Chapter V: Book II: The Battle (2)

Properly speaking, there were no earlier Vaux engagements. The series of operations forms an unbroken chain. Masters of Douaumont on February 25, the Germans at once tried to profit by their success. Douaumont could not be of any real use to them unless they succeeded in debouching from it to march on the line formed before Verdun by the hill of Froideterre, the village of Fleury on the other side of the ridge, Fort Souville, and Fort Tavannes. With this aim in view they will try to make progress to the east, in Nawé Wood, which is intersected by a series of ravines favourable to an offensive, going down from the slopes of Douaumont towards the Meuse (the ravines of Helly, La Couleuvre, and La Dame) to reach the earthwork of Thiaumont, and from there that of Froideterre. Their manœuvres will be the same to the east, in the wood of La Caillette and that of Gardaumont, which are also split up by ravines (those of La Caillette and La Fausse Côte) to descend into the ravine of Le Bazil and to climb up again by Vaux-Chapître Wood in the direction of Souville. On both sides they will find the road blocked, and they will fall tooth and nail upon the village and fort of Vaux, to the east, positions whose capture is equally essential to the realization of their scheme. Driven back from La Caillette Wood, they will approach, by way of Hardaumont Wood, the village which gives the key to the ravines of Le Bazil and Les Fontaines. They will make a frontal attack on the fort by its north-eastern slopes, aided by the formation of the ground which, once the foot of the slopes is occupied, enables them to advance, out of sight and out of artillery range, on account of the angle of descent, to within three or four hundred yards of the counterscarp wall.

Our 303rd Brigade (408th and 409th Regiments) occupies, during the night of March 1 and 2, the section from La Caillette to Damloup; a battalion of the 408th holds the slopes of the fort, and two battalions of the 409th hold the cemetery and the village. The fort itself has for a garrison two companies of the 71st Territorial Regiment, composed of worthy natives of Anjou, level-headed and hard-working. But let not the reader imagine a line of continuous, fully-equipped trenches, with communication passages, dug-outs, store depots, and so forth! The violence of the German attack launched on February 21 against Verdun has for the time being substituted field fighting for siege warfare. The lines of defence have been carried back to the rear, and the artillery has swept the terrain to such an extent that it has destroyed all the existing defences. Nothing is left but shell-holes and rubbish heaps. It was imperative to hold fast to this devastated soil, to hang on it, to break it up with the pickaxe and, failing pickaxes, with the bayonet, with finger-nails, to live on top when one could not get below ground, to keep awake and watchful, to shoot, to kill, to die without accepting defeat.

During the early days of its occupation of the sector the brigade makes a little progress in Hardaumont Wood. A company seizes the southern earthwork and entrenches itself there. But on March 5, 6, and 7, the bombardment is so violent that it is impossible to consolidate the position. Replenishing is done with difficulty. An attack is imminent. It takes place on the 8th about eleven o’clock in the morning, towards the village. It is led by the famous Guretsky-Cornitz Brigade (6th and 19th Regiments), which was destined next day to be immortalized in the German wireless. It debouches partly from Hardaumont Wood, where our earthwork is lost, partly from the railway embankment which skirts it and has served as a screen. The waves of enemy infantry succeed in outflanking our first line and swamping an entire battalion. Our machine-guns bring them to a halt at the entrance to the village, which they have succeeded in reaching; they even occupy a few houses. Before our fire the breakers recoil, but with the prisoners taken from our outflanked first line.

A little later, when a fresh assault is launched farther to the east, between the cemetery and the slopes of the fort, the enemy grenadiers who precede it are clothed in uniforms and caps taken from the prisoners, and they shout in French, with a heavy Teutonic accent: “Don’t shoot!” adding even the number of the regiment (409th) whose facings they are wearing, although the numerals have been torn off. Already, in the morning, in order to approach the ravine, the enemy has made use of another ruse which he has employed more than once. Stretcher-bearers, ostentatiously displaying their Red Cross armlets, seem to be carrying a stretcher or digging a grave: the stretcher contains a machine-gun, the grave is an embryo trench.

For all that, this series of assaults has brought the enemy up to the approaches to the village and cemetery of Vaux. Through what defect in co-ordination does he fancy it to be already within his grasp? Has his half-success of the previous day turned his head? On the morning of March 9 he sends two or three companies of the 19th Regiment to occupy his vaunted gain. The companies quietly enter Vaux, in columns, without previous reconnaissances. Now a battalion of ours has just come up to reinforce us, during the night of 8th-9th, under the command of Major Delattre. It celebrates its arrival by a furious fire, at once counter-attacks with the bayonet and throws the enemy back to the ravine of Hardaumont. Major Delattre, rifle in hand, goes at the head of his men. He is past fifty; his age and the hardships of the campaign have earned him retirement, but he has refused it--a son and a brother of his have fallen in the war, and he is thus tied to his post by sacred bonds. He knows, by the way, what will befall him. The evening before he confided his presentiments, in quite a cheerful spirit, to a comrade:

“There are families marked out for the salvation of the country. It is an honour. I shall follow in the footsteps of my son and my brother.”

And so it turned out; he was killed on the ground that had been regained.

On the 9th, during the day, the enemy renews his onslaught and manages to establish himself in the eastern portion of Vaux village and in the cemetery. He tries to reach the fort by its northern side, but cannot get near; our fire brings him to a halt at the trench dug behind the barbed wire, two or three hundred yards from the earthwork.

The day of the 10th will be still more of an ordeal. The Germans have to justify the lying communiqué which told the world of the capture of Fort Vaux. Throughout the night of March 9-10 and the day of the 10th, the artillery, in clearing the way, overwhelms the fort with projectiles of every calibre, and tries to isolate it by a curtain fire which makes a special mark of the lower end of La Horgne on the Damloup side, the ravine of Les Fontaines in Vaux-Chapître Wood, and the advanced works of Souville. Accordingly the fort and that part of the village which remains in our hands form an islet swept from end to end by gunfire, where the infantry, when it marches, thinks that it will find nothing but débris of war-stores and a garrison either wiped out or so much reduced and dispirited that it will be incapable of defence.

But the reinforcements have come in spite of all. The 3rd Battalion of light infantry is in reserve, ready to lend its aid to the brigade which is fighting. The Territorials of the 71st are still sending out fatigue parties for water, food, and munitions. The scouts have not abandoned their duties. This is the continual miracle of Verdun. Under an unprecedented bombardment everything is done as before--reliefs, replenishing, the linking up of connections. A sense of order directs the whole, and the work gets done.

Major Belleculet is in command at the fort. Besides the two companies of Territorials, he has at his disposal a battalion of Regulars. He has organized his defence in front of the fort, on the slopes already approached the previous evening, protected by two rows of barbed wire. The enemy pays less attention to these slopes than to the fort itself, either because he believes his own lines to be nearer, or because, in order to bring his troops close to their objective, he wishes to profit by the more rapid descent from the tableland on to the plains of the Woevre after the two or three hundred yards of gentle incline in front of the counterscarp.

From eight o’clock in the morning, on the observing station which remains intact, the commandant sees small groups of men go down the slopes of Hardaumont and mass themselves to the left of the railway. He calculates the forces whose range he has got to be three battalions. No doubt the reserves, out of sight, are more numerous.

At noon the bombardment increases in force. At six o’clock in the evening it breaks off abruptly. The village and fort are both attacked at once. This is the sudden frontal attack, daring, almost foolhardy, which the enemy pursued with success at the outset of the Verdun battle, relying on his artillery superiority and on surprise or loss of nerve in the ranks of his opponents. He is not master of La Caillette Wood or of Damloup, he has no grip either on our right or on our left. He confines operations to a stubborn obstacle whose possession would ensure him a salient in our lines, and he dashes against it as hard as he can, like a battering-ram against a door.

On the fort the assault is delivered in successive waves, not in a cordon but in small columns, now directly in front of the parapets, now slantwise on our left, between the cemetery and the fort, where he finds a battalion of the 408th. In the barbed wire there are gaps that our men have been unable to repair, dating from previous bombardments. No doubt the enemy, from photographs by his airmen, imagines them to be more important than they really are. He is faced by our machine-guns and rifles along the whole line. From six to eight in the evening he returns to the charge with a tenacity and vigour which it is only fair to acknowledge. He wants to break through at all costs. All his efforts are in vain. Our gallant lads’ rifles grow so hot that they have to be relieved. The Territorials ask, as a favour, to be allowed to undertake this shift. They acquit themselves even better than their young comrades. They remember their lying in wait for game and their fine marksmanship, on Sundays, on the borders of the forests of Anjou. To be a good shot, one needs a steady nerve and one must never be in a hurry.

Inside the fort the soldiers of the Regular battalion have finished cleaning and greasing their rifles. They feel comparatively comfortable. One of them, however, makes a suggestion:

“The old ’uns are still down there. Are they to be left there, they in front and we behind?”

No one looks reluctant. The officers have no need to insist. But the “old ’uns” will not hear of giving up the position, which they consider a good one, since the field of fire is perfect but for that confounded drop in the ground where the Boches vanish as if through a trap-door.

The 75-gun plays its part in the affray. Its curtain fire, at the foot of Hardaumont, works wonders. From the parapets one sees legs and arms flying in the air. The reinforcements will not come. They are urgently needed.

Night has fallen. A second lieutenant attached to the Brigade Staff and dispatched to this part of the battlefield comes down from the fort at a run. In spite of the cold, he is perspiring when he reaches headquarters.

“A drink!” he shouts, like Gargantua at his birth. He is surrounded, importuned, plied with eager questions; every one wants to know. The main part of the village has held out, but the fort? The assault must have been terrific. Who holds the fort?

“It’s all over,” answers the officer laconically, snatching up a water-bottle.

“What do you mean--it’s all over? The fort has been captured?”

“No, the Boche is beaten.”

And he finishes his drink in peace.

V

ROUND THE WASHING-PLACE

(MARCH 18)

In the inner courtyard of a Verdun barracks, around a vast washing-place, there is a swarm of dark-blue riflemen and light-blue infantrymen who have just been fighting side by side, fraternally, and who seem ready to come to blows in order to gain a place and draw near to the delicious stream of running water. Will a regular system of shifts have to be established? The line regiment (158th) and the battalion of light infantry (3rd) were relieved together last night. They went on firing up to the moment of going off, for they were defending the fort and village of Vaux, which the enemy is attacking so desperately.

The battle is, for the time being, ancient history, since they have come back from it. After so many rough nights, they open their shirts and bare their arms, to let their skins grow warm in the spring sun. No doubt the guns continue to rumble and the columns of smoke rise from bombarded Jardin-Fontaine; aeroplanes flit about in the sky, encircled by the white wreaths of smoke which the shell-bursts send up to them. But no one takes any notice; there is water to wash oneself with and to drink.

Imagine what the sight of water--and running water to boot!--must be for these lads who for ten days have been unable to sluice themselves down or to refresh their parched lips properly. They enjoy in advance its cool wholesome touch, and those who have plunged their dusty faces right into it, faces still worn with the noise and terror of battle, withdraw them all streaming, with a boisterous laugh of delight. It is their weariness that is falling away from them. The drawn, livid, mournful faces grow young again in a few moments. Each man would like to go on longer, but thinks of his neighbour who is waiting his turn and goes away to give up his place to the next man. Later on he may be able to come back.

Some, apart from the rest, in the twinkling of an eye, set up a mirror on a window-sill or a tub, bring out a piece of soap, and begin to shave. The barber of one company is already working with the speed of a juggler, and his customers quietly wait in single file. Why on earth do civilians call them _les poilus_ (“the hairy ones”)? Here, no one likes the word. They are hairy when they cannot be anything else, on bad days, on the cruel and tragic days which afterwards become days of heroic grandeur. But as soon as they are off duty they ask for nothing better than to resume their pleasant everyday faces, in no way terrifying or hirsute. It is a nation of worthy citizens who fight for their hearths, for their invaded territory, for their rights and their freedom, for all the past of which they are the heirs, for all the future of which they are the trustees, and not a horde of half-savage gipsies, ill-conditioned, without house or home. The youngest classes are nearly always beardless, and the oldest, in order to fix their gas-masks better, have given up wearing beards.

Almost the only exception I can see is the chaplain. He has a great black beard, here and there flecked with grey. He persists in driving a comb through it, for he is anxious not to appear less careful of his person than that group of trim young lieutenants who are already here, shaved, their hair brushed, in bright new uniforms, their moustaches turned up, their eyes sparkling, transformed by the stroke of a magic wand into garrison dandies. As well-informed as a staff-officer, Father C----, whom I have already met at Fort Vaux, speaks with admiration, nay, with affection, of his dear light infantry battalion, his “blue devils,” with whom he has been from Artois and Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. He takes out of his pocket the precious notebook in which he records his impressions of army life.

“I should like to read one of the days in your diary.”

“Just let me put down the last two, the 16th and 17th.”

The 3rd Battalion of Light Infantry will give its historian trouble. It has fought on every front. On August 10, in Lorraine, it repulsed by itself, at Provenchères, four German attacks, four battalions strong. On the 14th it is in the Saint Blaize combat. On the 19th it is in action at Valerysthal, where it is subjected to furious assaults. From August 29 to September 5 it holds La Chipotte Wood. Then it is recalled to take part in the Battle of the Marne. At the beginning of October it is sent to Artois. It is the first to enter the first house of Ablain-St.-Nazaire. It is then sent farther north, to the long and stubborn battle of Ypres. The men thought they would never go through anything worse, but Verdun is to come. In December it returns to Artois, to the Lorette region. On May 8, 1915, it attacks the White Earthworks with superb dash; in June, the Square Wood and the Hollow Way; in October, the Wood of the Axe. And Verdun comes to crown all these memories like a bunch of flowers decorating a housetop. It is a Homeric catalogue, but how many of our regiments could tell a similar story!

It has lost two of its commanding officers, Major Renaud at Bréménil on August 19, 1914, and in Artois, on May 8, 1915, after the attack on the White Earthworks, that young Major Madelin, who was the most finished type of an officer, cool-headed, yet always inspiring his men, well-groomed, genial, brilliant, and cultured, a brother of my dear comrade in letters and in arms, the historian, now Second Lieutenant Louis Madelin, whom the fortune of war has suddenly thrown into my company, and who offers me a refuge in his plank-built hut. Major Madelin was succeeded in Artois by my friend Major Pineau, whom I find again with the Staff; then by Major Tournes, who has just come down from the Vaux sector, where I met him preparing an attack.

Suddenly there is bustle in the courtyard. A company, whose losses I can guess, is gathering in a circle round the Captain and the Sergeant-Major. To judge by their craning necks and the gleam in their eyes, the report is of peculiar interest. Very likely it is a question of rest billets or, perhaps, of furlough. Furlough, the mirage in which a man’s house and loved ones appear before him! I draw near. The Sergeant-Major is reading the order of the day addressed on March 10 by the Commander-in-Chief to the soldiers of Verdun!

“Soldiers of the Army of Verdun!

“For three weeks you have endured the most formidable assault that the enemy has yet attempted against us.

“Germany counted on the success of this offensive, which she thought irresistible and to which she had devoted her best troops and her most powerful artillery.

“She hoped that the capture of Verdun would encourage her allies and convince neutral countries of German superiority.

“She had reckoned without you!

“Night and day, in spite of an unparalleled bombardment, you have withstood all attacks and held your positions.

“The struggle is not yet at an end, for the Germans need a victory. You will be able to rob them of that victory.

“We have munitions in plenty and numerous reserves.

“But above all you have your indomitable courage and your faith in the destiny of the Republic.

“The eyes of the country are upon you. You will be among those of whom it will be said: ‘They stopped the Germans from getting to Verdun!’”

The Sergeant-Major, himself deeply moved by what he reads, leaves a pause between the last sentence and the official “Dismiss!” which sets his hearers free.

And the company breaks up slowly, as if with regret. The men understand better what they have done, and the hardships they have undergone take on a new lustre in their eyes. That sense of loneliness which in long conflicts leads each man, little by little, to complain of his individual trials, and to imagine that his leaders and the community as a whole are indifferent, suddenly vanishes: down there, when they were in the jaws of hell, their Commander and their countrymen saw everything.

And in the silence which for a moment seals their lips, makes their features grave and motionless, and combines all those stray thoughts into one supreme idea, a historic thrill passes through them. Individual destinies grow wider; nothing counts any longer but the collective task.

Then they disperse into groups, and tongues are loosened. For the first time since the relief they consent to speak of the ten days spent in the Vaux sector. Their scattered impressions may be summed up in the proud boast:

“At any rate, _they_ have decamped for to-night.”

The fierce, uninterrupted bombardment, so hard to endure for those who are out of action, gives rise to protests. The veterans of the Artois campaign compare notes and agree that they have never seen such an orgy of firing.

“It ought not to be allowed,” declares a new hand.

Modestly, as if it were an everyday incident, a Corporal of the 158th tells some light infantrymen of his share in the last engagement, that of the evening of March 16 in Vaux village, which is half French, half German, and is intersected by barricades and trenches:

“I was in the village, near the barricade. After the Jack Johnsons, the look-out men told us that _they_ were coming in masses. The parapets are manned. The Lieutenant says: ‘Don’t hurry, my lads, let them come up.’ When _they_ are within easy range, our men open fire. The Boches were seen to fall like ninepins. Still they came on again, and yet again. They have plenty of self-confidence.”

And now the talk flies to and fro like the crackling of musketry fire. The names of dead and wounded are mentioned, but there is no sadness, no lingering over them: it is a matter of Fate, who chooses those whom it pleases her to strike. The praises of the stretcher-bearers are sung: guided by cries or by instinct, they bring in the wounded, even that blind man who, erect between the lines, walked with his hands in front of him, without knowing where, haggard and howling. As for the dead, burying them was out of the question. Gratitude is expressed towards the cooks, who roll about their field-kitchens under shell-fire and carry rations to the troops. A burly Swiss who has enrolled himself for the duration of the war, “without any idea that it would last so long,” he adds, “otherwise----,” receives these grateful words as a personal compliment:

“Well, you can’t run with a great load on your back.”

The Colonel whom I met at the Carrières headquarters--a thin face with clear-cut outlines, blue eyes, usually soft, but now and then showing a glint of steel, slight build, keen nerves, with an unswerving ascendancy over his men, whom he knows how to inspire with his hatred of the Boches (hatred dies down so quickly in our race)--can speak of nothing but his regiment:

“Hunger, thirst, lack of sleep, and all the time that din and that menace of big shells crashing, they bore it all without a murmur. You pass down the lines; every man follows you with his eyes, centres his hopes in you, believes in you. You acquire such a feeling of confidence. You cannot help leading them well.”

Thus from the close union of hearts he makes leadership spring as the wheat springs from the fertilized soil.

The chaplain has finished writing, and with the best grace in the world he hands me the notes in which he has just been describing his stay in Fort Vaux and the immediate surroundings from March 6 to 17. They are moving pages, at once picturesque, sincere, and gently ironical; they take me once more over the road I have travelled, and recall the assault of March 10 on the slopes of the fort as the actors in the drama had recounted it to me on the spot. On the following day, our command prepares in its turn a little expedition in order to gain possession of the foot of those hillsides where the Germans are invisible and our 75’s cannot find their mark. Here is the account of this attack on the 16th and 17th:

_Extract from the Diary of the Abbé C----, Chaplain to the 3rd Battalion of Light Infantry._

“_Thursday the 16th._--Great activity during the night. The enemy
shows obvious signs of anxiety and nervousness. Numerous rockets,
constant work at their auxiliary defences.

“All this delights our men. So they are afraid! So that
irresistible dash which was to reach its climax at Verdun, and
to lead to a triumphal entry at the Champs Élysées, is being
frittered away in dug-outs! Feverishly each man burrows himself
in. The bayonet is abandoned for the pickaxe, and instead of those
miraculous marches there are only monotonous shifts.

“Yet the task is not yet ended. Verdun has seventeen forts, I
believe. You hold only one, my dear Brandenburgers. Hardly enough!

“1 _o’clock_ P.M.--The bombardment increases in violence. The blows
grow more and more resounding. It is clear that the earth of our
roof has been carried away and that the concrete has been laid bare
in several places. There is a talk of stopping up the gaps with
sandbags; but when? A walk on our terrace is not to be recommended,
even by moonlight.

“2 _o’clock_ P.M.--The trench mortar which is to destroy the barbed
wire and the auxiliary defences cannot be fired from the fort;
three artillerymen who were trying to set up the mortar have been
wounded. An attempt is made elsewhere, but with still slighter
success. Nor can our heavy artillery do anything. The attack, which
was fixed for this evening, has been put off until five o’clock
to-morrow. We are going to attempt a surprise stroke.

* * * * *

“11.30 P.M.--To arms! This cry, uttered by the look-out men,
re-echoes from end to end of the dark corridors. At this hour, and
during this crisis, when every moment is fraught with tragedy, it
sounds peculiarly mournful. At once there is a stir among the poor
numbed bodies, which were snatching an uneasy slumber on the floor;
each man fastens on his equipment and makes sure that his rifle is
in its place. After the first few minutes of stupor, a discussion
arises in low tones. What is going to happen?...

“Some look-out men have seen--or think they have seen, say some--a
working party digging trenches quite near the auxiliary defences
of the fort. Shadows? Boches? Stray patrols?... When nerves are
on edge, the pale moonlight, streaked with a few clouds, seems to
make for hallucinations. The machine-gun of the parapet sweeps the
terrain. Nothing moves. Day will throw light upon the mystery.

“Obviously, the enemy is still more uneasy than on previous nights;
his artillery thunders furiously all over the place, somewhat
at random, particularly on the fort and its approaches. All the
fatigues that arrive announce losses. The men are streaming with
sweat after the desperate rush they have had to make for four
hundred yards across a bewildering mass of craters....

“_Friday, March 17_, 2 A.M.--Our patrols are returning. They have
searched the approaches thoroughly. No signs of the enemy, at any
rate of live Boches.

“In the morning, the sun brings us knowledge. There, a little in
front of the barbed wire, we can see the earth recently turned up;
at the side some dozen diggers, their tools in their hands or at
their feet, their bodies stiff and stark, still bent over their
unfinished task....

“They are the Boches we saw yesterday evening, caught in the midst
of their work by our machine-gun. They had not even time to dig
their ditch!

“But for the vigilance of our machine-gun officer, we should have
found there, at daybreak, a nest of Boches whom it would have been
very difficult to get rid of, in view of the lie of the land. A
dangerous vigilance indeed! On the evening before, at the same
place, not far from him, my left-hand neighbour was killed outright
and my right-hand neighbour seriously wounded.

“At last we know what to do. A brief rest before the little
performance. At five o’clock, the hour fixed, the Commandant goes
up to the observing station. I crouch down, with my eye at the
loophole.

“It is early dawn. The field of vision is very limited. We listen
anxiously in the half-silence. It continues. So much the better.
The plot is not discovered. After ten minutes comes a violent
interchange of hand-grenades. We see the bluish smoke rise from the
ground, the machine-guns cough. Then nothing more!... What agony!
Twenty minutes later the Captain who was directing the attack
arrives. He is a brisk young officer of the Algerian cavalry who,
at his own request, has doffed the scarlet jacket for the dark
tunic of the Light Infantry. He has prepared his attack as a labour
of love, working day and night. Two days ago it would have been an
interesting _coup-de-main_, but after three days of countermanding
orders, the conditions have entirely changed. He tells us what has
happened: the eight bomb-throwers have cleverly crept up to the
enemy’s wire entanglements and discharged the contents of their
haversacks, ready to hurl themselves into the barbed wire and jump
further. But the Germans are numerous: their slightly curved line
begins to encircle our light infantry. They defend themselves. The
interchange of hand-grenades proceeds. Our bombs begin to tell; the
Boches howl. Their bombs go much too far; they never dreamt that
our ‘blue-devils’ were so near them.... At the same time, their
machine-guns are brought into action, and with their infernal tempo
mow down all that is in their way! Under this shower of bombs and
this sheet-lightning of bullets, our men slip into the holes and,
a few minutes later, come back unscathed, with smiles on their
lips, delighted at their escapade; two scratches, that is all, in
a run of more than eighty yards across the battlefield. Almost a
miracle!

“The sortie, by the way, is far from useless. Thanks to this
diversion, the neighbouring detachment was able to gain a footing
in a long line of enemy trenches, to see the occupants take to
flight, and thus to make a still further improvement, to some
extent, in our situation.

“And when night has stretched its protecting veil over us, we start
off.... Weakened, worn, feverish, dirty, physically at the end of
our tether, but splendid so far as morale is concerned! One sees
that by the sparkling eyes, the lively talk, the whole manner,
which clearly shows the absolute control that these valiant souls
maintain over their utterly exhausted bodies.

“More or less confusedly, but none the less genuinely for that,
each man realizes that he has just lived through some glorious
hours. Few in number, weary, isolated, they have held enormous
masses in check; with their moral force they have confronted a
display of material power such as the world has never seen before.
A few bodies have been broken. Victory has remained with the
_idea_, with the human will, with cool, unyielding valour, with
these children, the new knights-errant of a France whose existence
no one suspected. They, too, are struggling under the eye of God,
as their forbears have done so often, for right and justice, and
for nearly two years have never ceased to offer an astonished world
the wondrous spectacle of their self-denial and their heroism.”

Yet no one sees anything but his own little corner of the war, and this applies even to the above eye-witness, who has a clear vision and a fluent pen. He limits the fighting of March 16-17 to our attack, a comparatively petty affair. But on March 16, in the evening, there was an attempted German offensive which lasted throughout the night, between the village and the fort. A battalion of the 7th German Regiment of Reserve (121st Division) suffered cruel losses. A large number of prisoners captured to the south-east of the village admitted these losses and emphasized the seriousness of the set-back.

Beside us, the water of the washing-place goes on streaming over the men’s faces, necks, and hands. It wipes out the memory of their efforts and their hardships. These men, who, when they came in, thought that they were done up, feel a fresh strength, the strength that the future expects of them....

VI

REFLECTIONS ON DEATH

_The same day._

It is five o’clock in the evening. I go up to the top of a hill which overlooks Verdun. It is a glorious spring evening. The curves of the Meuse gleam in the setting sun and form a trail of fire on the dim plain, like a line of motor-transports rushing through the night. The air is warm with caresses. And in this peaceful countryside nothing moves that is not for use in battle, nothing exists save for war.

Towards Froideterre and Souville, the shells as they burst raise dense pillars of black smoke. In the sky, a fleet of our aeroplanes is coming back to harbour. The captive balloons complete their observations while the light lasts. On the rising road there is a never-ending procession of artillery waggons, travelling field-kitchens, and troops. All this mass of men and war-material is making for the lines, in order to deliver stores or to take up positions in a few hours’ time under cover of darkness.

I stretch myself out on the grass in order to forget this contrast and merely enjoy the evening air. A little further on there is some one who has had the same idea as I. He lies at full length, and does not notice my presence. I should have preferred to be alone. I take another look at him: his face is one great wound. I go up to him: he is dead. One does not come here to cut oneself off from one’s fellows and to dream. Nothing is done here save under the mantle of death.

But with the War, death has lost much of its importance. We have grown familiar with it. Under the form in which it appears as a rule, not glorious, not choosing its victims in the full glow of their martial ardour, but crafty and terrible, in the shape of a mass of iron hurled from some miles off, it inspires a deep disgust, it is true, but we submit to it as we submit to an old servant who rules the household. If we do not rebel against it, if we even consent to accept it, then it transforms itself after the manner of sorcerers in the old-time fairy tales. The hideous skeleton is covered with young flesh that has a fragrance of flowers. The face that it shows is one of dazzling beauty. The kiss that it gives has something of the affection of France for her children.

Yes, we have all become reconciled to the idea of death. What is there left for me if I outlive the War? From my remotest past to the present moment, all the years that I can take into account stay in my memory as a little water stays in the hollow of my hand. If I open my fingers, the water runs away. The past, which seems to me so short, far exceeds in length all the future that I can anticipate. How trifling a thing, then, is that future! Death does nothing more than open the fingers of Time, who bears in his hand our days that are to come. And our days, as they fall, trickle noiselessly like drops of water.

A dangerous detachment this, a lethargic calm against which we must be on our guard. Death should merely annihilate our will to live, not weaken it beforehand. This lesson was unconsciously taught us by one of our comrades, Captain D----, who was twice wounded and twice went back to the front, as he told us one evening at Verdun the story of his second wound. He was lying on the ground with his chest bared; his bâtman, who would not leave him, had also been wounded, but slightly, in the shoulder. Both were Bretons, both religious, and they had been to Communion together in the morning before starting off for the battle.

“We were there, side by side,” he said, “and the rifle-shots were growing more distant. I thought that I was going to die, and a great exultation came over me. My love for my wife and child, who, I felt, were soon to lose me, was in no way altered. I don’t know how to explain it to you: nothing weighed upon my mind any longer, and I seemed to be set free from my closest ties. How should I ever again meet with such an opportunity of dying? Everything within me and around me was light and easy as the flight of a bird. I was no longer in pain. Even the difficulty I felt in breathing gave me a sort of happiness. I seemed to be lifted up to God, as a leaf is lifted by the wind. Then I said to my bâtman: ‘You are going away. You are not seriously hurt. I will stay here, I am quite ready to die.’ He would not listen to me, he wanted to help me to rise, and, being unable to do so, tried to carry me, in spite of the pain in his shoulder. I would not allow him to lift me: ‘Leave me, I tell you, I want to die here.’ He stopped and looked at me as if he did not quite understand, and then, a little timidly at first, but soon growing bolder, he rebuked me: ‘I beg pardon, sir, but what you are doing is not a Christian thing to do.’ I was shocked, I admit, I who thought myself so near to God. He went on: ‘Not Christian at all. God has nothing to give you but life. You are not going to offend Him.’--‘But when it is He that is calling me?’--‘If He calls you, you will hear Him plainly. Meanwhile you are still alive. And the life that He gives us is for us to enjoy as long as we can--for His sake, of course. You are not going to affront Him.’ And I let myself be carried away in order not to affront God.”

Night has now fallen over Verdun. Here are the stretcher-bearers come to look for my neighbour. The town is already shrouded in darkness, while its girdle of hills seems still to float like a streamer in the light. It is time to go down again. The realization of death at this moment demands action of us, not reflection....

VII

THE ENEMY’S EVIDENCE

I have spoken, without hiding anything, of the hard life led by our soldiers in the region of Vaux, the terrific assaults and the appalling bombardment that they had to endure, the difficulty of obtaining rations and reliefs, the lack of shelter, the lack of water, the lack of sleep. But in war it is not enough to suffer, to resist, to hold out. One must strike the enemy and drive him back. The task of the army of Verdun is to wear out the German Army before Verdun. Does our artillery fire work serious havoc in his ranks? Does it interfere with his replenishing and reliefs, even more than ours are hampered? Does our infantry lay his foot-soldiers low when it marches to the assault? Do our counter-attacks throw them back with losses? What sort of existence do we compel the Boche to lead opposite our lines? We want to know. We must know. Our efforts must not be in vain. Our sacrifices must not be fruitless.

The enemy is going to give us his evidence. He will tell us whether we are able to defend ourselves and to attack, and whether we allow him any respite.

A few examinations of prisoners and some extracts from letters found on prisoners and dead, solely in the region of Vaux, during the months of March and April, will furnish us with all the information that we need. It is the most trustworthy source. I have collected the most significant records, but all tell a similar story. It is not to detract from an adversary that we make him confess what he has undergone and what losses he has suffered, but it is to show up more vividly the strength of our fighting forces and the successes gained by the soldiers of Verdun.

* * * * *

The prisoners of the 9th and 13th Companies of the 19th Regiment (9th Reserve Division, 5th Corps of Reserves) taken at Vaux on March 9, give the following account of the engagement of March 9:

“On the morning of March 9 the 1st Battalion received orders to occupy Vaux village, whose capture had already been announced. The 13th Company was the first to enter the village, in column of fours, without any scouts or advanced guard to screen it. Suddenly it was assailed by a violent machine-gun fire, followed up by a bayonet charge. Our men made off and defended themselves in the houses, where the French slaughtered them with bombs. The prisoners are under the impression that the whole of the 13th Company was wiped out.

“The 3rd Battalion attacked on the northern slope of the fort. The 9th Company led the way, and joined battle in succession of platoons. The platoon to which the prisoners belong hurled itself at an enemy trench and was mown down by our machine-guns: twenty-five men were killed, three were taken prisoner, the rest took to flight.”

* * * * *

The prisoners of the 9th Company of the 7th Regiment of Reserves (121st Division) taken on March 17, to the south-east of Vaux village, give the following details of the combat of March 16-17:

“The 3rd Battalion of the 7th Regiment of Reserves was to attack towards the northern slopes of Fort Vaux. More than half the battalion was cut down by the French machine-guns. Some twenty men, at most, of the 9th Company reached the enemy trenches, where they were captured. The rest must have been annihilated, for the curtain fire prevented them from escaping and getting back to the trenches from which they started.

“The revictualling of the first-line troops is almost impossible. The troops are reduced to consuming their emergency rations.”

A soldier of the same regiment records a scene described to him by a comrade who has just come back from special leave. The latter saw a convoy of prisoners pass at a station in Germany: women were jeering at them and insulting them. One of the Frenchmen called out in German: “Women of Germany, don’t jeer at us! We are prisoners, that’s true, but in front of Verdun the Germans are lying in heaps as high as this.” After that the German women said no more.

* * * * *

Here are some extracts from letters found on prisoners or dead in the Vaux Sector.

Private E----, of the 6th Leib. Gren. Regt., writes:

“_Before Verdun, March 10._--Since yesterday morning there has been a heavy snowfall: it stops everything and interferes with the operations before Verdun. We can’t get away from the cold, the rain, the snow, and the mud, and we camp out in the open. Each man digs himself in as best he can, wraps himself up in his coat and his canvas bag, and freezes all night. To make matters worse, we are constantly under an artillery fire which claims a large number of victims every evening, for we have no trenches or shelter; up to the present we have been in the second line. To-night we pass into the first line. We no longer have any confidence in our heavy artillery; yesterday morning our division captured Vaux fort and village, but had to evacuate them because our artillery fired into the place without a break.”

Private E---- believed what he had been told of the capture of the fort. The lieutenant of the 7th Regiment of Reserves, which is on the slopes of Vaux, knows the real truth:

“_March 11._--At three o’clock we start off for the position in front of Fort Vaux. At sunrise, we occupy the position which was held by the 6th Regiment. The fort is two hundred yards in front of this line. The position consists of shell-holes which have no longer any spaces left between them.”

“Two hundred yards”: he seems to be a little short-sighted. At three hundred yards from the fort, on March 11, one saw nothing but corpses.

Some days later, a soldier whose name is illegible scribbled this note on the hillsides of Vaux:

“_March 24, 1916, before Fort Vaux._--There is no need for me to write any more. All the rest may be left to the imagination. Still I want to be hopeful. It’s hard, very hard! I am still so young. What’s the use? What’s the good of prayer and entreaty? The shells! The shells!”

The next letter was found on a wounded German of the 56th Regiment of Reserves (121st Division) captured on April 2. It bears no date. It mingles religion with the food question. The writer had no doubt just finished it and had had no time to send it off:

“MY DEAR SISTER AND BROTHER-IN-LAW--This is to let you know I am in
good health, although half dead from fatigue and fright. I cannot
describe to you all I have lived through here, it goes far beyond
anything we had had to put up with before. In about three days the
company has lost more than a hundred men. Several times I didn’t
know whether I was alive or already dead. We have not yet had to
face the enemy; we shall do so to-morrow, and the affair will be
on a pretty big scale. I have already given up all hope of ever
seeing you again. Whoever comes out of this without a scratch may
well thank the Lord. I received your parcel, as I have already told
you in my post card, and I ate the food at once, for I didn’t know
whether I should have a chance of eating it later. I have sent my
pay home, because we cannot find anything to buy here....”

On April 3, Lieutenant E----, of the 6th Regiment of Reserves (9th Division), writes to Second Lieutenant L----, of the 202nd Regiment of Reserves:

“_April 3._--You can get some idea of how things are with us from the fact that the corps of officers has been entirely renewed. The losses of the regiment are rather heavy, for its position (Vaux tableland) is a rather unpleasant one. Our battalions relieve each other, but the rest-stations are shelled quite as much as the first line, apart from a very few exceptions.”

The following letter from Private S----, of the 20th Regiment of Reserves, is undated:

“You cannot realize how utterly sick of life I feel at times.... Yesterday the weather was still abominable, and we were once more drenched to the skin. Then some one said, ‘Why don’t they sing to-day?’ And in the midst of all our misery we had to sing....”

Private S----, of the 80th Regiment, writes on April 11, 1916:

“We are here in a pit of Hell, with artillery fire day and night. I never thought that it would be like this. Yesterday a shell fell quite near the church; three men were killed on the spot, and nine wounded. You should have seen us bolt! If only this wretched war would end! No one who has any sense can justify such a butchery of men....

“At present we are to the north-east of Verdun, certainly in a very ticklish situation....

“Although we have not been stationed here long, we have all had enough of it, and are simply longing for peace. We should like to send to the front all those gentry who are responsible for the war and still take an interest in it. If only that could have been managed we should have had peace long ago....”

Finally, here is a letter that gives fuller details as to the effect of our artillery and machine-guns. It is written by Lieutenant H----, of the 81st Regiment, and was found upon him at the time of his capture before Verdun:

“_At the Front, April 15, 1916._

“MY DEAR PARENTS--No doubt you are waiting impatiently for some
sign of life from me. I hope this letter will reach you, but it is
not easy to get one’s correspondence sent through the post.

“The good time I had as liaison officer between our regiment and
the 56th has been a thing of the past for several days. Our officer
losses are rather serious, so that I have had to take over the
8th Company, as Company Commander in the first line. I am with my
Company at present. I am huddled up in a little hole in the mud,
which has to protect me against the enemy shell-bursts; and they
never leave off for a moment. I have already seen a good many
things in this war, but I had not yet been in such a situation
as this. Its horror simply beggars description. I don’t want to
give you a detailed account, for I should only cause you needless
anxiety. We are under a terrific artillery fire day and night. The
French resistance is amazingly obstinate. On April 11 we made an
attack in order to take their trenches. We opened with an artillery
preparation on a tremendous scale, lasting twelve hours, and then
the infantry assault was launched. The French machine-guns were
entirely undamaged, the result being that the first wave of our
onset was broken by machine-gun fire as soon as it left the trench.
What is more, the French in their turn started such an artillery
barrage that another attack was not to be thought of. We are in the
first-line trench, about 120 yards from the enemy. The weather is
miserable, always cold and rainy; I wish you could see the state
I am in, boots, trousers, and cape soaking wet and covered with a
layer of mud quite an inch thick.

“All the roads are commanded by the French guns, and their fire
is so incessant that we cannot even bury our dead. It is pitiful
to see the poor devils lying dead in their mud-holes. Every day
some of our men are killed and wounded. It is only by risking
our lives that we can put the wounded in a place of safety. To
get our meals, we have to go over two miles to the rear, to the
travelling field-kitchens, and even there one is in danger of being
killed. Every day there are casualties among those who go for their
rations, so much so that many would rather endure hunger than make
these dangerous expeditions for food. Nearly the whole company is
sick. When you are out in the rain all day and get wet through,
sleep in the mud, and are under a frightful bombardment night
and day, and all this for a week at a time, your nerves become
completely shattered. So far as health is concerned I am still in
fairly good trim. My feet are very wet and cold, and I am fearfully
chilly about the knees. I hope I shall have the luck to get out of
this alive. One cannot even be buried properly here....”

Some answers received from Germany add a few touches to this picture of the German Army in the Vaux sector.

The following letter, covered with stains, was found on a dead man. It had been kept in spite of its having been written so long ago:

“COLOGNE, 29/12/1915.