flicker out, voices tremble. Then the bombardment silences us, overwhelms everything, devastates . . . The Germans are probably going to counter-attack . . .

Along with Frondet, we have tucked ourselves way in some dark corner, far from the adjutant, mixed in with men from the company. We are keeping our heads down, we do not want to be found and, if we hear someone calling, we will not answer. Enough is enough! We have done enough today. We don’t want to go out, to cross the plateau under a barrage of shellfire, bank on another miracle to save our lives. We hide our faces, pretend to be asleep. But we listen intently, in terror and despair, to what is happening above us – sick with fear. A herd of elephants is up there, trampling and pulverising. The shells are masters of the earth. We are afraid, so afraid . . .

The adjutant waited too long to pass on the orders. The companies were relieved long ago by the time we leave the battalion command post, and now it is the time for the artillery to start up again.

Fortunately, the clear night helps our progress, There are fifteen of us, all the runners, going as fast as we can. We can hear the explosions on the plain; our artillery is starting its work, and the Germans will not take long to respond.

The trench ends up at the foot of the ravine, from where a road leads to a crossroads named The Crooked Farmhouse, a bad spot. The explosions are ever more frequent and the night is furrowed by very low whistles, carrying off into the distance.

We walk in silence. The mist hanging in the narrow valley muffles sounds. But still I listen hard to the trajectories tracing above us. I can soon make out whistles that sound suspicious: incoming, ending with the ‘plop’ typical of gas shells. No one suspects it yet, and if I give a warning I’ll be laughed at. But I stay on my guard.

We throw ourselves into the ditch. It is as if a line of overhead hoppers were coming off their rails and tipping out their cargo of explosives. The ravine resounds with detonations, shrapnel cuts through the night. More convoys of 150s come into their station in the sky, and tip over. The crossroads we need to pass is a volcano. We must wait. The screech of gas shells slips into gaps in the uproar.

Silence. A few seconds of silence, then one, two minutes’ silence. We rush into this silence as if we were running across a collapsing footbridge. Our breathing has trouble keeping up with us, and starts to lag behind, groaning hoarsely.

The crossroads, the farm, the stench of gunpowder, fresh, smoking shell-holes . . .

If the German battery chief had ordered the gunners to open fire at that moment we would have been killed. We take off down the road which skirts the rear of our positions and leads to the canal. But the shells are cunning, and now they’re exploding on our right.

We jump down. The 150s hit the ground at the same time as we do, near the farmhouse. Screams follow the explosions.

Good! The men who have been hit aren’t ours – the others can look after themselves.

Two seconds’ anguish, every muscle clenched as death approaches. The thunderbolts miss us, scatter. Flick the switch: restart heart and lungs.

The breath of these monsters flattens us on the ground, the explosions suck out our brains, empty our heads.

‘Bad luck to get ourselves smashed up because of some idiot. We should have . . .’

A desperate dash, running for our lives, falling to the ground whenever shells come down. We are totally exposed on the road, surrounded by explosions. Zing! A piece of shrapnel hits a helmet . . . No more thoughts: run. All our will is concentrated in our lungs.

Ss-vrrraouf . . . The terrifying flash . . . that’s it, this time . . . Me, me! . . . No, I’m not hit . . . But there must have been some damage . . . Three seconds’ self-examination. Then an unrecognisable voice. Mine?

I take the torch, go forward, flood the ground with light. Horror! A corpse stretched out, a shattered head, half empty, brains like thick pink cream.

We can’t go any faster, don’t even hit the ground when we hear a shell. The explosions drive us on like whiplashes. We run and we run, veins pounding, vision clouded by red mist from the strain, the last effort.

We have outrun the bombardment. We fall to the ground, try to gather our strength.

Zzziou-flac . . . Zzziou-flac . . . Zzziou-zzzziou-flac-flac . . . Gas shells are coming closer and the 150s seem to be coming back too. We get going. The road slopes gently down. Further on there’s a sinister fog, which smells bad.

They make walking very difficult. The eyepieces get steamed up, we breathe in hot, thin air with difficulty, and our pace slows.

Vouououou . . . The percussion shells are coming in again, targeting us. We pull off our masks and run for it, breathing in the poisonous air. But only for a short while. The road climbs again and the fog disperses. Finally the shells become much more intermittent.

The men with the heaviest loads slow down. The danger is moving away. We all flop down behind a bank which protects us from any last shrapnel.

We answer with nervous laughter, the laughter of the insane. Oh, and by the way, the dead man?

At first light we reach a village. Gérard, whose shoulder wound does not seem too bad, leaves us to go to a first-aid post. Then the adjutant goes off, looking for the commandant and some stretcher-bearers. We stay in the village square, beside a fountain.

‘We’re done in!’ says Mourier, the runner for the machine-gunners, ‘I’m going to try to find us a field kitchen.’

Off he goes. He has only walked a little way, hands in his pockets, when he encounters a police officer on horseback. He doesn’t bother to give him a glance.

We hear Mourier’s angry answer, just before he disappears into a row of ruined houses:

3. THE CHEMIN DES DAMES