Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

But eventually we know we will have no excuse for further delay. Abruptly we throw ourselves out of the exit, and run towards the front.

‘We’re getting a real hammering!’

Rolling fire has started hitting the ground around us, chasing us down into the bottom of the sap, making the beams of the shelter creak and filling it with gusts of warm air that smells of gunpowder. Candles flicker out, voices tremble. Then the bombardment silences us, overwhelms everything, devastates… The Germans are probably going to counter-attack…

Along with Frondet, we have tucked ourselves way in some dark corner, far from the adjutant, mixed in with men from the company. We are keeping our heads down, we do not want to be found and, if we hear someone calling, we will not answer. Enough is enough! We have done enough today. We don’t want to go out, to cross the plateau under a barrage of shellfire, bank on another miracle to save our lives. We hide our faces, pretend to be asleep. But we listen intently, in terror and despair, to what is happening above us — sick with fear. A herd of elephants is up there, trampling and pulverising. The shells are masters of the earth. We are afraid, so afraid…

‘It goes on for ever and ever… we won’t escape!’

An explosion at one of the exits. The wounded scream, and scream…

The adjutant waited too long to pass on the orders. The companies were relieved long ago by the time we leave the battalion command post, and now it is the time for the artillery to start up again.

Fortunately, the clear night helps our progress, There are fifteen of us, all the runners, going as fast as we can. We can hear the explosions on the plain; our artillery is starting its work, and the Germans will not take long to respond.

The trench ends up at the foot of the ravine, from where a road leads to a crossroads named The Crooked Farmhouse , a bad spot. The explosions are ever more frequent and the night is furrowed by very low whistles, carrying off into the distance.

‘The 75s are giving their best!’

We walk in silence. The mist hanging in the narrow valley muffles sounds. But still I listen hard to the trajectories tracing above us. I can soon make out whistles that sound suspicious: incoming, ending with the ‘plop’ typical of gas shells. No one suspects it yet, and if I give a warning I’ll be laughed at. But I stay on my guard.

‘Get down!’

We throw ourselves into the ditch. It is as if a line of overhead hoppers were coming off their rails and tipping out their cargo of explosives. The ravine resounds with detonations, shrapnel cuts through the night. More convoys of 150s come into their station in the sky, and tip over. The crossroads we need to pass is a volcano. We must wait. The screech of gas shells slips into gaps in the uproar.

Silence. A few seconds of silence, then one, two minutes’ silence. We rush into this silence as if we were running across a collapsing footbridge. Our breathing has trouble keeping up with us, and starts to lag behind, groaning hoarsely.

The crossroads, the farm, the stench of gunpowder, fresh, smoking shell-holes…

‘Right in the middle of the road!’

‘Let’s get out of here!’

If the German battery chief had ordered the gunners to open fire at that moment we would have been killed. We take off down the road which skirts the rear of our positions and leads to the canal. But the shells are cunning, and now they’re exploding on our right.

‘Into the field!’

We jump down. The 150s hit the ground at the same time as we do, near the farmhouse. Screams follow the explosions.

‘Everyone still here?’

‘Yes, yes, yes… one, two, three, four, five… fourteen!’

Good! The men who have been hit aren’t ours — the others can look after themselves.

‘We got out just in time!’

‘Look out!’

Two seconds’ anguish, every muscle clenched as death approaches. The thunderbolts miss us, scatter. Flick the switch: restart heart and lungs.

‘Look out!’

The breath of these monsters flattens us on the ground, the explosions suck out our brains, empty our heads.

‘Ah, shit!’

‘Bad luck to get ourselves smashed up because of some idiot. We should have…’

‘Look out!’

The blast of red fire spays up, very close.

‘Aaaaaaaah… I’m hit…’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Gérard,’ a voice answers.

Vououou… Vrrroom… Vrrroom-vrrroom…

‘Another one!’

Vrrroom-vrrroom-vrrroom… Vrrroom…

‘Christ, we’re all going to cop it! Let’s get out of here!’

‘Yeah, let’s go!’

‘Can Gérard walk?’

‘Yes.’

A desperate dash, running for our lives, falling to the ground whenever shells come down. We are totally exposed on the road, surrounded by explosions. Zing! A piece of shrapnel hits a helmet… No more thoughts: run. All our will is concentrated in our lungs.

Ss-vrrraouf… The terrifying flash… that’s it, this time… Me, me!… No, I’m not hit… But there must have been some damage… Three seconds’ self-examination. Then an unrecognisable voice. Mine?

‘Stop, stop!’

‘Casualties?’

‘Yes, right in front of me!’

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Then look, for christ’s sake!’

‘Who’s got a torch?’

‘Me!’

I take the torch, go forward, flood the ground with light. Horror! A corpse stretched out, a shattered head, half empty, brains like thick pink cream.

‘One dead!’

‘No wounded?’

‘No.’

‘Forward, forward!’

We can’t go any faster, don’t even hit the ground when we hear a shell. The explosions drive us on like whiplashes. We run and we run, veins pounding, vision clouded by red mist from the strain, the last effort.

‘Halt!’

We have outrun the bombardment. We fall to the ground, try to gather our strength.

Zzziou-flac… Zzziou-flac… Zzziou-zzzziou-flac-flac… Gas shells are coming closer and the 150s seem to be coming back too. We get going. The road slopes gently down. Further on there’s a sinister fog, which smells bad.

‘Gas masks!’

They make walking very difficult. The eyepieces get steamed up, we breathe in hot, thin air with difficulty, and our pace slows.

Vouououou… The percussion shells are coming in again, targeting us. We pull off our masks and run for it, breathing in the poisonous air. But only for a short while. The road climbs again and the fog disperses. Finally the shells become much more intermittent.

The men with the heaviest loads slow down. The danger is moving away. We all flop down behind a bank which protects us from any last shrapnel.

‘Christ, some bloody relief that was!’

We answer with nervous laughter, the laughter of the insane. Oh, and by the way, the dead man?

‘Parmentier!’

Parmentier, yes Parmentier! Poor chap!

We laugh again, despite ourselves…

At first light we reach a village. Gérard, whose shoulder wound does not seem too bad, leaves us to go to a first-aid post. Then the adjutant goes off, looking for the commandant and some stretcher-bearers. We stay in the village square, beside a fountain.

‘We’re done in!’ says Mourier, the runner for the machine-gunners, ‘I’m going to try to find us a field kitchen.’

‘You’ll find bugger all!’

‘They’re bloody scarce!’

Off he goes. He has only walked a little way, hands in his pockets, when he encounters a police officer on horseback. He doesn’t bother to give him a glance.

‘Hey, you, have you stopped saluting? shouts the officer, rearing his horse.

We hear Mourier’s angry answer, just before he disappears into a row of ruined houses: