then an order comes:
‘The men from the fatigue party to the front. Leave the hurdles.’
This is the limit! What is that supposed to mean? But there’s no room for argument. We make our way through the battalion. Men move aside to let us pass, with unusual courtesy.
Beneath the parapet stands our captain, chinstrap in place, revolver in hand. He points to some boxes:
‘Take your grenades.’
‘I don’t know how they work, sir.’
This is the truth. These are cylindrical tin grenades of a type I’ve never seen before. ‘Just do it!’ he snaps.
Yes sir! I dutifully take five or six grenades and slip them into my haversack. He points to the parapet.
‘Over you go!’
I see a short ladder. I climb up. I straddle the sandbags and find myself on a level with the plain, above the trenches. I am blinded by flashes. Rockets, shells. Bullets whistling, whipping past me. I let myself drop down.
On the other side of the parapet . . .
A man is running in front of me. I am running behind him.
Thoughts flash through my mind: ‘OK, here I am, I’m going into the attack at the front of a battalion. My only weapons are five grenades of an unknown type and I am running towards the German Imperial Guard . . .’ That’s as far as I can think. I wish I had not left my well-oiled rifle behind.
Other men are running behind me. I mustn’t think of stopping, I don’t think of stopping. One flare after another bathes us in light. I spot a rifle on the edge of a trench and grab it. An old French rifle: bolt jammed, bayonet bent and rusty. Better than nothing.
I cannot imagine combat at all, I just can’t think like a soldier. I tell myself:
‘This is all stupid, utterly stupid!’ And I run, run like I’m in a hurry.
Am I afraid? My mind is afraid. But I’m not asking its advice.
Stupid, stupid!
Behind the second parapet, four maniacs are lobbing grenades, bellowing to work themselves up into a frenzy.
So here we are, five chaps attacking the German army with tin cans. Unbelievable!
‘Give me some grenades!’ one of these lunatics shouts at me.
‘With pleasure!’ I think. I hand him the contents of my bag.
‘More!’
The man behind hands me his. I pass them on. Others follow, passed along from hand to hand.
The four of them keep going like a machine: shout, ignite, throw . . . Can this go on forever?
I am lifted up, deaf, blinded by a cloud of smoke, pierced by a sharp smell. Something is clawing at me, tearing me. I must be shouting without hearing myself.
A sudden shaft of clarity. ‘Your legs are blown off!’ For a start . . .
My body leaps and runs. The explosion has set it off like some machine. Behind me, someone is shouting, ‘faster!’ in a voice of pain and madness. Only then do I actually realise I am running.
Some part of my reason returns, amazed, and starts to check: ‘What are you running on?’ I think I must be running on the stumps of my legs . . . My reason tells me to look. I come to a halt in the trench while invisible men run past. Fearful of finding something horrible, my hand goes slowly down the length of my limbs: thighs, calves, shoes. I still have my two shoes! . . . So my legs must be intact! Joy, but such incomprehensible joy. Yet something has happened to me, I’ve been hit . . .
My reason continues. ‘You’re running away . . . Have you the right to run away?’ A new anxiety. I no longer know if I am hurt, or where. I examine my body, feeling it in the darkness. I discover that my right hand no longer works, the fingers don’t close. A warm liquid is running out of my wrist. ‘OK, good, I’m wounded, I can go now!’
This discovery calms me down and also makes me aware of pain. I groan quietly. I am dazed and dumbfounded.
I make it back to the first parapet where a gap has been opened to speed the advance. The captain is still there. No one stops me. Soldiers from my battalion, with their gleaming bayonets, turn their pale, frightened faces
‘The men from the fatigue party to the front. Leave the hurdles.’
This is the limit! What is that supposed to mean? But there’s no room for argument. We make our way through the battalion. Men move aside to let us pass, with unusual courtesy.
Beneath the parapet stands our captain, chinstrap in place, revolver in hand. He points to some boxes:
‘Take your grenades.’
‘I don’t know how they work, sir.’
This is the truth. These are cylindrical tin grenades of a type I’ve never seen before. ‘Just do it!’ he snaps.
Yes sir! I dutifully take five or six grenades and slip them into my haversack. He points to the parapet.
‘Over you go!’
I see a short ladder. I climb up. I straddle the sandbags and find myself on a level with the plain, above the trenches. I am blinded by flashes. Rockets, shells. Bullets whistling, whipping past me. I let myself drop down.
On the other side of the parapet . . .
A man is running in front of me. I am running behind him.
Thoughts flash through my mind: ‘OK, here I am, I’m going into the attack at the front of a battalion. My only weapons are five grenades of an unknown type and I am running towards the German Imperial Guard . . .’ That’s as far as I can think. I wish I had not left my well-oiled rifle behind.
Other men are running behind me. I mustn’t think of stopping, I don’t think of stopping. One flare after another bathes us in light. I spot a rifle on the edge of a trench and grab it. An old French rifle: bolt jammed, bayonet bent and rusty. Better than nothing.
I cannot imagine combat at all, I just can’t think like a soldier. I tell myself:
‘This is all stupid, utterly stupid!’ And I run, run like I’m in a hurry.
Am I afraid? My mind is afraid. But I’m not asking its advice.
Stupid, stupid!
Behind the second parapet, four maniacs are lobbing grenades, bellowing to work themselves up into a frenzy.
So here we are, five chaps attacking the German army with tin cans. Unbelievable!
‘Give me some grenades!’ one of these lunatics shouts at me.
‘With pleasure!’ I think. I hand him the contents of my bag.
‘More!’
The man behind hands me his. I pass them on. Others follow, passed along from hand to hand.
The four of them keep going like a machine: shout, ignite, throw . . . Can this go on forever?
I am lifted up, deaf, blinded by a cloud of smoke, pierced by a sharp smell. Something is clawing at me, tearing me. I must be shouting without hearing myself.
A sudden shaft of clarity. ‘Your legs are blown off!’ For a start . . .
My body leaps and runs. The explosion has set it off like some machine. Behind me, someone is shouting, ‘faster!’ in a voice of pain and madness. Only then do I actually realise I am running.
Some part of my reason returns, amazed, and starts to check: ‘What are you running on?’ I think I must be running on the stumps of my legs . . . My reason tells me to look. I come to a halt in the trench while invisible men run past. Fearful of finding something horrible, my hand goes slowly down the length of my limbs: thighs, calves, shoes. I still have my two shoes! . . . So my legs must be intact! Joy, but such incomprehensible joy. Yet something has happened to me, I’ve been hit . . .
My reason continues. ‘You’re running away . . . Have you the right to run away?’ A new anxiety. I no longer know if I am hurt, or where. I examine my body, feeling it in the darkness. I discover that my right hand no longer works, the fingers don’t close. A warm liquid is running out of my wrist. ‘OK, good, I’m wounded, I can go now!’
This discovery calms me down and also makes me aware of pain. I groan quietly. I am dazed and dumbfounded.
I make it back to the first parapet where a gap has been opened to speed the advance. The captain is still there. No one stops me. Soldiers from my battalion, with their gleaming bayonets, turn their pale, frightened faces
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