Fear (32 page)

The horror of war resides in this gnawing anxiety. It resides in the continuation, the incessant repetition of danger. War is permanent threat. ‘We know not the place or the hour.’ But we know the place exists and the hour will come. It is insane to hope that we will always escape.

That is why thinking is so terrible. That is why the most simple-minded, illogical men are the strongest. I do not mean our leaders: they are playing out a role, doing what they are employed to do. They have the satisfactions of vanity and they have more comfort (and some of them weaken nonetheless). But the soldiers!

I have noticed that the bravest are the ones most lacking in imagination and sensitivity. This is understandable. If life had not already accustomed the men in the front lines to resignation and the passive obedience of the humble, they would run away. And if those defending the front were highly strung intellectuals, the war would soon become impossible.

The men at the front are dupes. They suspect this may be the case. But their inability to think very far, their habit of following the crowd, keeps them here. The soldier on the parapet is caught between two powerful forces. Ahead of him, the enemy army. Behind him the barrier of gendarmes, the chains of hierarchies and ambitions, held together by the moral pressure of the country, which lives with a concept of war that goes back a hundred years, and cries: ‘Fight to the finish!’ On the other side the people at the rear respond: ‘
Nach Paris!
’ Stuck between these two forces, the soldier, be he French or German, cannot go forward and cannot go back. So it is that the shout sometimes heard from the German trenches, ‘
Kamerad Franzose!
’, is quite probably sincere. Fritz is closer to the
poilu
than to his own field marshal. And the
poilu
is closer to Fritz, because of the suffering they share, than to the men in Compiègne.[
37
] Our uniforms are different but we are all proletarians of duty and honour, miners who labour in competitive pits, but above all miners, with the same pay and risking the same explosions of firedamp.

One quiet and sunny day, two enemy combatants, at the same time and place, put their heads above the parapet and see each other, thirty metres apart. The blue soldier and the grey one, having prudently reassured themselves they can trust each other, venture a smile and gaze across in mutual astonishment, as if to ask: ‘What the fuck are we doing here?’ That is the question both armies are asking themselves.

In a corner of the Vosges sector there was a platoon that was on good terms with the enemy. Each clan got on with its tasks openly and cordially greeted the opposing clan. Everyone freely enjoyed the fresh air and incoming projectiles consisted of loaves of bread and packets of tobacco. Once or twice a day a German would shout ‘
Offizier!
’ to signal that their bosses were making their rounds. This meant ‘Look out! We may be forced to lob a few grenades over.’ They even warned of an attack and the information was accurate. Then the story got out. An inquiry was ordered. There was talk of treason and court martials and some NCOs lost their stripes. The fear seemed to be that the troops would come together to end the war, overruling the generals. Apparently this outcome would have been something terrible.

Hatred must never diminish. That is the order. But in spite of everything we are losing our appetite for hatred . . .

‘16 February 1918.

. . . The Boche have been very aggressive in the past twenty-four hours. They had had the foolhardy notion of carrying off some of our men, and to prepare for this unpleasant attack had subjected us to an intense bombardment. This began last night, which was clumsy of them since it put us in a bad mood by compelling us to get up. They carried on this morning and just now attempted an assault which failed. We didn’t even see the tips of their noses. In front of our lines we have grown a thick crop of barbed wire, and it seems most probable this artificial vegetation stopped the marauders. That, and the fact that our own artillery returned their politeness with typically French good grace and generosity.

‘This evening it seems that the people opposite have abandoned their dark designs on us. They must be starting to realise that the road to Paris is a bumpy one and that in order to get there it might be better to borrow a Cook’s Guide than to adopt the manners of Roman conquerors.

‘There was a spot of damage. The destroyers of cathedrals smashed one of our shelters which, fortunately enough, was empty at the time. We will add this to our bill.

‘Yesterday we knocked down one of their aeroplanes. We followed the progress of the combat from its beginning way up high to the last shots exchanged one hundred and fifty metres above our heads. Our fighter, circling round the German two-seater, forced it to land behind our lines: the observer was killed and the pilot wounded. Our men ran over and brought us the wicked archangel on a stretcher. The commander interrogated him but couldn’t find out much. His boots were removed to allow his wounds to be dressed and one of his feet was bare. We were very struck by how clean this foot was, toenails perfectly manicured. It made us respect this defeated enemy with broken wings: we thought of our own, black, infantry feet . . . Imagine a dishwasher comparing her chapped hands to the delicate hands of a duchess!

‘It has to be said that the Germans also knocked down one of ours last week. But the cowards were five against one. The pilot of our single-seater, blinded by the sun, was caught high up by a whole squadron. At first he fought to break through the ring of enemy planes surrounding him. And then he dived below the clouds to escape. The squadron dived down after him, all six aeroplanes levelling out just above the ground at 200 kph. Behind our Spad, which was losing speed, five two-seaters were taking turns to use their machine guns. They flew over us at three hundred metres. The birds of prey killed the dragonfly. The light-coloured aeroplane dropped vertically, like some crazy diver leaping off a springboard with outstretched arms. It crashed behind a little wood, a kilometre away. Our hearts stopped for a few seconds and we felt we were falling into the void with him. There is something supernatural about these aerial battles for us, earthlings with heavy legs, caked in mud.

‘What else can I tell you? I did a bit of carpentry recently. I wanted to make myself a little bunk bed. A difficult task, since we don’t have any tools. I had to run halfway round the whole sector to find one bad hammer, a broken saw, a few pieces of plank and some nails. Still, I am quite pleased with my construction even if it is a little fragile. My labours brought me rest. Bear in mind that I can sleep perfectly well on the ground or a table. But I had not found any surface that was right for my size, and the little pallet is definitely more comfortable for a long break.

‘It’s been cold but sunny, perfect walking weather. When you climb up on the ridge that protects us, you can see hills, woods, roads down in the valley – off in the distance a lake glistens, and there are crenelated ruins, so many things. It is lovely. It would be so nice to go down there along the grassy path. But the path is out of bounds and the valley is deadly. The Boches would be quite capable of killing a peaceful stroller. No doubt about it. We are crafty old warriors and they won’t get us so easily.

‘We have no idea what actions are being planned. We eat jam and smoke English tobacco that our cyclists buy from our neighbours. Ensuring we get plenty of provisions is our chief preoccupation. Currently, my immediate goal is a new pair of trousers – and maybe a couple of shirts and some socks. I am preparing my attack. I will probably avoid the quartermaster and attempt an enveloping movement on the storekeeper. I hope to open the engagement with some serious preparation, such as the contents of a two-litre “water” bottle . . .’

I am writing to my sister. There is no truth in what I write, no deep truth. I am describing the outer surface, the picturesque side of war, a war fought by enthusiasts that does not involve me. Why do I put on this dilettante tone, this false assurance which is the opposite of what we are really thinking? Because they cannot understand. For those at the rear we write letters filled with suitable lies, lies ‘to keep them happy’. We tell them about
their
war, the one that they will enjoy hearing about, and we keep ours secret. We know our letters are destined for fathers to read aloud to each other in cafés, so they can say: ‘Those young devils don’t have a care in the world! Huh! I tell you, they’ve got the best of it. If only we were still their age . . .’ To all the concessions we have made to the war, we add our sincerity. Since they cannot estimate the true cost of our sacrifice, we tell more tall stories, with a sneer. Me just like everyone else, everyone else just like me . . .

One evening in early March, already quite warm.

We are holding the regiment’s right sector. The battalion command post is on the side of a rugged ravine, and smoke is rising from our camp kitchens at the bottom. A little higher up is the start of the plateau where we have established our front lines, about a thousand metres ahead. In this bleak, bare place, our view is limited by three arid slopes. But on the left we have a vista of a smaller, gentler valley. In the mornings the trees tremble in a fresh breeze blowing across the plain and the sun piercing the mist drapes it with rosy pink, like tulle on a woman’s skin. Rolling hills form the background, harmoniously arranged with that unaffected charm you find in landscape paintings of the French countryside.

All is quiet, as usual. We are waiting for the end of a day like the rest, in the great idleness of war that is only broken by various little tasks. We have a good shelter, quite spacious and bright, solidly constructed, partly underground. We enjoy the calm, safely outside our cave.

All of a sudden, the peace is shattered by a massive artillery barrage. Despite the distance, we can feel the shock waves of exploding mortar shells. From the first shots, we recognise the frenzied rhythm of a major attack. Shells soon start whistling low overhead. They have missed the ridge and explode on the other side of the ravine, which fills with black clouds of smoke. Powerful time-shells burst in the air, blotting out the sky. There can be no doubt about it: this is preparation for an assault or an all-out attack, made all the more dangerous by the fact that at the end of the long access trenches we only have a single front line, and the troops manning it are spread out widely.

This looks very bad. We were not thinking about the war and now must face it with all its dangers. Men are going to die, perhaps some are dead already, and we are all threatened. We get our kit together nervously, so as to be ready for whatever comes. Our hearts are less submissive than our bodies and you can read our anxiety on our faces.

Our little group is not at full strength. In peaceful sectors like this one, people wander off on whatever pretexts they can find. We have no idea where the others are.

The battalion leader sends off two runners to alert the reserves in the rear. They set off through the upper end of the ravine. Two more go to find the colonel. Must we go forward? That is the only question that matters.

Our own artillery goes into action. Now we can hear the howls of our 75s. The air is full of the roar and rush of shell after shell. The din gets louder.

The commandant summons the adjutant who returns quickly.

‘Runners to the companies.’

Two men take the trench that leads to the company on the right. But it is on the left that the bombardment seems to be doing most damage . . . There is only one runner left and a runner is never sent out alone under shellfire. The adjutant hesitates . . . At that moment we see a man running across the ravine and clambering up the slope, and soon he appears, breathless and soaked in sweat. It’s Aillod from the 11th. He lets out the sigh that means: ‘Saved!’ But the adjutant calls out his name:

‘You’re to go to the 9th with Julien.’

‘Yeah, sure, the same ones get sent every bloody time!’ he responds feebly, standing in front of me.

I see how terror has replaced joy on his face, and I meet his gaze, the gaze of a dog who is used to being beaten, a man picked out to die. That gaze makes me ashamed. Without thinking, and just because it is unfair, I shout:

‘I’ll go!’

I see his gaze come back to life, its gratitude. And I see the astonishment of the adjutant:

‘OK, good, off you go!’

I know this sector because I have been through it to check our maps. I set off and Julien follows me . . . It is a twenty-minute walk, with detours, to reach the command post of the company on the left, at the end of our front line.

We soon emerge on to the plateau where the ground is shaken by shock waves from explosions that are now even more intense, violent and resonant. Waves of steel are crashing down in front of us, in a great wall of smoke as if an oil well had caught fire. We dive on into it, driven by the force of the order we have been given, prisoners of discipline just as surely as if we’d been handcuffed.

I become aware of what I am doing. I am a volunteer, I asked to go through this avalanche . . . This is madness! No one has volunteered for ages, no one wants to take upon themselves the responsibility for what will happen, to usurp the role of chance, to expose themselves to regretting having been struck down.

Something strange is happening to me. My character is such that I always take logic to its limits, accept my acts in all their consequences, envisage the worst. Now I’ve embarked on this mad adventure by a simple reflex, without taking the time to consider it. But it is too late to go back. I will go where I have promised to go.

Now we are entering the zone of heat and chaos. Shells are exploding nearby, throwing up showers of metal; fierce gusts of air make us stagger. Behind me I catch the sound of Julien panting like a dog trotting after his master’s carriage. It’s not our pace that’s making him breathless, it’s suffocating terror. I know that these surprise bombardments are short but extremely violent. For an hour, this is Verdun, this is the Chemin des Dames, this is as relentless as it gets. And we are under it. Either I must take some sort of moral decision or collapse in shame. I can feel fear rising up, hear its moans, and I know its livid mask will cover my face, making me gasp like a fox fleeing the pack . . .