The barbarians on the other side of the trench, themselves fathers, husbands, brothers, understand that a father is dying calling to his child; that a past common to us all lives again in that last agony. And their arms rest inert, their guns are lowered, and all the fierce warriors remain motionless, dreaming, lost in the contemplation of their inner dreams. Alone, their hearts beat and bleed.
Suddenly someone shouts an oath from the German trench. A brute blasphemes,
“Halt dein Maul.”
A shot sounds. A bullet puts an end to that beatific agony.
Then, there was no need of a signal or an order. Tears dried spontaneously; rage bit our lips and lighted our eyes.
With a bound, with a single bound, sudden, violent, unanimous, we jumped the parapet, and without the enemy’s firing a shot in his utter surprise, we bounded into the German trench. Five minutes later, there was none left alive.
Bowing my head over the body of my friend, I placed the picture of his child on his still moist lips.
The Communique will say:
“South of the Somme we took a picket post by surprise, captured two machine guns and considerable material for making asphyxiating gas. Our losses are insignificant.”