Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

Frondet himself clutches at his faith and his prayers but I have often realised, through the poignant humility of his gaze, that these things do not give him enough consolation. I secretly pity him.

We have spent two days crushed together in this pit, where the air is tainted by our breath and stale sweat, and the bitter stench of urine.

We’re targeted with furious bombardments several times a day, for no obvious reason. The constant danger denies us any respite. We are always afraid of an attack, of being forced out into a desperate struggle, of hearing shouts in German at the entrances or grenades exploding on the steps. We cannot see anything at all, and depend entirely on the companies who are fighting in front of us.

The Germans haven’t shown themselves again. But on a front like this where soldiers are nervous and on constant alert, artillery will be called in at the slightest sign of danger; the guns splutter into action at the first enemy flare, and then set the whole zone ablaze. The alert spreads like a trail of gunpowder. Within a few minutes, the eruption spreads across the plateaus. There is never total silence, the trench mortars continue their stealthy work, so terrible for our nerves, and their shells land all over the place. The number of victims continues to rise.

Our commandant hasn’t even reconnoitred the sector and never sets foot outside his little cabin. Apart from the adjutant who takes his orders, no one has set eyes on him. He relieves himself in a dixie which his batman goes and empties over the parapet outside. His meals are prepared for him on a spirit stove and he seems to spend the greater part of his day lying on his bunk. He has lost all dignity and no longer even attempts to keep up appearances. We know too much about what is becoming of all of us to judge him too harshly, but we deeply resent the way he unnecessarily exposes his runners to danger. He despatches them two by two under shellfire and sends out teams one after another without giving the first ones the chance to accomplish their mission. There is no useful information these men can bring back and the squad leaders would be the first to ask for help if they needed it. We feel that our commandant, no longer fit for his duties, will get us all killed stupidly, that fear is driving him mad without removing the rights that come with his officer’s shoulder stripes. We have stopped believing that anyone is leading our battalion, and this makes us very confused. Fortunately, we are well aware of the quality, the courage, of the three company commandants, who know how to judge a situation and always stand firm alongside their men in the trenches. Lieutenants Larcher of the 9th, and Marennes of the 10th, both about twenty-six, are rivals in audacity. The former can always be found at the most exposed spot in his sector. The latter, according to runners, sits on the parapet to observe the German positions. Then there is Captain Antonelli of the 11th, who gets possessed by a raging fury whenever he goes into action, one which would certainly carry him to the front rank in a counter-attack; older than the other two, he wants to show he is their equal. All three would give their lives rather than surrender their trenches, and are an inspiration to their men. They compensate for the inadequacy of the battalion leader, receive his orders with contempt, and decide what needs doing between themselves. We count on them.

In a sap at the front line we discovered the bodies of some men from the battalion that we had relieved. We assume they died of asphyxia after a gas attack.

I have in my hand a little pocket Kodak that I found on one of them. I would like to keep it because the camera belonged to sub-lieutenant F.V— (of whose death I thus learned) whom I had known slightly at university where he was studying for a degree in literature. But I realise that doing so might be misinterpreted. So I put it back on to the little pile of personal effects, though I doubt it will ever reach his family. Others will perhaps have fewer scruples, without the excuse of remembrance.

Later on I slip the camera beneath the other objects. Not because I still want to take it. But it reminds me of its owner. F. V— showed great promise, and this death is heart-wrenching because just a hundred metres from here it struck someone who links me to the days before the war. The death of those whom we only knew in the war, however sad it is, does not have the same significance, the same resonance.

Our heavy artillery has begun methodical shelling at a rate of one round every five minutes. They fall short: 155s and 220s almost invariably come down on our own lines. One sergeant was thrown into the air, several men have been wounded. There is every reason to believe that during most bombardments we are getting hit by shells from our own side. Men keep running back, cursing, demanding they extend the range of fire. We send more and more messages and signals. To no effect. An angry sub-lieutenant comes to us:

‘It’s a disgrace! Where are the heavy artillery officers? We’ve never seen a single one and there’s nothing else we can do.’

‘What a bunch of swine! They’re afraid of getting their boots dirty! They save their skin and don’t give a damn about ours!’

He sets off again, tears of rage on his face. The firing goes on: regular, idiotic, unbearable. This is surely one torment that the men in the trenches could have been spared.

I am woken by a peculiar pain.

I am curled up in a narrow recess underneath a shelf full of papers, cards and bits of equipment. I am sleeping in the dark, forgotten, on a pile of sandbags that I found there.

The first thing I’m aware of is the thunderous roar of the bombardment outside. The second is the pain, which is now localised and makes me panic. But it’s nothing, surely… no need to get excited… it will pass. Except that I have to face the facts: I have a bad stomach upset . I have to go outside. Go outside? All hell is breaking loose up there. The shelter is shaking and shuddering under the crashing waves of heavy shells. The roar of drumfire comes in, blast upon blast… I cannot go out!

A ridiculous, obscure little drama, and one in which my life may be at stake… My guts are fermenting, distending, pushing at my muscles which cannot hold back for long. My body is letting me down… OK, I’ve got to go!… Up there? I think of the latrines, near the entrance where the mortar shells are landing. I imagine the shrill, blinding night, the flashes of fire, the screech of the shells that you hear a tenth of a second before the blast. I cannot go, I cannot go out there! No, look, you don’t get yourself killed for an upset stomach, you overcome it. It would be too stupid!

Alone, knees pulled up, hands clenched on my stomach, eyes shut, I am struggling with all my might, making a superhuman effort. I am writhing, sweating, holding back my cries. I’ve never endured anything like this. And it’s not stopping… Can I hold out? I must, I must hang on…

‘But just go and do what you’ve got to do!’ I see myself coming back normally, the deed done, freed of my burden, intact and proud, as if I’d just accomplished some heroic act (and would it not be one?). I see myself, my face calm, my body purged, thinking: he who dares… ‘But you know very well that you won’t go.’ No, I will not go…

This bombardment will never end…

I am weakening. The band of muscles is stretching, the safety valves will not hold. My joints are all knotted up by the effort, like an attack of rheumatism. I have to get out of here!

I extricate myself slowly, stand up, make my way across this mournful crypt, bent almost double, holding my leaden stomach which is making my legs give way, feeling for the walls, looking for space to put my feet in between the sleeping men. I keep stopping to hold back violent contractions, hopping about on the spot.