I HAVE no intention, in writing this work, to describe the entire war. It would be an impossible task, and I do not suppose that any author who is a contemporary of the immense tragedy would have the presumption to attempt it. To undertake such a task with success, it would be necessary to wait until many years had effaced the secondary details, leaving in the foreground only the principal facts. Then, too, each person sees the war in his own way, from his own point of view, and can relate neither the ensemble nor the particular detail after the same fashion as his neighbor. It is all a question of individuality in handling such a subject. That which one is able to tell is merely a résumé of certain brief instants lived in the furnace; in long waits, which are told by a few words, but which lasted for months. We must, then, leave to the future historians the literary task of enclosing in a single book the story of the events which have upset and transformed the world; as Homer’s Iliad in its brief pages narrates the War of Troy, which lasted ten years. All that the writer of the present day may depict are separate minutes of the time in which we lived, and the sensations of a man who is only one of the hundred millions of combatants. Therefore I cannot add much to what I have told concerning Verdun.
We remained there four days. So short a time! and yet in this brief space a regiment melted away as the iron melts in the crucible. Four days under fire, and two battalions disappeared. When our relief came, scarcely one-third of our number survived; and of that third not one could tell clearly just what had passed. We had lived, though we knew not how, under the rain of steel, of flames, of flying earth, of splintering shells, of breaking stones; knocked about, thrown to the earth, rising only to fall again; eating little, drinking less; without sleep, without rest, battered and torn, but still clinging to our post.
Automobiles had brought us, automobiles took us away. We were gray with dust when we came; we went away looking like blocks of earth. Nothing about our uniforms was recognizable. Mud and clay blotched our faces and hands, matted our hair and beards, stiffened our shirts, weighed down our clothing. We had all grown old. Our eyes were sunken, our features drawn, our lassitude was extreme. Nevertheless, we almost ran when permitted to go away. We knew that the danger pursued us, and we mustered enough energy to escape. Again we ascended the hills, descended the slopes; again we saw the same spectacles we had seen in coming. It was our turn to cry to the arriving troops: “Count your bones, boys, it is getting hot!”
Yes, it was getting hot! The surging flood of Germans beat upon the French fortress like sea-breakers upon a rocky coast. The uproar increased. It seemed that the utmost limits of the possible must be reached, but each day those limits receded. Each day more cannon crashed; each day the explosions were faster and more furious; each day the storm augmented. One made his escape as from a horrible nightmare. Our ears hummed. Our nerves, strained to the breaking-point, vibrated and quivered like the strings of a violin. We could have dropped in our tracks from suffering and weakness.
However, an immense pride sustained our waning physical force. Mud-bespattered, thin, repulsive, we resummoned our stamina when we heard a command, at the edge of a ruined village; a general was looking at us. Instantly, backs straightened, heads lifted; bayonets were fixed on gun-barrels. Our troop, panting with exhaustion, but proud, impeccable, filed past that man, our chief, whose clear eyes were fixed upon us. We understood each other. Without words, without speech, our faces told him, “We have given our lives; ‘They’ have not passed!” and, without a word, his look responded: “I know it.”
We had our reward. Somehow our physical pains disappeared. Our effort, our sacrifices, our fears, our wounds, had been of service; the baffled enemy was stumbling without progressing, was crumbling away. Verdun held, and behind her protecting arm France still lived.
Just the same, the time had come to seek the automobiles. We could not hold control of ourselves except when on our feet. The instant we stopped moving about, the instant we were seated, or reclining, no matter in what position we relaxed for a single second, we were asleep. Neither jolts, nor knocks, nor sudden stops interrupted our giant sleep. We slept without a remnant of physical sensation. We slept violently, as heavy and inert as dead men. We slept with all our body, all our heart and soul; fists clinched, mouths open; shaken about, wholly unconscious, carried away less like men than like parcels of cloth, earth, flesh, and accoutrement. We no longer had names or personality. We were nothing but clods, utterly at the end of our vitality.
Thus we crossed the country, passing bivouacs where troops were encamped, roads where convoys were mounting toward the battle-line, forests where cavalry were awaiting their call. The noise of the cannon diminished to a distant rumble, became faint, and was lost. We slept on. Occasionally, a man stretched himself, changed position, and plunged again into oblivion like the rest. Some, in their dreams, cried out disconnected words, mumbled, or wept. A madman in my carriage suddenly leaped out and plunged into the blackness of the night. He was not missed until the next day. Three camions had passed over him, leaving him nothing but a mangled rag on the road.
At last we reached our destination, and came to life again. A camp was ready to receive us—a camp so new and fresh we thought it almost elegant. There were Adrian barracks[G] of unpainted spruce, with water for drinking and water for washing; with coffee prepared, fresh bread, hot soup, and abundance of clean straw. We knew that the horrible inferno was at an end for us; at evening a train would take us each to his own family to enjoy a furlough.
To come out of the abyss of hell and arrive at his own hearthside is an emotion too deep for a mortal man. He knows not if he is living in reality or in a dream. He goes on mechanically. He is hairy, barbarous, dirty, hideous. He is black, and torn, and bruised, and ragged. He reeks of powder, blood, and earth. He trembles. He is conscious of a sensation of joy—he feels it without comprehending it.