With Joffre at Verdun: A Story of the Western Front

by F. S. Brereton

"They are coming! See them swarming from the trees yonder. Watch them tramping through the snow!

"Steady! Hold your fire! Let the guns alone deal with them. Bravo, mes amis, you are doing grandly! This is a day for the sons of France to let the enemy know they are still in existence."

Very quietly, with that sang-froid which the French possess, perhaps, above all others, with determination written on every face, both young and old, and with heroism shining from their features, those gallant poilus, all along the line sweeping across the crest of the hills facing the Germans—a stretch of ground ploughed deep now into a hundred furrows, shattered and shell-swept, and blasted in a thousand places into deep pits and craters—watched first as those small advance-parties, sent by the enemy to reconnoitre the situation, were shot down or driven back to shelter; and watched now with straining eyes and with many an exclamation as a horde of grey-coated infantry debouched from the evergreen woods encircling the eastern and northern slopes of the approaches to their position, and, forming up there, advanced steadily to attack them. They were still a great distance away, yet within effective rifle range; but as yet the time had not come to deal with them from the trenches. There were the guns right behind, cleverly hidden, dug in, posted in many an odd corner, laid upon the enemy from many a crevice in the ground and many a convenient hollow. Indeed, already the sharp snap of those soixante-quinze had begun to punctuate the air, and shrapnel-bursts could be seen above the evergreen tree-tops upon the snow-clad slopes, and over hollows where the enemy were massing. But now, as the enemy cannonade died down a little, and that torrent of shells which had been hurtling upon the French trenches ceased a trifle, the din of the German bombardment was rendered almost noiseless, was shut out, as it were, was eclipsed, by the demoniacal rattle of those French 75's casting shell at the advancing enemy. The massed ranks marching from the cover of the trees, heads of columns appearing at the summit of many a ravine which gave access to the heights, battalions forming up outside their shelter, were smashed and rent by a tornado of shrapnel and shell which blew in the faces of the German formations, which severed the heads of columns from the bodies, which drove hideous gaps and holes in the centre of the ranks, and sent the mass, bleeding and broken and shattered, doubling back into cover.

But if the French had withstood that terrific bombardment to which a short sector of their front before Verdun had been subjected for so many hours, and had held on to a position, which others might well have termed untenable, with grim determination, the Kaiser's infantry were to prove on this eventful day—as on many another which followed—that they too were possessed of the strongest heroism. Governed by the strictest discipline, hounded on by armed officers if they showed the smallest hesitation, yet, to do them scant justice only, eager and ready for the fight in the majority of cases, the shattered ranks of the invader of France's soil re-formed under cover—under the shelter of the evergreen trees, under a persistent deluge of shrapnel from the 75's—re-formed, and, shoulder to shoulder, having debouched again into the open, set their faces once more uphill towards that shattered and battered line where the French were awaiting them.

No need to detach smaller parties to go forward and reconnoitre the ground, to tell them whether the enemy were still existing. It had been the sanguine hope of the Crown Prince—who was conducting this enormous manoeuvre—and his War Staff, that what had been done in Russia might well be repeated on the Western Front. Guns—a superiority of guns—guns and more guns, were the solution of the difficult problem which had faced the Germans for so many months past. That unbroken line on the west, those Frenchmen and soldiers of Britain and Belgium, in spite of their courage and tenacity, in spite of their trenches and redoubts and fortified positions which seemed impregnable, might yet be driven before the hordes of the Kaiser, and that with comparatively little loss; for, thanks to their gigantic preparations before the war commenced, Germany and Austria had still a preponderance of guns, and shells in amazing quantities. Here then was the opportunity: mass the guns—bring every available piece to this spot—and turn upon the enemy trenches such a torrent that trenches, redoubts, and fortified positions would be blotted out of existence, a way hewn through the Western line, with the expenditure of ammunition alone and with the loss of but few German lives. It was theory—German theory—which perhaps they were entitled to rely on, seeing what had happened in Russia; and yet a theory destined on this occasion, and in the weeks which followed, to prove utterly unreliable, utterly wrong, a grievous disappointment. For see! Those scattered parties sent to reconnoitre the battered ground had been killed or driven back; the preparations for a massed attack had been broken up and set at naught by the terrible 75's; and now, as the German infantry debouched again, and, marching swiftly forward, came into full range of the slopes which the guns would appear to have rendered absolutely untenable, such a storm of bullets swept the ranks that the mass quivered, rocked and reeled, and then halted. Torn by shrapnel from above, its lines rent by machine-gun and rifle-firing, the attackers stood and rallied for a moment; then shouts burst from them of terror, of hatred, and of execration, only to be followed by hoarse commands to move forward. Then the masses broke. Isolated units started to charge up the slopes, and soon the mass of men, now no longer shoulder to shoulder, scattered over the slope, keeping yet so close together that bullets could scarce miss individuals, came doubling uphill, their heads down, their bayonets flashing in the wintry sun, their feet carving wide zigzag paths in the snow with which the ground was covered.

"They come! Fire on them! Let go! And prepare, if they come closer, to meet them with the bayonet."

The shout went along that shattered trench-line, and men stood on what was left of the firebank, or leaned their pieces on the edge of a shell-crater or some pit into which they had crawled for shelter, and, turning the muzzles on the enemy, blazed into their masses. Rifles grew hot, ammunition became exhausted, and yet only for a little while, for men fell on every side, and their comrades gripped at the contents of their pouches. Half in and half out of a trench, the sides of which had been blown into the interior almost filling it up, lying full length on his stomach, Henri poured bullets into the enemy, as cool as any cucumber, while Jules lay beside him, picking off his man at every shot, laughing, gesticulating, and quivering with excitement.

"Tiens! It's done! They fly! Bravo!"

The sergeant of Henri's platoon, one arm dangling helpless by his side, stretched out a brawny hand and gripped our hero's, while Jules—the somewhat hysterically inclined Jules—laughing uproariously, would have embraced the gallant Henri if the latter would have allowed it.

Officers shook hands with their men, while poilus turned and congratulated one another: for the thing was done. That handful of men which manned what was left of the French trenches had shattered the first German attack made upon the Verdun salient; and, with the help of the deadly soixante-quinze, had driven the Germans back to the place from which they had started—had driven back all who were still living.