Chapter IX: The Siege of Verdun

It was now six p.m. and, although the German shells had been coming in at regular intervals all day, they increased the intensity of their fire now and things were pretty hot, for they were putting lots of big ones over. We felt quite secure in our _abri_, and after an hour the bombardment ceased.

That night we got little sleep, for the French preparatory fire, in view of the big offensive planned for the next day, had increased to such violence it sounded like Hell let loose and running wild.

We were up at three a.m., ready to start at break of day. If possible, the French fire seemed to increase each moment. So fast were the big guns discharging their deadly missiles that it was impossible to distinguish one report from another. It was one vast rumble. However, we did not get away, as word came that the Boches were putting over gas along the road on which we were to travel, and so orders came for us to wait. That gave us time to get a good meal tucked away. It is always good judgment to eat when one has an opportunity, for the chances are that during an attack the rarest thing that one will experience is an opportunity to eat.

It was nearly eight o’clock before we got under way. The road over which we were going was controlled by Boche batteries back of Pepper Hill, and even now we were noticing the shells landing in the roadside ahead and behind us. Camions, dead horses and soup kitchens were in evidence, toppled over into the ditches, but we were not hampered and kept right on going.

In a few minutes we were stopped by a French sentry and warned not to try to go ahead as the Boches were shelling the road in advance quite heavily. We could hear the shells breaking about half a kilometer further on, so we pulled up and stopped here for about thirty minutes. There seemed to be a lull at the end of this time, when we again started forward, but had not proceeded very far when we came to an artillery caisson turned over in a ditch and three horses lying dead in the road. Two of the men attached to the caisson had been killed by the same shell and were lying at the roadside, partly covered with canvas.

We were held up here for a couple of moments until the Frenchmen pulled the last horse that blocked the road out of the way. Five minutes more travel brought us to a sharp turn in the road, but just before we reached it a shell exploded near us with a sound that convulsed us. A quick application of the brakes was necessary, for we found that the shell had landed in the road just in front of a camion. The three men who were on the camion heard it coming and jumped to safety, but the explosion had torn their motor and the front of their car into bits.

It so happened that this truck occupied the very middle of the road and it was impossible for us to pass on either side of it. Bang! a shell broke at this moment on the hillside about one hundred feet away. Hasty examination and inquiry soon convinced us that we would be held up here for some time. It appeared like a most uncomfortable place to be stuck in, and the developments of the next few moments justified the impression. Bang! Bang! two shells exploded one on one side of the road and the other just ahead. We decided to turn our car around and get away from this spot until the damaged truck was removed. This was finally accomplished, but no sooner had we turned than the shells began bursting in and around the road in the direction we were traveling.

A Frenchman at this moment pointed out the location of an _abri_ by the roadside where we were and into which we could crawl until the shelling stopped. Ahead of us some two hundred feet the road passed through a sort of a cut, where the banks came up on both sides high enough partially to protect the car from being damaged, except by a direct hit.

The _abri_ was a very welcome place and as long as we had started for it we lost no time in getting there. We had hardly descended the stairs when two Frenchmen came down supporting a third between them. I recognized him as one of the men who had been on the camion. His trousers were red and the blood was trickling to the floor. His clothing was removed at once and a gaping wound was found in his stomach. He screamed with agony.

A doctor, who was present, stepped forward at this moment to examine the man, but quickly shook his head. We knew that meant the wounded soldier did not have a chance. At this instant a shell landed about twenty feet from the entrance to our retreat, and the vibration was so violent that it almost shook our teeth out. A great deal of loose dirt between the beams above our heads fell—some of it into the gaping wound of the unfortunate man lying on the floor. I was horrified and called the doctor’s attention to the matter, but he said that it was of no consequence; the man was doomed.

Naturally I began to feel very nervous, for the place in which we were quartered did not impress me as any too safe, being only about fifteen feet below the surface, and should a shell land on it I felt that we would stay there a long, long time.

And the shells did come, one after another. It appeared that they were shooting at the dug-out instead of the road now. The place fairly trembled. The doctor fell to his knees and started praying a sort of chant—“My God, my God. I have always tried to serve thee well,” etc. I must confess that I was not enjoying myself any too well, for I remember having picked up an old newspaper which I tried to read, but merely turned the pages over and over and whistled nervously, wondering where the next one would land.

The doctor turned sharply and addressed me. “You fool, have you no reverence, to whistle while a man is praying?” He upbraided me severely. Such experiences, together with the agonized cries from wounded men screaming with pain, were not pleasant. I expected momentarily to see the nose of a Boche 105 come poking through the roof and bury us like rats, but Dame Fortune smiled with favor upon us, for the expected never came. But the cries of the man who had been so badly wounded had now ceased. He had passed away.

After the bombardment lifted we ventured forth, expecting the worst. But there was our car, untouched, just where we had left it. A few moments’ work by some Frenchmen got the auto truck off to the side of the road far enough to enable us to pass. I do not ever remember experiencing such profound relief at leaving a place as I was to get away from this bend of the road.

Soon we came to where the French cannon were putting over the usual preparatory fire before the attack. We parked our car in a sort of a gravel pit, which afforded good protection. By this time we had passed several large Howitzer batteries, also some large Marine pieces, and when these guns would fire we could hear their big shells go screaming over our heads on their way to the front. One cannot help wondering how any living thing could exist within the confines of such an inferno.

After about ten minutes we came up before a field telegraphic headquarters, and adjoining was the telephone exchange for this sector of the front. Needless to say, this was a busy place. Here all impending movements shaped themselves, and communications from the General Staff were relayed to the army both by wire and ’phone. All the big guns throwing shells over our heads were controlled by this bureau.

A captain informed us that an attack was to be launched at twelve noon sharp. During the time that we were here I noticed undue aerial activity on the part of the Germans, for there were some twelve or fifteen of their machines in the air over the French lines, and at the same time I noticed six observation balloons floating behind their lines with lookouts alert. It impressed me as rather irregular that the French had not sent up machines to drive the Boche planes back over their own lines in such times as these, for it was now ten-thirty, and, with an attack coming off at noon, they might gather a lot of information regarding the concentrations of the French and take steps to counter the move.

Almost at the moment that these thoughts were running through my mind the captain was called to the telephone, and after a short time returned with the information that the call was an order for the French aviators to proceed against the German observation balloons, regardless of cost, and to destroy them. I asked if they were going after the planes, too, to which he replied:

“No—they are instructed to pay no attention to the aeroplanes until they have completed the destruction of the observation balloons. The planes are to be left entirely to our anti-aircraft batteries.”

Turning toward the rear, I noticed the result of the orders just issued, for one after another of the French planes ascended, until I had counted nineteen. All started to maneuver for positions of advantage. The battle-planes ascended to elevations where they could protect the planes that were going after the balloons. Over to the right of our position, within two minutes of each other, the anti-aircraft batteries scored direct hits, and brought two Boche planes tumbling to earth, while overhead a German attacked a French plane and forced it to descend behind our lines.

Time was drawing closer now when we must go forward to take up the position we would occupy during the attack. Already the French fire was deafening, mingled with the terrible roar of German shells. In about twenty minutes we gained the summit of an elevation from which we could see the German trenches that were to be attacked, about twelve hundred yards in front of us, but considerably lower, excepting one slope on the left, where there was a steep incline leading to the top of a small hill, on which was located the second line defense of the Germans, the first being at the bottom.

We could see very plainly the effect of the French fire, for there were shells of all sizes breaking over the German positions—a mass of shrapnel explosives. With the aid of powerful glasses I could distinguish that while there was some barbed wire standing before the German trenches the accuracy of the French artillery had resulted in reducing it so much that there would be easy access for the infantry.

At eleven-forty-five exactly there was not a German observation balloon in the sky. French aviators were now free to engage the Boche planes. In the next few moments two German machines were brought to earth and with them one French plane in combat. Immediately thereafter a German machine fell in flames, brought down by the aircraft batteries. I could not help but think how wonderfully accurate the calculations of the Headquarters Staff had been in planning the aerial operations.

Located in pits on the hill on which I stood were the French 75’s, about forty pieces all told, that had been placed there the night before. Not a single shot had been fired from them. Afterwards I learned more in detail the part these guns were to play and the reason for their temporary inactivity.

At twelve sharp, as if by magic, out of the ground arose wave upon wave of French infantry. So spectacular, and so inspiring, was the sight that we stood motionless, our eyes fixed upon the advancing lines of blue. For several minutes I did not see a man fall. This was due to the fact that the Germans were still in their dug-outs on account of the intensity of the French preparatory fire, still falling on their position.

This did not last long, however. The curtain fire raised quickly and we could observe the shells breaking in the rear of the German front-line trenches, instead of on them, as they had been a moment before. The same instant German machine-gun fire opened, and, just as the French reached the wire in front of the enemy position, I could see blue figures falling all along the front, and while the buzz of the machine guns was inaudible, due to the terrible din of the cannon, I knew by the way the men dropped that the machine guns were doing the mischief.

Notwithstanding the slaughter, more men jumped into the gaps and on they swept. They had now reached the parapet of the German front-line trench and we could see them fighting with grenades and hand to hand. A short while thereafter the supporting columns of the French surged on over the first line in an attack upon the secondary defense. Supporting columns still filed out of the French trenches below. How so many could come from that source was enough to mystify one, but here they were before our eyes, streaming forward in surging waves. I noticed now that the French fire had again been lifted and was being thrown even farther to the rear than heretofore.

The shells, as we now observed them, broke in a clearing that seemed about five hundred yards wide, back of the secondary defense of the Germans. It was on this stretch of ground that all the French artillery on our hill was trained, but as yet not a shell had been fired from them. We could see very clearly that the first line had been captured, for even now the French had started back with groups of prisoners taken from it. We could discern quite clearly at times that they were making good progress against the secondary defense, although the smoke and bursting shells in the area between were very heavy and obscured the view. I glanced toward my left and saw caissons going up on the run with cartridges and hand grenades to repel the counter attack.

The Germans must have anticipated this move, for they put over a terrific fire on the road over which these supplies had to be transported. Just about this time word came back that all objectives had been captured and consolidation started. Instantaneously another rush of caissons went forward with additional supplies, and every gun behind us seemed to be throwing a barrage fire back of the positions captured. There was no lull. The French infantry had captured all that they had started out for,—in fact, all that there was.

An under officer of the battery beside me exclaimed, “Hurrah!” and I turned my head in the direction in which he was looking, to see three regiments of “Blue Devils” charging with bayonets fixed up the steep slope that had until now defied all thrusts. The casualties seemed to be remarkably few for such an exposed position, and before we could realize what had happened the French had gained the crest, and, in the next few moments, had thrown the Boches off the hill.

Orders were now given for every man to take his position. At first I could not understand why these orders caused such activity among the batteries that, up to now, had shown no signs of being in the fight at all—but I was soon to learn. Everyone seemed breathless with impatience, but stood cool and rigid. Finally I heard a shout, “Here they come!”

I shall never be able adequately to describe the sight. Masses of Boches surge forward in counter attack; closer and closer they drew toward the French positions until there was an earth-rending crash and forty sheets of flame burst from the mouths of the cannon beside me.

I was too stupefied to realize what had taken place for the moment, but soon regained control of myself. The guns never stopped a second. Each piece was throwing shrapnel at the rate of twenty-two to twenty-five shots a minute into the oncoming ranks. We could observe quite clearly the shells landing among them and over them, and with each explosion could see gaps torn in their lines and men mowed down like so many weeds. Finally they faltered, and the next instant fell back in disorder to the positions they had left. The ground was literally strewn with their dead when the cannon ceased.

It was not long that we enjoyed this lull for the German batteries started shelling our positions furiously. Hitherto we had not come in for much attention, a shell every now and then was our lot, but now their fire was directed straight at us, and from what we received I imagined that every gun made in Germany was trained on this hill.

Five French guns were completely destroyed, while eight more had to re-locate positions so that they would not be wiped out. Shells of all sizes broke around us, but after a few minutes the shelling subsided.

Notice was now transmitted along the position that the Boches were forming for a second counter attack. Everyone was again in place and in a couple of moments again I heard, “Here they come!” And they did come, and also with them came a renewal of shell-fire on our position, when two more guns were hit. But they were paying a terrible toll for their advance, for their ranks were torn to bits by the French machine guns.

Nor did this stop them—they came on and on until they gained the parapet of the French position, and here fought hand-to-hand for it. But the defenders were the most tenacious. They refused to budge an inch, until, due to superior numbers, they had to give ground. But the Headquarters Staff had been watching for these very conditions, so, like a flash, two attacks were started simultaneously from the right and left, and before the Germans knew what had happened both bodies of the French converged in their rear, and all Germans not killed were taken prisoners.

It is difficult to analyze and describe one’s feelings in going through such an attack, and what surprised me most, after it was all over, was the way in which I had lost all consciousness of what was taking place right around me, so intense was my desire to see everything that was transpiring out in front of our position. Even when the shells were coming in close, and particularly during the time when the batteries beside me were being shelled, and even hit, I do not remember paying much attention to what might happen to me, for I felt that all was in the hands of fate.

On our way to the rear we came across batches of prisoners. There appeared to be two distinct classes of soldiers, the first not one of whom seemed to be over twenty, while some here were mere boys and wore looks of terror and dread. I saw one youngster, surely not over seventeen, with his hand tied up, evidently wounded, the tears streaming down his cheeks. I was informed later that these boys were told by their officers that in the event of their being captured they would be tortured, and all manner of things would be done to them by the French. From their expressions one could see that they believed this to be a fact.

The other class consisted of men who appeared to be over forty years of age. Some of them had beards in which gray hairs were largely in evidence. All of them looked very poor and the rations that they had been given surely did not nourish them to any marked degree. The class that was lacking was the strapping young fellow of twenty-two to twenty-eight, the connecting link between mere boys and middle-aged men.

After all these came the wounded. Brancardiers and soldiers were now assisting at the dressing stations. All kinds and shapes of humanity lay in rows, one after another, awaiting the attention of the doctors who pass along the line examining and administering to those who have a chance for life. To one who is not used to such sights it would appear that the doctors are a hard-hearted lot, as they make their rounds, passing by those who have no chance. But here one must realize that the time and attention that a vitally injured man requires, should he have died on the way to the hospital, might have been the means of saving the life of the one who had a chance. Never shall I forget the expression on the faces of men when the doctors passed on to the next. They realized that it was only a question of moments before they made their supreme sacrifice. What must that feeling be? Of course, there are some that lose control of themselves because of intense pain from wounds, but on the whole the patience of these unfortunates is most remarkable.

After a heavy action all such men as can possibly get to the rear by themselves, or with the assistance of comrades, are forced to make the struggle, for the ambulance is taxed to its utmost in bringing back those who are unable to help themselves.

After the lull came, with the French holding all of their gains, I had the opportunity of going over the whole area of the Verdun battlefield, and the only expression that I can use to fit the scene is that it was a mess. Where, before the attack, there were beautiful trees, nothing now remained. It was impossible to tell or distinguish one shell hole from another, so raked and torn was the ground, now turned into chalk dust. First a shell lands here and throws the ground one way, then a shell lands there and throws it back—a continual churning process—and when the heavy rains come it turns it all into a quagmire of so much mud. There have been any number of instances where French soldiers had gotten into such places and gradually sunk almost out of sight before their comrades came to their rescue. In some cases they were too late to pull the victims out without pulling their arms from their sockets. All that could be done under such circumstances was to shake hands with the unfortunate—before he was swallowed up and sank from view in the lake of mud.

This has happened to horses and even to the light field batteries. It is impossible for one who has not witnessed these scenes to have even a vague conception of such conditions.

* * * * *

Following is an interesting letter portraying an action at Verdun:—

Verdun, ——

To-night I am sitting in the small underground cellar of one of
the public buildings of the town, acting as a sort of timekeeper
or starter for the cars going up to our most dangerous post, and
handling the reserve cars for the wounded in the town itself. I wish
I could describe the scene as I see it,—for a strange world is
passing before me—Frenchmen, living, wounded and dying.

A long, heavily arched corridor, with stone steps leading down to
it; two compartments off to one side lined with wine bins, where
our reserve men and a few French brancardiers (stretcher-bearers)
are lying on their stained stretchers, some snoring; beyond, a door
that leads to a small operating room, and to the left another door
that admits to a little sick ward with four beds of different sizes
and make on one side and six on the other, taken evidently from the
ruined houses nearby—and one tired infirmier (hospital attendant) to
tend and soothe the wounded and dying.

In the bed nearest the door, a French priest, shot through the
lungs—with pneumonia setting in—his black beard pointing straight
up, whispers for water. Next to him, a little German lad, hardly
nineteen, with about six hours to live, calling, sometimes screaming,
for his mother, and then for water. Next to him, a French captain
of infantry, with his arm shot off at the shoulder and his head
lacerated, weak, dying, but smiling; and next to him a tirailleur in
delirium calling on his colonel to charge the Germans. The Infirmier
is going from one to the other, soothing one and waiting on another,
each in turn. He asks me what the German is saying, and I tell him he
is calling for his mother. “Ah, this is a sad war,” he says, as he
goes over to hold the poor lad’s hand.

A brancardier comes in with a telephone message,—“a _blessé_
(wounded man), at Belleville—very serious.” This is a reserve car
call. So one slides out and is gone like a gray ghost down the ruined
street, making all the speed its driver can—no easy matter,—with no
lights. In twenty minutes he is back. The brancardiers go out—they
come in again, bearing the wounded man on a stretcher and place it
on the floor beside the little stove. One of them, who is a priest,
leans over him and asks him his name and town;—then, in answer to
what his wife’s name is, he murmurs: “Alice;” while on the other
side another brancardier is slitting the clothes from his body and I
shiver with pity at the sight.

The surgeon comes out of his little operating room. Weary with the
night’s tragic work—after so many, many other tragic nights, he
doused his head in a bucket of water, then turned to the wounded
man. He looked long at him, gently felt his nose and lifted up his
closed eyelid. Then, at his nod, the stretcher is again lifted and
the wounded man carried into the operating room, and soon after that,
into the little room of sorrows.

In answer to my eager question the surgeon shakes his head. Not a
chance!

A brancardier and I gather the soldier’s belongings from his clothes
to be sent to his wife, but even we have to stop for a few moments
after we see the photograph of his wife and their two little children.

An hour later, as our night’s work was slacking down and several
cars had driven up and been unloaded, the infirmier came in from the
little room and said something to the brancardiers. Two of them got
a stretcher and in a moment “The _blessé_ from Belleville” came
past us with a sheet over him. They laid him down at the other end of
the room and another brancardier commenced rolling and tying him in
burlap for burial. As you looked he changed to a shapeless log. Then
out to the dead wagon.

Shortly after I went into the little ward again to see how the
others were coming through the night, and was glad to see them all
quieted down; even the little German seemed less in pain, though his
breathing still shook the heavy little bed he lay on.

Through a window I saw that day was beginning to break, and, as I
noticed it, I heard the Chief’s car coming in from the “Sap,” and
knew the night’s work was over.