Gabriel Chevallier - Fear

The men at the front are dupes. They suspect this may be the case. But their inability to think very far, their habit of following the crowd, keeps them here. The soldier on the parapet is caught between two powerful forces. Ahead of him, the enemy army. Behind him the barrier of gendarmes, the chains of hierarchies and ambitions, held together by the moral pressure of the country, which lives with a concept of war that goes back a hundred years, and cries: ‘Fight to the finish!’ On the other side the people at the rear respond: ‘ Nach Paris! ’ Stuck between these two forces, the soldier, be he French or German, cannot go forward and cannot go back. So it is that the shout sometimes heard from the German trenches, ‘ Kamerad Franzose! ’, is quite probably sincere. Fritz is closer to the poilu than to his own field marshal. And the poilu is closer to Fritz, because of the suffering they share, than to the men in Compiègne.[37] Our uniforms are different but we are all proletarians of duty and honour, miners who labour in competitive pits, but above all miners, with the same pay and risking the same explosions of firedamp.

One quiet and sunny day, two enemy combatants, at the same time and place, put their heads above the parapet and see each other, thirty metres apart. The blue soldier and the grey one, having prudently reassured themselves they can trust each other, venture a smile and gaze across in mutual astonishment, as if to ask: ‘What the fuck are we doing here?’ That is the question both armies are asking themselves.

In a corner of the Vosges sector there was a platoon that was on good terms with the enemy. Each clan got on with its tasks openly and cordially greeted the opposing clan. Everyone freely enjoyed the fresh air and incoming projectiles consisted of loaves of bread and packets of tobacco. Once or twice a day a German would shout ‘ Offizier! ’ to signal that their bosses were making their rounds. This meant ‘Look out! We may be forced to lob a few grenades over.’ They even warned of an attack and the information was accurate. Then the story got out. An inquiry was ordered. There was talk of treason and court martials and some NCOs lost their stripes. The fear seemed to be that the troops would come together to end the war, overruling the generals. Apparently this outcome would have been something terrible.

Hatred must never diminish. That is the order. But in spite of everything we are losing our appetite for hatred…

‘16 February 1918.

… The Boche have been very aggressive in the past twenty-four hours. They had had the foolhardy notion of carrying off some of our men, and to prepare for this unpleasant attack had subjected us to an intense bombardment. This began last night, which was clumsy of them since it put us in a bad mood by compelling us to get up. They carried on this morning and just now attempted an assault which failed. We didn’t even see the tips of their noses. In front of our lines we have grown a thick crop of barbed wire, and it seems most probable this artificial vegetation stopped the marauders. That, and the fact that our own artillery returned their politeness with typically French good grace and generosity.

‘This evening it seems that the people opposite have abandoned their dark designs on us. They must be starting to realise that the road to Paris is a bumpy one and that in order to get there it might be better to borrow a Cook’s Guide than to adopt the manners of Roman conquerors.

‘There was a spot of damage. The destroyers of cathedrals smashed one of our shelters which, fortunately enough, was empty at the time. We will add this to our bill.

‘Yesterday we knocked down one of their aeroplanes. We followed the progress of the combat from its beginning way up high to the last shots exchanged one hundred and fifty metres above our heads. Our fighter, circling round the German two-seater, forced it to land behind our lines: the observer was killed and the pilot wounded. Our men ran over and brought us the wicked archangel on a stretcher. The commander interrogated him but couldn’t find out much. His boots were removed to allow his wounds to be dressed and one of his feet was bare. We were very struck by how clean this foot was, toenails perfectly manicured. It made us respect this defeated enemy with broken wings: we thought of our own, black, infantry feet… Imagine a dishwasher comparing her chapped hands to the delicate hands of a duchess!

‘It has to be said that the Germans also knocked down one of ours last week. But the cowards were five against one. The pilot of our single-seater, blinded by the sun, was caught high up by a whole squadron. At first he fought to break through the ring of enemy planes surrounding him. And then he dived below the clouds to escape. The squadron dived down after him, all six aeroplanes levelling out just above the ground at 200 kph. Behind our Spad, which was losing speed, five two-seaters were taking turns to use their machine guns. They flew over us at three hundred metres. The birds of prey killed the dragonfly. The light-coloured aeroplane dropped vertically, like some crazy diver leaping off a springboard with outstretched arms. It crashed behind a little wood, a kilometre away. Our hearts stopped for a few seconds and we felt we were falling into the void with him. There is something supernatural about these aerial battles for us, earthlings with heavy legs, caked in mud.

‘What else can I tell you? I did a bit of carpentry recently. I wanted to make myself a little bunk bed. A difficult task, since we don’t have any tools. I had to run halfway round the whole sector to find one bad hammer, a broken saw, a few pieces of plank and some nails. Still, I am quite pleased with my construction even if it is a little fragile. My labours brought me rest. Bear in mind that I can sleep perfectly well on the ground or a table. But I had not found any surface that was right for my size, and the little pallet is definitely more comfortable for a long break.

‘It’s been cold but sunny, perfect walking weather. When you climb up on the ridge that protects us, you can see hills, woods, roads down in the valley — off in the distance a lake glistens, and there are crenelated ruins, so many things. It is lovely. It would be so nice to go down there along the grassy path. But the path is out of bounds and the valley is deadly. The Boches would be quite capable of killing a peaceful stroller. No doubt about it. We are crafty old warriors and they won’t get us so easily.

‘We have no idea what actions are being planned. We eat jam and smoke English tobacco that our cyclists buy from our neighbours. Ensuring we get plenty of provisions is our chief preoccupation. Currently, my immediate goal is a new pair of trousers — and maybe a couple of shirts and some socks. I am preparing my attack. I will probably avoid the quartermaster and attempt an enveloping movement on the storekeeper. I hope to open the engagement with some serious preparation, such as the contents of a two-litre “water” bottle…’

I am writing to my sister. There is no truth in what I write, no deep truth. I am describing the outer surface, the picturesque side of war, a war fought by enthusiasts that does not involve me. Why do I put on this dilettante tone, this false assurance which is the opposite of what we are really thinking? Because they cannot understand. For those at the rear we write letters filled with suitable lies, lies ‘to keep them happy’. We tell them about their war, the one that they will enjoy hearing about, and we keep ours secret. We know our letters are destined for fathers to read aloud to each other in cafés, so they can say: ‘Those young devils don’t have a care in the world! Huh! I tell you, they’ve got the best of it. If only we were still their age…’ To all the concessions we have made to the war, we add our sincerity. Since they cannot estimate the true cost of our sacrifice, we tell more tall stories, with a sneer. Me just like everyone else, everyone else just like me…