Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

They approach the terrible conflict with a simple logic. The following exchange can give some idea of this. I had gone to get information from a sentry in a forward post. It was raining hard. The man was standing in the mud, dripping wet.

‘There’ll never be an end to this shit!’ he grumbled.

‘Yes there will, old pal, it can’t go on forever.’

‘Oh jesus!… If they stuck old Joffre here in my hole, and old Hindenburg opposite, with the lads on both sides cheering the bastards on, they’d soon sort out their bloody war!’

If you think about it, this reasoning isn’t as simplistic as it seems. Indeed it’s full of human truth, a truth that the poilus also express like this: It’s always the same ones that get themselves killed!

The idea of duty varies according to one’s place in the hierarchy, one’s rank, and the dangers one faces. Among soldiers it comes down to a simple solidarity between men, in a shell-hole or a trench, a solidarity that doesn’t consider the campaign as a whole or its aims, and isn’t inspired by what we like to call ideals, but by the needs of the moment. As such, it can lead to self-sacrifice, and men risk their lives to help their comrades. The further one gets from the front, the more the idea of duty is separated from risk. In the highest ranks, it is entirely theoretical, a pure intellectual game. It merges with concern for one’s responsibilities, reputation, and advancement, unites personal success with national success, which are in opposition for those doing the fighting. And it is used against subordinates just as much as the enemy. A particular conception of duty among men who possess unlimited power and not a trace of sensitivity to temper their doctrines can lead to vile abuses, both military and disciplinary. Such as this one, a decision made by a certain General N— worthy of Robespierre in its glacial ruthlessness, described to me by a corporal-telephonist sitting in front of his switchboard.

He had just been transmitting messages, his headphones over his ears, and I was asking him how the equipment worked.

‘Can you hear what people are saying?’

‘At a central exchange, yes. I just have to arrange the plugs on the board in a certain way.’

‘Have you ever overheard any unusual conversations, ones that might reveal something useful about the war?’

‘You learn more about people than events on the telephone. Important orders, unless they’re very urgent, are sent in writing… But yes, sure, I remember one short, and tragic conversation. This was back in autumn ’14, when I was telephonist for the division, before we were withdrawn. First you need to know that a soldier had been court-martialled. He had gone to the quartermaster to ask for new trousers to replace his, which were ripped. Clothing was in very short supply. The quartermaster gives him trousers that had belonged to a dead soldier, still bloodstained. Naturally enough, the chap is disgusted. “Take them, that’s an order,” says the quartermaster. He refuses. An officer turns up and tells the quartermaster to charge him with disobeying an order. Court martial straight away… Now, back to my telephone call. The colonel of the regiment asks to be connected to the general. I put him through, and listen in without thinking: “This is colonel X… Sir, the court martial has issued its judgement in the matter that you already know about, but I need to consult you because it seems to me that there are extenuating circumstances… The court martial has sentenced him to death. Don’t you think, sir, that a death sentence is really too harsh, and that it should be reconsidered?… ” Now listen to the general’s answer: “Yes, you’re right, it’s harsh, very harsh … [There’s a pause, long enough to count to fifteen.] So, the execution will take place tomorrow morning, do the necessary. ” Not another word.’

‘They shot him?’

‘They shot him!’

I know of course that General N— was only thinking of the national interest, the maintenance of discipline, the solidity of the army. I know that he acted in the name of the highest principles. But when the ordinary soldier here at the front considers the fact that in the name of the very same principles, with the same inhuman rigour, the same dogmatic certainty, this same general will take similar military decisions affecting thousands of individuals, then he can only shake with fear!

There is a man in the company who was at the Butte de Vauquois, the centre of the infamous ‘mine war’. He tells of how in 1915 he witnessed an attack with flame-throwers aimed at capturing this disputed hill. The Paris fire brigade were brought to set it up. Tanks for the inflammable liquid were placed in a gully and pipes laid along trenches connecting them to the flame-throwers. The enterprise might have succeeded had it not been for the stubbornness of general S— who forced the fire-brigade captain to launch the attack on a day when the wind was uncertain. All went well to start with. The Germans fled in terror from the flames. But a sudden change in the wind direction blew the fire back at us, and our sector, in its turn, went up in flames. The installation of the equipment, which had cost us a great deal of effort, was completely destroyed, and we did not take the hill that day.

This same man, who is called Martin, also tells of how his company had been led by a young lieutenant, a graduate of Saint-Cyr, who had been trepanned and had also lost the fingers of both hands, and yet had returned to the front as a volunteer. This officer came from a wealthy family and every week his mother would send a big parcel of food for her son’s men. All this had made a great impression on Martin, who declared:

‘You never know. There are sometimes even posh types who’ve got guts!’

‘That’s for sure,’ agreed another. ‘There are some who really believe in what they’re doing.’

‘Yeah, old pal,’ says a third, ‘and they’re the most dangerous. Without them we wouldn’t be here. They got ’em in Boche-land too, believe you me!’

‘More than likely!’

‘It ain’t the same. Boche officers treat their lads a lot fucking worse than ours do.’

‘That’s what you hear but I reckon it’s just the same as with us, they’ve got all kinds.’

‘It ain’t so much that our lot are all bastards. But when it comes to loonies, we take the fucking biscuit.’

‘You remember that commandant we had in Besançon before the war, the old bloke who was completely barmy? What was he called, the wanker? Giffard, yeah, that’s right, Giffard. He used to come and wash his underwear in the barracks with us. And when he was cross with his horse he’d make it sleep in the guardroom, I kid you not, the guardroom. You ask Rochat. Mad as a bloody hatter!’

‘Biggest arsehole I ever knew was a captain who went around with a thing in his pocket that he used to measure the length of your hair. If it was too long, you’d catch it. In another pocket he had a pair of hair-clippers. He’d whack you across the nose with it, bang! when you were presenting arms. So as soon as you had enough hair on your bonce for a parting, you had to get yourself to the barber.’

‘Me, the worst was old Floconnet, the commandant we had in Champagne. He spent his time hunting turds that had been dropped in the wrong place. The poilus used to go for a crap on a path on the edge of the village, and the old bloke never failed to come and have a good prowl round, every morning. He’d come up with this amazing scheme. He had a cane with a metal tip and he’d use it to pick up the paper on the ground and then he’d take it all to the adjutant and tell him: “Here, take this, see what it says, sort it out for me and give each of those dirty beasts four days in the glasshouse.” Now, since the poilus all used envelopes to wipe their arses, by now it was brown paper! But it had belonged to someone, and their name was on it. In the end we used envelopes on which we’d put the address of the old bastard himself…’