Fear (30 page)

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:

‘Much damage?’

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.

‘We’re getting a real hammering!’

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 . . .

‘It goes on for ever and ever . . . we won’t escape!’

An explosion at one of the exits. The wounded scream, and scream . . .

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.

‘The 75s are giving their best!’

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.

‘Get down!’

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 . . .

‘Right in the middle of the road!’

‘Let’s get out of here!’

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.

‘Into the field!’

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

‘Everyone still here?’

‘Yes, yes, yes . . . one, two, three, four, five . . . fourteen!’

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

‘We got out just in time!’

‘Look out!’

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

‘Look out!’

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

‘Ah, shit!’

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

‘Look out!’

The blast of red fire spays up, very close.

‘Aaaaaaaah . . . I’m hit . . .’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Gérard,’ a voice answers.

Vououou . . . Vrrroom . . . Vrrroom-vrrroom . . .

‘Another one!’

Vrrroom-vrrroom-vrrroom . . . Vrrroom . . .

‘Christ, we’re all going to cop it! Let’s get out of here!’

‘Yeah, let’s go!’

‘Can Gérard walk?’

‘Yes.’

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?

‘Stop, stop!’

‘Casualties?’

‘Yes, right in front of me!’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then look, for christ’s sake!’

‘Who’s got a torch?’

‘Me!’

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.

‘One dead!’

‘No wounded?’

‘No.’

‘Forward, forward!’

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.

‘Halt!’

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.

‘Gas masks!’

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.

‘Christ, some bloody relief that was!’

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

‘Parmentier!’

Parmentier, yes Parmentier! Poor chap!

We laugh again, despite ourselves . . .

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.’

‘You’ll find bugger all!’

‘They’re bloody scarce!’

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.

‘Hey, you, have you stopped saluting? shouts the officer, rearing his horse.

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

‘Where we’ve been, you only salute the dead!’

4. IN THE AISNE

‘The unexamined life is not worth living’

Socrates

WE HAVE BEEN MOVING AROUND
for a month or more.

At battalion HQ we enjoy the privilege of being able to leave our packs with the support unit transport. And some, myself included, have replaced their rifles with pistols, and thus also freed themselves of bayonets and bandoliers. This contravenes regulations but is tolerated, and we would in any case be hard pressed to find our own rifles again, now that they have mysteriously disappeared. It is quite possible that we bear some responsibility for these disappearances, but no one is ever going to get to the bottom of it. After years of war, we are firmly convinced – a rifle is of no use at all to soldiers like us, whose role is to rush around in the trenches and whose constant concern is to avoid any unexpected encounters with the enemy. On the contrary, it has major drawbacks: the care that has to be taken of the breech and barrel, its heavy weight, the way it slides about on the shoulder. Some prefer to get themselves short-barrelled carbines, easier weapons to handle, which you can attach with a strap. The ways we have managed to acquire arms to suit our taste remains obscure. But in short we have adapted our weaponry ‘to the demands of modern warfare’, which consist of avoiding anything that is fired at us, and our choices come with experience. It is in decisions like these that we can recognise the much celebrated initiative of the French soldier, with which he makes up for the deficiencies of the rule book concerning armies in the field.