Authors: Gabriel Chevallier
In the end we are only fighting a little war here, a war of convention, entirely regulated by tacit agreements. It’s not to be taken too seriously, nothing to boast of. Very occasionally we face bursts of shellfire, coming from a ridge higher up where the Germans have their artillery. The noise of the explosions rolls around the valleys, making an avalanche of sound that crashes against the side of a distant mountain, which sends it on to another, until it is completely dispersed. Sometimes, too, we get attacked with hand- and rifle-grenades, to which we respond half-heartedly so as not to aggravate matters. In positions that are so close, so narrow, these things could quickly become very bloody. We never initiate any action ourselves. The regiment does its job decently enough but avoids any excess of enthusiasm like the plague. We leave feats of valour to others.
Every now and then one of our aeroplanes will fly over. They are Farman biplanes, old models, deplorably slow, known as ‘chicken coops’. We feel sorry for their pilots and have the feeling the Germans must laugh at the sight of such ancient machines, which seem to date to the beginnings of aviation.
In short, this front is protected by a very thin line of troops. This light deployment allows divisions to be concentrated in active sectors. Here we rely on the towering bulwark of the mountains which would make any big offensive difficult. We are here to watch over these natural fortifications.
At about five in the evening a series of violent explosions shakes the entire sector, prolonged explosions accompanied by the sound of tearing metal that characterises trench torpedoes. Here we go! Immediately the bombardment takes on the rapid rhythm of a barrage, the explosions forming a background rumble broken at regular intervals by the impact of the heavy projectiles, enough to shake the mountain. Our own trench artillery responds rapidly. We quickly grab our weapons and run from the command post, on a narrow spur where we risk being surrounded. We must get through the first detonations before it’s too late and the entrance to our trench is cut off. The reserve platoon, who have just climbed up a slope to join us, are pushing and stumbling behind, gasping for breath, shouting, rattling their weapons. We run under the whistling shells, through the yellow smoke, with huge pieces of shrapnel whizzing past like axes and smashing into the ground around us. For thirty metres the trench is as hot as an oven. Then we breathe cooler air, the menace of the flying cleavers is lifted from our necks, and we can see daylight. We’re in the communication trench.
As this trench pushes on towards the rear, skirting the flank of a spur, the mountain itself rises up and protects us with a steep slope still densely covered with trees. There are now forty of us with a lieutenant, three hundred metres from our positions in a place that is almost completely sheltered. Shells seek us out but they burst above us or drop down into the gulley. They’d be very lucky to hit us in this dead angle. We just have to wait patiently.
The front-line platoons are ordered to fall back laterally at the first bombardment, closing up with the neighbouring companies. We aren’t thinking about them, and it would be mad to try to link up with them right now. Each group is looking after itself, following set rules. Since shelling makes it impossible to hold this sector, the command has judged it preferable to abandon it altogether, then take it back afterwards with a counter-attack. But we know that this is simply a raid by an enemy group hoping to take prisoners. Caught by our own fire and finding the trenches empty, they’ll clear out.
We listen to the bombardment. Violent explosions shake the ground even here. Shells that pass too low make us duck. A cloud of smoke hides our positions and despite our relative security, we’re anxious.
After an hour, there are distinct gaps in the rumbling of explosions. The shelling gets less intense, falters, and quickly dies away. There are a few bursts of gunfire, then silence. Twilight descends. The reserve platoon forms up in battle order and advances cautiously. They don’t encounter anyone. We get back to the command post, jumping over a few shell-holes.
Runners are sent off straight away to gather information from each platoon. The sector is unrecognisable. Trenches are blocked and I often have to walk along the parapets. Nearing the front line I call out to avoid walking into trouble. I reach the shelter on the far right of the company, its entrance facing the Germans, and climb down the rickety ladder. I find a few men with their sergeant.
‘So, nothing serious?’
‘Look!’ says the sergeant.
I see a shape stretched out on the ground in a corner of the dugout, a broken body. One leg must be broken off at the hip because it’s pointing in the wrong direction. The trousers are torn and reveal the pale thigh, almost cut off, which hasn’t even bled. The other leg is also cut open.
‘Who is it?’
‘Sorlin.’
Sorlin, yes, I know him. A young man from class 16 who always gave me a friendly smile on my rounds . . . I bend down to look more closely. His eyes are shut but his mouth, that mouth that used to call out to me, is open and twisted. That young face that was always so cheerful bears an expression of terror. I hear the sergeant, a man of forty:
‘A good kid, in this state! This war’s a bloody disgrace!’
Stupidly, I ask:
‘No other trouble?’
‘Maybe you don’t think this is enough!’ he responds furiously.
I can feel how grief-stricken these men are, and their sadness is making them bitterly angry. I imagine what they’ve been through just now, the fear and panic under the bombardment, while I was back there in the trench, under cover . . .
‘Look, sergeant, I think it’s far too much, you know that. But I have to take back a report, they’re waiting for me. I’ll send stretcher-bearers.’
The other runners are also coming back to the command post. Two dead and four wounded in the platoon in the centre, none in the platoon on the left flank. In this now quiet sector, it’s another evening of war, an evening of mourning. The lieutenant dictates a report which I write down to take to the battalion. Outside stretcher-bearers are asking where the wounded are. We guide them, in the darkness.
Later on I make my rounds. There’s nothing but mounds of mud everywhere. Everyone is on the parapets, working. The trench, almost levelled, is being pegged out by a working party in a long line, their rifles lying on the ground beside them. Twenty metres away other shovels are clanging and you can clearly see shadows bending over the ground. The Germans are working on their side, and this whole part of the front is just one big building site.
Accompanied by a sergeant, we walk several metres out beyond our working party, driven by curiosity as much as bravado. A German shadow begins to cough loudly, to point out that we’re breaking the rules, going beyond the limits of neutrality. We cough in our turn to reassure this vigilant watchman, and go back to our side. With no trenches separating them, these enemies, who could surprise their adversaries with a couple of leaps, respect the truce. Is this from a sense of fair play? Isn’t it rather the wish, equal in both camps, to stop fighting?
About twice a month, our sectors get badly damaged by surprise attacks. Field guns and trench artillery, concentrating their fire on a narrow area, achieve a devastating density. Several thousand projectiles may be fired in just a couple of hours. Helped by the panic this creates and hidden by smoke, detachments penetrate the enemy lines with the aim of bringing back prisoners. In our first surprise attack we captured five Germans. Since then all our attempts have failed; it seems most probable that the enemy has adopted our method of evacuation, the only prudent one, and one which saves lives since units that remain in position will be annihilated. The Germans have never captured any of us.
A troop of about fifty men led by a sub-lieutenant, all volunteers, whom we call ‘trench raiders’, specialise in these little attacks. They live apart from the rest of us in the forest, and are exempt from other duties. They often go halfway down the valley where there’s an inn run by three women, known to us by the name
The Six Buttocks
. The inn often echoes with the noise of their arguments, their quarrels with the artillerymen, which are often ended by pistols or knives when they are drunk. We shut our eyes to their exploits, because of their dangerous mission. It is understood that a good warrior must be a bit of an outlaw.
In between surprise attacks, the sector slumbers. The first mortar shells always indicate the start of a raid, and we expect them an hour or two before nightfall. With every raid there will be casualties among the lookouts responsible for warning of an enemy approach.
A general of rather martial bearing, escorted by a battalion runner, turns up unexpectedly at the command post, and declares: ‘I have come to have a little look at your sector’. Giving me a wink, our lieutenant replies:
‘Very good, sir, let us begin on the left.’
I hurry off and tell the first platoon; the warning will then be transmitted all along the line. That done, I wait for them to join me. As he walks along, the general questions our lieutenant on German activity, the state of their positions below us, the quantity of projectiles fired, etc. Suddenly, he halts by a sentry and asks him:
‘If the Boche attack, my friend, what do you do?’
In a sector like this where we have the time to devote to the rule book, what to do in every situation is clearly prescribed and it’s been drummed into us: in this case, fire two rifle shots, throw three grenades, set off the sirens, etc.
But our man gets confused, imagines that this imposing inspector is looking at him either sternly or with astonishment. He works out that it’s a matter of making a quick decision since this is a surprise attack. And blurts out in panic:
‘Yeah, right, well, I get my arse in gear . . . !’
The lieutenant is terribly upset. The general, who’s got a sense of humour, leads him away and consoles him:
‘Obviously those are not the terms that one would use at GCHQ . . . But it comes down to the same thing! . . . What’s important is that he gets his . . . well, exactly that!’
I now find myself at the tail end of our little procession. We’re going back up towards the platoon on the right. Two bangs in the distance, to the left: two mortar shells fired. For us? Wait three seconds. Two whistles. For us! Vroom! Vroom! Look out for the shrapnel . . . Reflex: they’re using 77s.
‘That was pretty close!’
‘I’ve brought you bad luck,’ said the general, with a smile that was a bit too calm to be convincing.
‘No, sir, we’re used to . . .’
Two more! Big ones . . . we dive for the ground. Vrrroom! Vrrroom! 105 time-shells. Shrapnel clatters down around us. Two black clouds above our heads.
‘We should hurry, sir. This is a dangerous spot . . .’
‘Lead on, lead on, lieutenant!’
Two more 77s. We go as fast as we can, and there is no question of any inspection.
We’ve just gone round a lookout post. There’s a burst of gunfire. But I have time to hear a voice (good lord, it’s Chassignole!) shouting out behind me, at the entrance to the shelter:
‘Hey, lads! The shooting star has passed by!’
It’s two in the afternoon. We’re in the trench near the command post, not doing much. We hear a small explosion somewhere forward of us. We pay it scant attention: shells are always coming down somewhere or other.
Soon afterwards a man turns up, out of breath, asking for stretcher-bearers.
‘A casualty?’
‘Yes, rifle-grenade.’
‘Bad?’
‘Both feet more or less blown off. He was in the latrines – the grenade went off right there.’
That’s the explosion we heard. The stretcher-bearers come back, put the stretcher down in the middle of the trench, and go into the shelter to get a form.
We recognise Petitjean, a nice boy, helpful and unassuming. He’s very pale, but he’s not making a sound. Blood is soaking through the crude bandages on his feet and running out at an alarming rate. I cannot stop myself comparing what he is losing from his body’s total capacity with the time it will take to get him to the dressing station . . . There are three of us around him, fearing that it’s cruel to come near him, to display our intact bodies, something he has just lost, probably forever, but also fearing that to move away would make it seem that we didn’t care, that we were casting him into the isolation of the condemned, His silence makes us feel especially awkward: how do you show sympathy for someone who doesn’t ask for your pity? He stares up at the sky which gives his eyes a light reflection of pale blue, like fine porcelain. Then he shuts them, closing himself off in the misfortune that separates him from us. Is he aware of the catastrophe that has struck him? Beneath his little moustache his lips are clenched and on his chest his hands are squeezed together so tightly that they are red and trembling. He is taken away before we pluck up the courage to say a word to him, and the lieutenant, who comes out of the shelter to shake his hand, remains standing beside us, sharing our silence.
It’s a bright October day and we were enjoying the last warmth of the year before this unfortunate blow. You cannot lose yourself in any pleasure, the war is always there.
Early one morning a sentry at the bottom of the valley was woken from his reverie by the sound of footsteps in the trench. He turns and sees a German in front of him. His first reaction is to run. But the German raises his arm and cries: ‘
Kamerad!
’ He’s unarmed, has a little cap on his head and a package under his other arm. The sentry, still in shock and fearing a trap, calls the squad. They search the surroundings and find nothing suspicious: the man has definitely come alone. So they take him to the lieutenant. But no one speaks enough German to interrogate this odd prisoner who has dropped from the skies. He’s a feeble-looking little man with a dull face and an over-fraternal smile. His eyelids flutter rapidly over furtive eyes, and he seems very pleased with himself. He still holds his package under his arm. Beaucierge and I are ordered to take him to battalion command. He trots along the trench between us. I ask him a few brief questions: