More grenades inside and more German prisoners. The first line men keep going. German dead lie all about. German equipment is piled around; we pass the wounded, meet the living enemy. A running Zouave met a Boche, who goes down with the Zouave’s bayonet in his chest. The Zouave puts his foot on the man, pulls out the bayonet, and keeps on his headlong rush.
An old, grey-haired Poilu met a Boche in square combat, bayonet to bayonet. The old man (his bayonet had broken) got inside the other’s guard, forced him to the ground, and was choking him to death when another Frenchman, helping his comrade, pushed the old man aside in order to get a sure welt at the Boche. The old man, quick as a cat, jumped up. He thought another German was after him and recognized his comrade. The German sat up and stuck up his hands. The Frenchmen looked foolish—it would be murder! Half a dozen Germans just then came from a dugout. That old man took his ride with the twisted, broken bayonet, picked up a couple of German casques, and, lining the prisoners up, took them to the rear. Prisoners all about. One big German officer surrendered with a machine gun crew who carried their own gun. Unwounded prisoners lugged their wounded comrades on their backs while others limped along, leaning on comrades. Many had broken, bruised heads. Prisoners bore French wounded on stretchers. The dead lay in all directions, riddled, peppered by the 75’s, mangled with high explosives, faces dried-blood, blackened.
Behind the first line, into the newly-made communication trenches, noticed where dirt had been thrown to the bottom of the trench, walking on dead Germans’ grazed faces bristling whiskers, partially covered with loose dirt, so that their bodies were[were] not noticed by comrades going to the front. Continued bombardment, more dead. Germans running, equipment strewn everywhere, black bread, cigars, many casques, more dead, broken caissons, dead horses, cannon deserted—their crews killed, Boche shells in lots of three lying about in wicker baskets. Trenches full of dead, legs, arms and heads sticking out.
We followed the Germans into a maze of gas and got my eyes and lungs full. Then felt weak and comfortable. The Luxemburg corporal came along and pulled me out. Dropping behind, we finally came upon the Legion, waiting in a communication trench to flank the Germans. A wonderful Legionnaire, with the face of a Greek god (shot in the stomach), came hobbling along on a stick. He sat down and renewed an acquaintance with the corporal which had been started at Toulouse.
Over the top again. A backward glimpse showed the wounded man hobbling behind us, back again to the front. I noticed the Legionnaires running, chin forward, bayonet fixed, greatly bunched, and thought the Germans could not miss hitting so many men. So, being the last man in the company, I kept running along the outside. The corporal was killed going over. He fell into a shell hole among a lot of German wounded and dead. We were ordered to turn to the right, down this trench. I, the last man, became first.
Blinded with gas, I blundered along, bayonet fixed, finger on trigger, stumbling over dead and wounded Germans, bumping into sharp corners of the trench, on into another gas maze, and across the second line trench. Someone pulled my coat from behind and I discovered that our men were going down that cross trench. So I fell in about the middle of the company, pumped the gas from my stomach, and by the time I was in shape again orders came that we should hold this trench, which had gradually filled with our men.
It had rained all day. Racing through the trenches, dirt fell into the magazines of our rifles. It makes one furiously angry when the magazine will not work. I grabbed a rifle laying alongside a man I thought dead. He was very much awake. He quite insisted on using his own gun. The next man was dead. He had a new rifle. I felt much better.
It was impossible to stay in that crowded trench. I found a large shell hole in the open, eight feet deep, with water in the bottom. With shovel and pick, I dug out enough on the side of the crater to find dry ground and tried to sleep. I was awakened by officers who wished to make me go into the trenches. I did not understand French. Those officers insisted I did. Of course, I did not. I knew they wanted the nice, comfortable place I had constructed for themselves. So, paid no attention, but covered up my head and tried to sleep. I could not. Then remembered something—I had eaten no food for twenty-four hours. So soaked hard tack in the water at the bottom of the shell hole, dined, and then went to sleep in spite of the rain, the bombardment, and the homeless officers.
Next day made another attack over the top. Got into a Boche machine gun cross-fire; orders were to dig down. Noticed a large shell crater about 20 yards to the left, where a half dozen Poilu were laying in comfort below the earth level and fairly safe. Was crawling toward them on my stomach, with nose in the ground, when I felt the earth shake (impossible to hear in the never-ending cannon roar), looked up, and about 80 or 100 feet in the air, when they had rested on a teeter after going up and before coming down,—I saw a number of blue overcoats, and I looked over to the shell crater and saw it was larger, fresher and empty. However, I crawled over there and stayed till darkness relieved me.
Those men were in comparative safety, while I was out in the open and exposed, yet they were killed, and I lived to tell about it. Soldiers naturally become fatalists, and will not be called till the shell comes along with his number on. They see a shell fall, a cloud of dirt and dust goes up—no damage done. Another shell falls,—a man stood there,—he goes up,—he was in the wrong place, at the wrong time,—and out of luck. Why worry? There are too many shells, and the one that gets you is the one you will never see. If it does not get you right then it is time enough to worry,—if it does you won’t need to worry.