To read the novel in start-to-finish order, click the Volume Two link and consult the Table of Contents links at the bottom of the page.

Saturday, April 22, 2017

Chapter 2-3

This section concludes Chapter 2. Chapter 3 will focus on Natalie.

Mourmelon-le-Grand, Champagne , France. May 4th, 1915 Orders to move the regiment to the rear had come in the last week of March. It had been a journey of only fifteen kilometers, a morning’s easy march, to the town of Mourmelon le Grand and the nearby military Camp de Châlons.

The camp had hosted soldiers since Napoleon’s time, and even during the long years of peace had been the site of annual maneuvers. There were rows of large canvas tents where the men had cots to sleep on. As an officer, Henri received a room in the officer’s barracks building. It was small and bare, but it did at least offer a small degree of privacy: a door that he could shut, a window looking out on the dusty street where men marched by at all hours, a bed with a thin mattress, and a small bureau on which he put his photograph of Philomene and the children.

When a town of five thousand is host to an army division three times that size, the needs and wants of the soldiers shape the character of the town. Mourmelon le Grand offered more than the usual small town’s share of bars and brothels. There was even a makeshift theater for watching moving pictures. Soldiers crowding into its chairs could watch by the flickering light of the projector as Inspector Juve pursued Fantômas, the criminal master of disguise, through the streets of their native Paris.

Fewer of the soldiers frequented the church, even during Easter week, which came just after the 4th Division settled in the camp. Attending Easter mass, Henri found himself surround primarily by the women, children, and old people of the town itself. Little girls were in their bright dresses. Several of the boys were wearing miniature uniforms in honor of absent fathers. Too many of the women were dressed in black. Watching these familial scenes was enough to recall Easters of years past, of Philomene putting the children into their best clothes for church, of the rich loaf of brioche for breakfast and the roasted lamb and potatoes for dinner. There were no such comforts in the officers’ mess that night, though there was wine and gin in copious amounts to make up for the everyday nature of the fare. Though few soldiers from the company had appeared in the church on Saturday night, so many were absent from muster on Monday morning as they slept off the effects of the night before that the senior sergeant set the men to cleaning latrines on Tuesday as a penance for failure in devotion to the military laws.

After this initial disruption the division settled into the routine of life behind the lines. The company drilled. They performed fatigue duty. They took long marches to keep the men fit. The mess kitchens served out three times a day food that was monotonous but nonetheless healthy and filling. Wounds, physical and mental, had time to heal, and men who had become thin and sallow during days when all too often hot food could not be brought to the front line trenches due to artillery fire or supply problems gradually regained their health.

With this safety and health, however, came certain discontents. It was nine months since the men had been called up to active duty, and most had received no leave during that time. Despite the drills and training, camp life was incapable of filling all the hours of the day. Different men sought to fill their remaining time in different ways.

The town’s bars were always full, and the number of men under disciplinary action for public drunkenness and for the fights which went with it gradually grew. Such sprees were, at least, fairly quick to recover from. More concerning to the medical section were the number of men being hospitalized for venereal diseases. While the brothels were of at most dubious legality, the army had acknowledged them sufficiently to conduct regular inspections of the women in them in an attempt to control the spread of infection. Yet in the crowded conditions of town and camp, this was not enough to avoid difficulties. When one of the prostitutes became ill, more than two dozen soldiers from the division ended up in the hospital even though she has removed from work as soon as symptoms appeared.

The fate of soldiers injured at the front was uncertain, however much the nation spoke of the field of honor. The pensions that existed for men disabled by the ravages of war were as yet insufficient to keep men off the streets, the rates having been set according to the cost of living during the last war, forty years ago. Everyone agreed, at least, that these conditions would be improved as soon as the Republic had sufficient time to consider the matter. But if the men used up by the war had little recourse, the women used up by those men had none. Those who provided lonely (or simply lustful) soldiers with a solace of companionship for pay were already on the lowest step of society’s ladder. Should they become infected and rejected from the purpose to which they had been relegated, they no had fallback other than begging.

For all these reasons, it seemed best to wink at those instances where soldiers’ women from back home came to stay, forbidden though such visits technically were by military regulations. Not a day passed but Henri and the other company commanders received some report of a soldier’s wife being found in the barracks or a man slipping out of camp at night to visit a woman staying in one of the town’s boarding houses.

Nonetheless, this latest seemed to go too far.

“I have received a letter,” said Henri, holding out the folded piece of paper to Sergeant Sellier. “It is from a Madame Marchal, on whose farm I believe your section was quartered while we were in de Perthes les Hurlus.”

The sergeant did not take the letter, but the way that he shifted his weight from one foot to the other suggested he had some idea what it said.

“Well, sergeant?”

“Is she asking about Marthe, sir?”

“She is indeed asking about her daughter, whom she says she vanished a week ago. She seems to think that you are somehow involved in this.”

“She’s wrong there, sir. That is to say, I had nothing to do with Marthe running away from home. I was as surprised as anyone when she turned up here.”

“So you are involved. And you have this Marthe stashed away somewhere here in town?”

“Hardly stashed away, sir. She’s in a perfectly respectable boarding house. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Henri sat back in his chair and fixed Sellier with a steady gaze until the sergeant began to shift his weight from foot to foot again.

“What is to be ashamed of is that I am having to deal with letters about the whereabouts of a woman’s sixteen year old daughter. Am I running an infantry company, Sergeant, or a school?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sellier said, looking at the ground. “I didn’t know she was sixteen,” he added. “She looks older.”


“Yes, sir.” The sergeant held up his hands, as if cupping a large bosom.

It was impossible to resist a snort of amusement. However, it was equally impossible to allow him to simply laugh it off. “Perhaps you can help me draft the letter then, sergeant. ‘Madame Marchal, I regret to inform you that my sergeant does indeed have your young daughter. However, he would like me to convey to you that he is entirely blameless in the matter because she has large breasts!’”

“I didn’t mean it as an excuse, sir.”

“Well how about if you tell me what you do mean by keeping this woman’s daughter around for your amusement. Running about with your host’s daughter while we were stationed there causes enough resentment. Taking her along with you… I would have expected better judgment from you.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What is it like, then?”

“She’s pregnant, sir.”

This earned a moment of silence, as Henri wondered if he would have to be the first to inform to the aggrieved farmwife.

“She hasn’t told her mother yet,” the sergeant continued. “She ran away to find me and now she’s insisting that I marry her. It’s the damnedest situation, sir.” However fearsome Sellier’s reputation as a labor organizer among the warehouses in Paris, this quintessentially bourgeois set of negotiations appeared to leave him genuinely at a loss.

When Henri had begun the conversation, the purpose had been clear enough. Sellier must be castigated for his reckless behavior and ordered to conduct himself with less scandal. Now it seemed the sergeant might need advice more than a scolding.

“Have a seat,” Henri offered, with a wave of his hand.

Sellier took it, leaned his elbows on his knees, and ran the hand which was not holding his hat through his hair, making it stand on end.

“You’ll have to excuse my indelicacy,” said Henri. “But experience dictates the first question for an officer in this situation is: Do you believe that the child is yours?”

“Must be,” said Sellier. “She was a virgin when I first had her, even if she knew her way around a bit. And she’s not the sort of girl who’d be unfaithful if you were around.”

“And do you want to marry her?”

“I don’t mind, but it’s not that simple.”

“How so? You’re not married already?”

“No! Nothing like that. It’s just-- She says that a civil certificate isn’t enough. She wants to get married in front a priest. Says that otherwise her mother won’t consider it a marriage at all and will beat her fit to kill the child.”

It was a strange sort of piety that would seek to hold the creation of life sacred by taking it, but he had seen enough of the harsh country morality among the farmers in his own village to imagine this description was accurate.

“Well, you know there’s a solution to this problem, don’t you?”

Sellier visibly brightened. “There is?”

“You could marry her in front of a priest.”

He sagged again. “I thought you meant besides that.”

“Is it such a terrible fate? I did it once upon a time, you know.”

“But you’re religious, sir.”

“I wasn’t then.”

“All the worse. Look what it’s done to you.”

Henri shrugged. “It takes different people different ways.” Sellier’s description of his girl did not make her sound the sort likely to make a convert of him.

“It’s a matter of principle,” Sellier said. “I’ve never been religious. It would be dishonest to take it up now. I don’t hold with the church having power over marriage, or anything else for that matter. They had their chance to ally with the people against the rich, and every time they supported the powerful over the common man. Maybe Jesus himself was a radical, but that was a long time ago. Religion nowadays is nothing but a means of oppression and control.”

In this declaration of principles the sergeant regained some of his customary fire.

“Well then,” said Henri. “It sounds like you have your mind made up. You can take this letter with you as a reminder that you and your Marthe need to write to Madame Marchal and let her know where her daughter has got to. And if either of those women tries to force bourgeois convention on you, you just stand on your principles and tell her about how religion is a tool of oppression. She’ll come around.”

The effectiveness of this approach was made clear that night when Sellier slumped into the estaminet favored by the officers and NCOs and ordered a glass of beer.

“What’s this?” called Lieutenant Morel, who had been leading the charge against the forces of sobriety for some time already. “I thought I heard you had adopted a more domestic set of vices.”

Sellier grunted a wordless response and tried to ignore him.

“Come, Sergeant,” Morel went on, unwilling to let his quarry go. “They say, ‘The dairy farmer doesn’t have to pay for milk,’ but there’s another universal truth. The farmer must stay home and attend to the milking, or else the cows will get restless.”

“To the devil with your farmers and cows,” Sellier replied. “Now she won’t even sleep with me, if you must know.”

Morel raised an eyebrow. “That’s closing the henhouse door once the fox is inside, isn’t it?”

Sellier threw his arms out. “Please! She’s unhappy, and there’ll be no peace at all unless I can sort out this marriage problem, to which there’s no solution I can see.”

Lieutenant Rejol waved his fellow lieutenant away. Then he called for two glasses of gin and sat down next to the sergeant. “So I hear your woman wants to get married in front of a priest?”

The sergeant laid out his tale.

“I know that you’re not religious, but have you been baptised?” Rejol asked.

“No, sir. Or is it, ‘Father’?”

“It’s both; I’m only one man. But ‘sir’ will do when we’re having a glass of gin together in uniform.”

“I don’t know that I believe in much, sir, besides justice and the world that we can touch and see. This last year seems to give proof to that. I’ve seen no sign there’s anything of us that keeps on after the body dies. But if I need to get water poured over my head or some such thing so you can give Marthe what she wants, I’ll do it. I’d feel better about it having you do the job, since you’re a comrade of sorts as well as a priest. At least you know what it’s about. If more priests lived down here with the people rather than in their churches collecting their tithes, perhaps religion would be something the common man could believe in.”

“Perhaps it could, sergeant, but I can’t baptize you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Why not?”

“Well, you’ve just told me you don’t believe.”

“What of it? You baptize babies, don’t you? They can’t believe anything.”

“Children are baptized on the basis of their parents’ intention to bring them up in the faith. Their parents answer for them. You, on the other hand, are quite capable of answering for yourself, and if you couldn’t say ‘I do’ when asked if you believe in God and in his Holy Catholic Church, then you can’t be baptized.”

“Am I to lie to you then? Do I have to tell you I believe in God when I don’t if I want to marry Marthe? No offense to you, sir, I’m sure you don’t make the rules, but there’s a reason they talk about lying priests if if that’s the way your church runs things.”

“Calm yourself, Sergeant. I didn’t say that you have to be baptized to get married. It just makes things different.”

Sellier folded his arms and turned a suspicious gaze on Rejol. “Different how?”

“I’ll have to get the bishop’s permission. You’ll have to agree to let Marthe raise your children Catholic. And--”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I can’t perform the marriage. And since you say Marthe won’t get a civil marriage with you unless you agree to the church marriage as well, you won’t be married to her at all and she’ll probably have the baby baptized anyway -- or send the poor thing off to be raised by the sisters at some home for foundlings. So you might as well agree.”

The sergeant shrugged and knocked back the glass of gin that Rejol had ordered him. “She can raise them Catholic if she wants to. I won’t stop her. But I will tell them it’s a bunch of damned nonsense. Then they can sort it out for themselves.”

“As must we all, Sellier.” Rejol finished his own gin and pushed his stool back from the bar.

“Is that all, sir? What do I have to do now?”

Rejol clapped him on the shoulder. “Go back and tell your woman that I’ll get things sorted out within a few weeks. I’ll write to the bishop here and have the parish read the banns. Meanwhile, you get yourselves off to the city hall and have the mayor marry you in the eyes of state. If we get ourselves sent back to the front and some artillery shell has your name on it, you don’t want to leave her without a widow’s pension.”

“Right. Yes. Back to Marthe and tell her we’re getting married.” Sellier stared down at his glass for a moment. “Just one more, first.” He raised his glass and waved it at the bartender, who approached him.

Lieutenant Rejol turned and started for the door. Henri followed him.

“You’re going to a great deal of trouble for Sellier. It’s good of you.”

Rejol shrugged. “It’s not for him. I don’t know if he’ll make much of a husband, our sergeant.”

“Why then?”

“For that poor child he’s already got on his Marthe. Do you have any idea what it is to be a bastard? The home where I was chaplain back in Paris was full of them. Lonely children taught cruelty by a cruel world. Even if he abandons her or is killed, if this allows that girl to call herself a married woman and live in something like respectability in her town, it’s worth any trouble on my part. Otherwise it’s the street corner for the mother and the orphanage for the child.”

Over the following weeks, the machinery of city, church, and army all lurched themselves into motion on behalf of Sergeant Sellier and his bride. In the city hall of Mourmelon-le-Grand, officiated by the mayor and witnessed by a smattering of the company’s officers and NCOs, Marthe became Madame Sellier in the eyes of the Republic. At the beginning of June, with a formal dispensation from the Archbishop of Reims in hand, Lieutenant Rejol blessed their marriage on behalf of the church in a small ceremony which, due to Sellier’s status as an unbeliever, was held on the steps of town’s gothic church rather than inside..

Madame Marchal had arrived by train the night before the witness the event. As soon as the lieutenant emerged from the church, looking alien to his fellow soldiers in the heavy brocade vestments borrowed from one of the town priests, the farmwife produced a large lace-trimmed handkerchief with which she mopped tears throughout, until at the end she rained down maternal kisses on the bewildered sergeant, declaring him to be the best son-in-law that a mother could wish for.

The officers and soldiers celebrated in their own fashion, invading one of Mourmelon-le-Grand’s better establishments to toast the new husband until he required his two corporals to help him back to the lodgings he shared with Marthe.

Henri pulled the sergeant aside while the festivities were still beginning.

“Here’s the company’s wedding present for you, Sergeant.”

He handed the typewritten piece of paper to Sellier: a fourtee- day leave pass which after long petition Henri had successfully wrested from the regimental staff.

“Two weeks, sir?”

“That’s right, you can take Marthe back to visit Paris.”

“And stay in a real hotel, away from the army. Thank you, sir. Thank you.” The sergeant hugged him and kissed both Henri’s cheeks, already emotional with the first flush of wine and the day’s events.

It had been no small feat to gain this permission from the machinery of army inertia. The rules by which the activated army reserves were governed had been designed, decades before, with a brief, sharp conflict in mind. Provisions were made for professional army soldiers and even those on their two-year conscription to receive leave at intervals. There were no such allowances, however, for the men called up to serve until the end of an emergency. Now, ten months since mobilization with no end in sight, most men had still received no home leave at all. For Henri, with his family trapped on the other side of the lines, this might be of little importance, but for most other men in the regiment, family was just a few hours train ride away in Paris, yet utterly inaccessible.

They saw the newlyweds off on the train platform the next day. Sellier looked strangely unfamiliar in the worn civilian trousers and coat he had dug out of his belongings. Marthe looked like a child dressed up her her mother’s clothes wearing her new best dress, a second-hand yellow silk which Sellier had bought her for the wedding. Had it been impossible to find a dress that fit properly within the strained resources of the small town, crowded with soldiers and depleted of luxuries by the war effort, or was this a way to hide the signs of the baby they were expecting?

She was younger than Philomene had been when Henri had first met her. Perhaps Sellier himself was younger than Henri had been when he had met his wife. The couple climbed aboard the train and waved to the assembled soldiers and officers. Marthe blew a kiss towards them as the train began to chuff off from the station. This local line would take them to Reims, and from there they would catch the train south to Paris.

In the other direction from Reims, less than two hours north on the main line, was his own home, his own wife and children. But that line was cut. There were trenches and artillery and a whole army of invaders that stood between him and that short train ride home. How long before he could go to spend two weeks with his own wife? How many of them would ever enjoy two weeks of peace with their families again?

Tuesday, April 11, 2017

Chapter 2-2

I apologize for the long delay -- various events in life intervened -- but this is also a nice long section, almost double the average length. One more section for Henri to come in order to complete Chapter 2.

Near de Perthes les Hurlus: Champagne , France. March 13th, 1915 “A man with that attitude has no business commanding any unit. What example does he set for the men under his command?”

There had been times when Henri had asked himself this same question, but not about matters such as the one needling the inspector commandant facing him. “I understand, sir,” he said, giving a slight bow. “I will speak to Sergeant Sellier about his decorum.”

The commandant’s carefully waxed mustache twitched and he passed his walking stick from one hand to the other. “I would not presume to tell you how to manage discipline in your command, Captain Fournier. But I advise you to do something. I advise it strongly. Pride and discipline are what distinguishes an army from an armed mob. Never forget that, Fournier. We cannot control a mob. We create one to our peril.”

Henri and the commandant exchanged salutes, and then the commandant turned to his car. The corporal wearing transport insignia who had been hanging discretely back while the officers spoke now hurried to open the door of the shiny blue Panhard Levassor, from the hood of which a little 4th Corps flag fluttered. He closed it on the commandant, and turned to give Henri a quick smile and shrug before going around to driver’s door and starting the engine with a full-throttled roar.

As the car churned away, throwing up mud from the rain-soaked road behind it, Henri considered the merits of the situation. If he failed to discuss the incident at all with Sellier, it would encourage more behavior of the same sort. If he took disciplinary action… Sergeant Sellier’s cleaning section was beginning to show real promise as specialized trench fighters. That brought some rough edges. He’d have a few words with the sergeant about the treatment of staff officers visiting from Corps Command, and with luck there would be a chance soon enough for the newly promoted NCO to expend his energies in other ways.

The freshly organized Cleaner Section was quartered at Marchal Farm, a quarter mile outside of the town. The territorial reservists, a battalion of which were engaged in various sapper duties around the 104st Regiment’s sector, had turned a pasture there into a model stretch of trench which Sergeant Sellier had spent the last two weeks drilling his men in assaulting and cleaning.

Henri found the section gathered in the barnyard; the men eating the thick pea soup which provided a frequent supper. The corporals stood up as Henri approached and saluted, while the men went on with their eating, assuming that they were safely below the notice of the officer.

“He’s up at the house, sir,” one of the corporals replied to Henri’s enquiry.

Madame Marchal answered Henri’s knock. Farm women here, as at home, seemed to come in two ages: young and old. This lady was the latter, her face lined and brown, her torso thick, a black kerchief tied over her hair. She could have been anywhere between forty-five and sixty.

“Excuse me, Madame. I am looking for Sergeant Sellier.”

“He’s not here, Captain.”

She made as if to shut the door, but Henri put a hand out to stop it. “His men told me that he was at the farmhouse.”

“I tell you, he’s not here. It’s bad enough with the hired men called up, the cattle requisitioned and us not paid half what they were worth, and soldiers all over the property. Am I a nursemaid now too with so many charges? Unless...” she stopped in mid protest. She turned and shouted back into the house, “Marthe! Marthe!”

At the first shout there was no reply, but as it was repeated more loudly and Madame Marchal advanced on the staircase Henri could hear another woman’s voice shout in reply from upstairs.

“In my room, Mama.”

“In your room doing what?”

“Saying my prayers. I’ll be down presently.”

“Your prayers!” The old woman shrieked the words as a wrathful accusation. “I’ll show you prayers, you slut!” She seized a knobby walking stick from the enameled metal stand by the bannister and advanced up the stairs with surprising speed, banging the stick on the steps and the walls as she sent and shouting with such increasing speed and shrillness that her Champenois accent became impossible to understand. Answering shouts could be heard from upstairs.

Henri took a few steps back from the front door and waited, as Madame Marchal began to rattle at the upstairs door and pound on it with her stick. Then the door opened and the pounding was replaced by a crescendo of voices. A moment later Sergeant Sellier appeared outside, a reddened lump visibly rising on his forehead.

“Good evening, Captain.” The sergeant came to something like attention and saluted. The screams coming from the upper story of the farmhouse suggested Madame was belaboring Marthe with her stick.

“Is someone being hurt?” Henri asked.

“Not seriously, I think, Sir.”

It seemed a bad situation to leave Marthe in, however much fault -- or anything else -- might have lain with her. However the Madame Marchal had clearly seen more than she wanted of the army for the evening, and further intervention might make things worse.

“Walk with me,” ordered Henri, and Sergeant Sellier fell into step beside him. Since the men of the cleaning section were gathered in the barnyard, Henri made for the lane back towards the town. He waited until they had gone a few hundred yards, letting the sergeant contemplate the several reasons why his company commander might want to speak to him. “I heard about your little run in with the commandant from Corps Command.”

If the sergeant’s conscience was tender on this topic he did not show it, for he broke into a laugh. “I thought he would have known when to let a matter lie.”


“He came out looking the fool, I can tell you.”

“He said I should have you put under arrest.”

This drew another laugh by way of response.

When no further explanation seemed forthcoming Henri said, “Why don’t you tell me your version of the events.”

Sellier shrugged. “I’d divided the section into two groups and set them to doing bombing drills. They’re good. As good as they’re going to be without the chance to practice with real grenades. It’s all very well to tell them to count and know when the five seconds are up it will explode, but they can’t take throwing the dummy bombs seriously until they’ve had more experience using the real thing.”

“I understand, but until we get more supplies in, live grenades are to be saved for use in combat. You’ll get your chance soon enough. Now come to the incident with the commandant.”

“Well, as I say, the men were doing bombing drills, and that fine fellow comes up in his shiny blue car and wants to watch. He says, ‘Where’s the the commander here, soldier?’ and I told him, ‘That’s me.’ Then he began to rant that I was a disgrace and the men would never respect the army or their duty when their officer didn’t bother to shave or clean his uniform or wear proper insignia. I took it in good humor and told him that us front soldiers have enough struggle with the enemy without fighting the battle of the razor every day. But he told me to stop playing the fool. Then I lost my temper and told him that he could go fuck himself, and he drew his pistol and said he wouldn’t allow such vulgar insubordination, that it was next door to mutiny.”

The sergeant cast a sideways glance at Henri, but he was keeping his face carefully neutral.

“I’m not accustomed to letting people threaten me. I told him so. And, it’s possible that I just put a hand on my rifle while I was telling him -- not meaning anything by it, of course. A man has to put his hand somewhere. Perhaps he thought I meant something I didn’t, because he turned red and then white as a petticoat. Then next thing you know he was gone.”

“You spoke disrespectfully to a senior officer and then threatened him with your rifle?”

“Well, perhaps if you were to put it harshly.”

“Isn’t that how he’ll put it when he reports on it at Corps Command?”

“He could, but then he’d have to admit that when a scruffy-looking sergeant touched his rifle, he pulled up his skirts and ran off. He’d sound at least as bad as I would. So if you ask me, he’s likely to keep it quiet.”

There was a maddening logic to this which was hard to answer. It was easy to see in Sellier’s instinctive cleverness, determination to win, and hatred of authority the warehouse labor organizer that he had been in Paris before the war, and it was because of precisely these traits that Lieutenant Rejol had suggested the then-corporal to lead the Cleaner section. And yet, these same traits made him consistently frustrating as a subordinate.

Henri stopped, forcing the sergeant to bring himself up short in the middle of the lane as well. “No doubt you’re right, Sergeant. I hope you are, because it could go badly with you if he tried to force a court martial. But nonetheless this cannot become a repeat performance. The men of your section need you, and I need you. It’s not worth risking all that to put a rude staff officer in his place.”

Sellier’s mouth drew together in a half scown and his bushy eyebrows glowered. He held the pose, half angry, half thinking, for a moment that drew out painfully. Many a warehouse owner had capitulated while fixed with that gaze, but Henri faced it down with bland calm until the sergeant gave a sharp nod.

“All right, sir.” He cocked his head to one side, as if the angle allowed new thoughts to settle into place. “I wanted to put that dress-uniformed shit in his place, but I suppose I should be able to overlook it and feel sorry for him. After all, it’s him that’ll be the loser in this war even more than the soldiers opposite.”

“You think we’ll lose the war?” Henri hadn’t expected defeatism from this quarter. Despite his politics, the sergeant brought plenty of fire to his work.

“What, France lose the war? Of course not. We’ll win in the end. We are fighting to defend our own soil. What reason, in the end, does the German worker have to lay down his life for the Prussian militarist class? But there’s no going back to the plutocracy which led us into this insanity. Mark my words. This is a working man’s war, and when the workers of Europe look back on the blood they have shed to end militarism, there will be a new world. A united Europe. An end to capitalism and nationalism. Professional officers like that stuffed shirt from Corps Command will discover they fought a war to create the socialist paradise. It’s like how when a parasite becomes too successful, it kills the host animal and puts an end to itself.”

There was too much here to argue, and what was the point if it was what kept Sellier fighting? Henri shrugged. “Don’t forget, I was one of those professional officers too. Maybe you can put in a good word for me when the workers’ paradise comes.”

“You’re different. You’re in the line just like the rest of us. I’ve no bone to pick with any man that’s got mud on his boots.”

“Well, in the meantime, keep your section at it with the drills. I suspect we’ll be sent into the line again soon enough.”


The spring of 1915 faced the French army command, the Grand Quartier Général led by General Joseph Joffre, with a strategic problem. The sweeping German attack of the summer had been stopped. The long grinding battles of the fall -- from the mountains of Alsace near the Swiss border and the fields of the Marne outside of Paris to the mud of Flanders on the Belgian coast -- had ended any chance for Germany to win the war quickly by encircling the French army as in 1870 or by pushing through to Paris in one quick thrust as they had so nearly done in the opening weeks of the war.

If Joffre had allowed himself to be surprised by the German thrust through neutral Belgium, he had remedied the mistake with his ‘miracle on the Marne’. He had sacked more than fifty generals, weeding out those who have proved panicky or timid on the battlefield. And his army was now fully mobilized and deployed. Over three million French men in uniform now manned the seven hundred kilometer front which stretched from Switzerland to the English Channel. Even setting aside the remnants of the British Expeditionary Force and the Belgian Army, there were four French soldiers for every meter of the front. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they could have formed two unbroken lines stretching the entire length of the battle line. With that massive defensive force dug in to prevent further capture of French soil, and with their Russian allies tying down over a million German soldiers on the Eastern Front, the danger of a further German offensive was for the time being small.

And yet, stopping the German advance was not enough. If it was almost impossible for the Germans to move forward, there was no easy way for the French army to dislodge the more than two million German soldiers still on French soil. Important cities including Lille, Douai, Cambrai, and Sedan remained under German occupation and with them much of the country’s iron, coal, and textile production capacity.

The enemy must be driven from French soil. But from the first attempts at a breakthrough attack during the winter, it was clear that this would take not only a concentration of well-trained and battle-tested men, but an overwhelming quantity of war materiel. Before the attack the German first and second lines must be pulverized for hours or even days. And once the infantry moved forward, long range artillery must drop a curtain of fire between the enemy’s positions and his reserves so that reinforcements could not move forward. Such tactics required artillery shells in the millions. Pre-war stockpiles were depleted. Factories and workers must be converted to war production. In the Chamber of Deputies, officials spoke of a Shell Crisis.

A breakthrough that could end the war would take time. Perhaps in the summer or fall there would be the munitions needed. By then too, the few shattered divisions left of the British pre-war professional army would have been supplemented by the hundreds of thousands of volunteers now training for the new Kitchener Armies across the channel.

But in the meantime, it was unacceptable to sit idly by while German troops occupied French land. Small, regional attacks were the answer. Bite off a small piece of the enemy’s line, and hold it against all attempts at counterattack. Fight by fight the soldiers would learn the art of this new kind of war, and meter by meter they would drive the enemy of France’s sacred soil. General Joffre, known for his appetite and the meals which punctuated his daily routine at GQG had given the tactic a name: Grignotage. Nibbling.


Near de Perthes les Hurlus: Champagne , France. March 19th, 1915 It was for one of these nibbles that VI Battalion was ordered back into the front line. There was a bulge in the German line where their trenches followed the contour lines of a slight rise, three hundred meters across and a hundred and fifty deep. On the map in headquarters, this rise was labeled Cote 12. The little stand of trees which had given it this name were now shattered, lifeless trunks, hammered by artillery during the attack of three weeks before, which had failed to take the cote even as other areas of the German front line were captured. Small though it was, Cote 12 was home to a troublesome machine gun, with the habit of dropping indirect fire into a communication trench a kilometer away, where it had often harassed reinforcements and ration parties trying to reach the front line. Rising gently to a height of eight meters on an otherwise flat terrain, the Cote also offered good views of the fields sloping away on all sides, and thus a place where enemy artillery observers could survey the results of their destruction.

For all of these reasons it was deemed necessary to take the Cote. It was a task the regimental planners judged too small to merit any serious artillery preparation. “Assault sections will infiltrate the enemy lines under cover of darkness and eliminate any resistance,” the orders Henri was given explained. “Reserve sections will then move forward to hold the line against any counterattack.”

“This seems like it might benefit from your particular brand of mayhem, sergeant,” Henri said, handing the orders to Sellier.

The sergeant leaned close to the kerosene lantern which shed its yellow light around the dugout which served the company’s officers as both headquarters and bunk room, reading the typewritten sheet which had arrived from the regimental headquarters.

“Tonight. Can we get proper supplies in time, sir?”

“I sent a request back with the runner who brought the orders asking for twelve cases of grenades.”

Sellier hesitated, his lips moving silently in calculation. “That’s not even ten grenades for every man.”

Henri shrugged. “Twelve cases is more than we’ve seen yet. And remember there will be four other assault sections from the other companies in the battalion. They need supplies as well. At least you got your revolvers.”

“We did.” Sellier grinned. “We’ll look like proper officers now with pistols instead of those long rifles and pig stickers.”

The group that assembled in the assault trench shortly after midnight did not look particularly officer-like. The 104th Regiment had not yet received the new, dull blue uniform which was intended to provide better camouflage than the red trousers and dark blue tunics in which they had gone to war the previous autumn. Sergeant Sellier’s solution had been to order his men to roll in the mud until their uniforms became naturally camouflaged. They had left their unwieldy backpacks in their dugouts along with their rifles. Instead each man carried a canvas bag over one shoulder in which he carried his nine or ten grenades. The revolvers which the Cleaner Section had managed to procure, old 1874 models which had been officially replaced by the 1892 revolver issued to officers, had not come with holsters, and so the men carried them thrust under their belts like highwaymen. To complete the piratical look of the assembly, the man had collected a variety of knives, ranging from butcher’s cleavers taken from abandoned houses in the war zone to hunting knives and daggers. These they carried in hand-made scabbards or simply tucked under their belts.

“Are you here to see us off, sir?” Sergeant Sellier asked.

Henri shook his head. “I’ll be coming with you. How better to see your assault tactics in action?”

“Sir, in a night assault, I can’t guarantee your safety.”

“If anyone’s safety is guaranteed in this company, sergeant, I’m unaware of it.”

Doubtless it was little to Sellier’s taste to have a commissioned officer along to witness his cleaning section in action for the first time. Henri had experienced the same unease often enough when some officer from the Regiment of Division insisted upon watching the company in action. It would do the sergeant good to experience the same in his turn. And if trench-clearing sections like this were the future of infantry tactics, Henri was determined to see them in action.

One o’clock arrived, and the men filed silently up the ladders. There was no artillery preparation for this attack and no blowing of whistles or shouting of battle cries. Once at ground level in no man’s land, the four squads moved forward silently in open order. The moon, a sliver of a waxing crescent, had already set, and broken clouds obscured patches of the stars. They made their way by memory along the zig-zagging path through the gaps in their own wire, then crept forward, bent double to avoid being visible against the sky. Even with eyes which had long adjusted to the dark, shell holes and wreckage were only darker patches in a world of shadows. Henri felt before him with his hands before taking each step.

It seemed hours passed as he and the shadowy forms of Sellier’s men traversed the open space between the French wire and the German entanglements less than three hundred meters away. Yet when Henri pulled out his watch and strained to see its hands in the starlight, as the men worked at the German entanglements with wire cutters, he saw that less than ten minutes had in fact passed.

Wire cutters were not in great supply. As the army had planned for war, they had not been among the obvious weapons. And yet, in the war of improvisation, both sides had quickly found that tangles of barbed wire stretched between large x-shaped wooden trestles formed a formidable barrier to prevent men, in masses or even individually, from rushing up to (or away from) an entrenched fortification. Now that both trench lines were protected with this potentially deadly barrier, only two ways of getting through had proved effective: heavy artillery which blasted both wire and trestles to pieces, or long handled cutters which could be used to snip through the heavy wire one strand at a time.

As each strand gave way, the jaws of the cutters gave a metallic click, which in the nighttime silence seemed agonizingly loud. How could the German sentinels have failed to hear them already?

Henri settled down against the ground and waited while the snip, snip of the cutters continued.

It must have been one of the other assault sections that the Germans first heard. There were shouts from somewhere further around the curve of the Cote’s defenses. Rifle shots boomed, and in reply came a series of grenade blasts. Then the machine gun, at its emplacement halfway up the rise, came to life and began to fire sweeping bursts. The flash of its muzzle was visible in the blackness, a sputtering white that left ghostly dazzle marks obscuring the night vision of anyone who looked into it. It was not firing at them. Not yet. The men remained motionless where they crouched or lay. The Germans must now be watching and listening.

A moment passed which seemed immeasurably long. The shots began to die down. Then there was a pop, followed a moment later by a crackling hiss, and the whole area was bathed in the harsh, bright, white light of a flare.

The scene was a jumble of harsh illumination and black shadows, which moved slowly as the flare drifted down. Henri tried to press himself into the muddy slope and become invisible. One moment passed. Two. Three. Then there were shouts from close above up the slope and a rifle blast that was ear splittingly painful. More followed. Henri felt more than heard a bullet slap into the ground within arm’s reach of him.

The soldier closest to him rolled onto his back so that he could reach into his canvas grenade bag more easily. There was a scraping sound which Henry could hear clearly as the man pulled the friction fuse. Then with a straight-armed lob he sent the grenade arcing through the air towards the trenchline above. Several seconds passed, and then there was a flash and explosion from above in the trench.

More explosions followed, while the Germans continued to fire at anything they could see. The machine gun swept over their part of the line and bullets plowed the soil around them. Its emplacement was too far up the slope for even a good throw to land a grenade in it, though the section tried a dozen times, the grenades bouncing back down the slope until they exploded behind the frontline trench instead.

Henri lay still as the firefight continued. He had no grenades. His revolver was in its holster, but there was nothing he could see to shoot it at. If he moved, he would only draw the fire of the now-alerted Germans onto him. The wire was still not cut. The man who had been wielding the cutters was shot as he tried to complete the break in the entanglement, and was slowly crawling back towards the French lines while gripping his bleeding shoulder.

Was there any chance left for the attack to succeed? If there were some way to summon help, some way to tell the battery of 75mm field guns arrayed two kilometers behind the front line precisely where to put their shells to good effect, perhaps they could still have taken Cote 12. But pinned down as they were by enemies that they could not clearly see, blocked by wire entanglements that they could not cut without making themselves easy targets, they were faced with two bad choices: lie in place and hope that the Germans did not see and shoot them, or retreat back to their own lines and present themselves as easy targets while they did so.

It was Sergeant Sellier’s section which had made the attack, along with assault sections from the other companies of VI Battalion. Should he leave Sellier to decide when to pull back? Yet it was Henri’s company, and thus was it was his men who would die here without any real chance of success.

He put his whistle in his mouth.

With the cold metal between his lips, tasting of failure, he hesitated. He was an observer. If he took it upon himself to sound the retreat, would it appear he lacked the courage of the assault troops? Talk, muttered in the front line shelters, could be a dangerous thing. If once the men came to believe their captain lacked the will to remain under fire, how well would they fight when next hard pressed? Perhaps he should leave the decision to Sellier. Or would the sergeant in turn be hesitating for fear of looking weak before his captain?

Trying to avoid making any sound that would give away his position, Henri pulled himself up into a crouch and moved quietly towards the sergeant. From up the slope, there was another pop and hiss. Henri threw himself to the ground next to the sergeant as the white light of another flare flooded the scene with its harsh light.

“Do you think we have any chance of taking the trench now they’ve been alerted?” Henri leaned close and spoke the words into Sellier’s ear, trying to avoid the hissing notes of a whisper.

The sergeant shook his head. “If we were through the wire. But no. Not now.”

“You have to pull back before we lose more men.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll sound the retreat.” Sellier raised his own whistle to his mouth.

“Wait.” In the time it had taken to consult the sergeant a new problem had occurred to Henri. “If you just blow the retreat, most of the men will turn their backs and run for it, and the Germans can send up a flare and shoot them down like so many rabbits.”

“What else can we do? We can’t stay here.”

“We’ll keep one squad here, throwing grenades up into the trench, in order to keep the Germans from turning the retreat into a shooting gallery. Once the other three squads have made it back safely, they can pass the word for our machine gun emplacement to put the Cote under fire, and the last squad can make a run for it.”

Sellier nodded. “I’ll pass the word.” He clambered off on all fours to explain the plan to his squad leaders.

Henri and Sergeant Sellier both stayed with the squad covering the retreat. Some of the men making the run back to their own lines had left their bags of grenades behind, and the dozen men of First Squad were able to keep up a steady rain of grenades on the front line. That kept the nearby German defenders quiet, but the machine gun was not intimidated, and several men fell under its chattering fire during the minute it took them to dash back towards the French lines.

Some lookout must have seen the cleaning squad’s predicament. As they were bunching up at their own wire, slowed by the necessity of getting through the narrow, zig-zagging path through the entanglements, and thus forming a perfect target for the German gunners, the French machine gun came to life, pouring suppressing fire onto the German machine gun and either wounding its crew or causing them to take cover.

“Now!” Henri and Sellier shouted at the same moment, and the men of First Squad jumped to their feet and began running back across no man’s land.

For a moment it was exhilarating to be moving so fast, and away from danger. Despite the age and experience that knew better, it was as if they were invincible. Then with a flash and earsplitting crash the first German mortar shells began to fall among them, and the world became fear and madness.

Artillery shells ripped through the air just below the speed of sound, giving heavy artillery shells their characteric rumble and field artillery a shriek as they approached. It was a topic of morbid discussion whether it was actually possible to tell if a shell was coming right towards you and dive out of the way towards cover. Those who survived to speculate in frontline dugouts might well have been those who were not quite in the path of incoming death. And an unlucky man might just as well dive into the shell’s path as away from it. But the fact that the shells could be heard approaching gave some small illusion of warning. If the shriek or rumble of a shell told you to drop to the ground, silence told you that you were safe. These light mortars, on the other hand, seemed to come from nowhere. At times you could hear the pop of the shell being fired from its tube. Then there was silence as the finned shell about the size of a large apple flew up into the air, came to a momentary pause, and fell powered only by its own weight until striking the ground it triggered the percussion fuse which set off a blast of high explosive and flying fragments, killing or maiming anyone within a meter or two of the impact.

As the first shell exploded a half dozen paces in front of him, Henri instinctively threw himself to the ground. A scattering of dirt which had been thrown up by the explosion pattered down around him. The night was utter blackness after the flash of the explosion had caught him with his eyes open. One second passed. Two. Another shell exploded off to the right. In the momentary flash across the landscape Sellier’s boots were visible working against the ground. He too had dropped for cover, and he was now crawling forward. Two shells exploded at once. That was at least two mortars firing at them.

Henri pulled himself up enough to look forward. It was at most fifty meters to the wire. He could run that in seconds. One or two shells, at the most, that could fall as he ran. Yet every instinct warned that it was foolish to be up and exposed as these blasts went off around him. And getting through the gaps in the wire would mean slowing down.

Another shell fell close enough to shower him with earth. If one came any closer, cowering against the ground would be of no protection.

Safety was back in the trenches. The dugouts went down meters into the chalk which underlay Champagne’s thin topsoil. Even heavy artillery would be of little danger there. Like some small creature of the field in happier times, safety was to be found in getting out of the open and into a burrow.

As the next shell fell a few dozen meters to the left, Henri got to his feet and ran.

“Come on! We’ll be safe back in the lines.”

In the brief flashes of light he could see other men running along with him. Two more mortar shells and he was at the wire. Slowing down enough to thread the twisting path was difficult as mortar shells continued to fall. The barbs of the wire grabbed at his clothes, and in pulling them free he cut his hands. It took a particular kind of discipline to remain still when a mortar shell fell nearby. Every instinct said to drop to the ground, but diving for cover in on this narrow path among the wire would almost certainly mean becoming entangled. At last they were through, and ran the last twenty-five meters to the assault trench they had left less than half an hour before.

For a moment after sliding down into the trench all he could do was breathe. The other men of First Squad were slithering or dropping down the sides of the trench, a few injured, others shaking with tension and exhaustion. One of the men from another squad handed them a bottle and the newcomers passed it from hand to hand. Henri accepted it when it came to him and took a single swig, harsh brandy burning its way down his throat to provide a warmth and calm that gradually spread through his body. It was at that moment that Sergeant Sellier tumbled down the ladder into the trench and shook himself off.

“Are you wounded?” Henri handed him the bottle.

“No.” Sellier took a drink. “How many back so far?”

Between them they counted off the men who had just returned with them. Nine.

“Three still out there. I’ll get the counts from the other squads.” Sellier handed the bottle off to another man and set to looking for his two sergeants and four corporals among the disorganized crowd of his section. Some men sat their their backs against the all of the trench. Some milled about talking softly. Another man slid down the side into the trench, letting out a curse as a wooden wall support dug into his ribs.

“Seven men are missing. Four have gone back to the hospital,” Sellier said, when he returned. “And not damn much accomplished for it.”

“Perhaps a few went to ground and will still make it back.”

Sellier shrugged.

“For now, let’s get the men underground. There’s still a chance of a few hours sleep before dawn stand-to and after this they’ll need it.”


Henri was awakened from the dreamless sleep of deep exhaustion by someone shaking his shoulder.

“Morning alert already?”

“Not quite yet, sir. But there’s something you should see.”

Henri followed up the steps from the dugout into the trench. In the pale pre-dawn light, a knot of men were standing on the fire step. Then he heard a long wavering cry, a sound that made his teeth and shoulders clench, a wail of raw suffering that at last trailed off into sobs and ceased.

“What is that?”

Lieutenant Morel turned and gestured for Henri to join him on the fire step. “This happened half an hour ago. Poor bastard.”

Snipers had been a particular problem along this stretch of line, and so a low wall of wooden planks had been built along the top of the trench. The wood could not stop a bullet, of course, but it concealed the heads of men looking towards no man’s land. Henri peered through the narrow gap of the fire slit. The unearthly wail began again, and now his eyes were drawn to its source. A man was trapped amid the wire entanglements which here stood about thirty meters from the front line trench. His body was contorted, as if he had fought against the wires that held him and managed only to tangle himself more deeply among them.

“Who is it?”

“Caubel, from Sellier’s section. He’s badly wounded. Perhaps he’d lost consciousness for a while or become lost in the dark, but he must have determined to make a dash for it as the first hints of light were coming on. The men on watch saw him run toward our lines at the first hints of light. But he must not have seen the wire, because he ran straight into it, and in fighting it he’s only made it worse.”

“Has anyone gone to help him?”

Morel lowered his voice and spoke close to Henri’s ear. “I don’t want to hurt the men’s spirits by being seen to refuse to help a soldier in trouble, but I’m not sure there’s much point. Do you see that hanging down there? I think those are his intestines. Is it worth risking a man’s life to bring in someone who will die soon anyway?”

Again the man gave his desperate, wordless call, and Henri could see the body thrashing amid the wires that held it.

“We can’t just leave him there. Ask if anyone is willing to volunteer to go bring him back.”

Several men offered to go. Morel picked one, and the volunteer climbed over the wooden barricade and then crawled rapidly out to the man trapped in the wire. Getting to him on the far side of the wire took more time but at last the man found a place where he could slip under the wire.

They could see him next to the trapped man, trying to pull him down, but despite tugs that made the trapped soldier give his desperate moan again, he remained stuck. The men on the fire step watched anxiously as the rescuer tried again and again to pull the trapped man down off the wire. At last, he cast caution aside and stood up in order to reach him better.

Then they saw the rescuer pitch forward and crumple. An instant later the rifle shot echoed across the no man’s land to them. Morel swore. The rescuer did not move, but a moment later the trapped man wailed once again.

“God, why couldn’t the sniper have put him out of his misery?” Morel asked.

“Because now he’s bait. No one else is to try a rescue during daylight. If he lasts till night, we can get to him.”

During morning stand to, and breakfast, and through the first watch the desperate cries continued at intervals. Nerves began to wear thin. Fresh wails were followed by cursing. One man sought Henri out and begged for permission to make another rescue attempt.

“Lieutenant Rejol told me you said we mustn’t go until dark, but I can’t stand it any more, sir. I’d rather be shot trying to help him than have to sit all day listening to his agonies.”

“I’m sorry, soldier. You can take a stretch down in one of the dugouts where it’s quiet, but I can’t allow more men to be killed attempting the rescue. That poor fellow won’t survive more than a day or two with that stomach wound even if he is brought in.”

As noon approached, Henri went to look at Caubel again. He was, if anything, more tangled in the wire than before, and in the full light of day it was indeed clear that a stomach wound had left some of his intestines hanging out. How he had survived this long was impossible to understand. At times, a seemingly small injury could kill a man outright. A single, clean bullet hole at times caused instant death. There mere shock of a large explosion near by could kill a man, his insides pulverized but no visible wound on him. Yet here was this man with his innards hanging out, suffering and crying for hours on end, and unable to die.

“This can’t go on,” said Sergeant Sellier, climbing up to stand next to him on the fire step.

“Perhaps he’ll last to sundown and we can rescue him.”

“What for? So he can suffer in the hospital for another day or two before dying of infection?”

Henri shrugged. “Or perhaps there’s mercy in the world and he’ll die soon.”

“I’ll show you mercy in the world.” Sellier turned to one of the soldiers standing nearby. “Give me your rifle.”

The man handed over his Lebel, and Sellier worked the belt to chamber a round, then rested it on the fire slit.

“Sergeant, you can’t just shoot him.”

“Why not, sir?” Sellier was already taking aim.

“Because that’s murder.”

“What else would you call the work we do here, sir?”

“That’s different. You can’t shoot one of our own men, one who’s wounded.”

“Watch me, sir.”

“Sergeant!” Henri put his hand over the rear right of the rifle and Sellier raised his head to give him an annoyed look. He lowered his voice, “If you can reconcile it with your own conscience that’s your affair, but what message are you sending these men if they see you shooting one of your own soldiers?”

“I’m sending them the message that I’d never leave them to suffer needlessly, sir. And I hope they’d do the same for me. What possible purpose is there in letting Caubel hang out there on the wire, crying in pain? Even if we could bring him in now he’s only have a couple days fevered suffering in the medical tents and then die there. If he had a pistol in his reach and his wits about him he’d probably end it himself right now.”

“That’s as may be, but you can’t shoot your own man.”

Sellier pulled the rifle away from Henri’s grasp, took several steps to the side where he was well out of reach, then took careful aim and fired.

Henri turned back to the firing slit. Caubel still hung tangled in the wires. He was not moving. There were no more cries.

Sergeant Sellier handed the rifle back to the soldier who had given it to him. “The misery’s over for him.”

That night, once the moon was down, Lieutenant Rejol climbed out of the trench and crawled out to where the body hung. He untangled Caubel’s body from the wire and carried it back to the trench. Then he made a second trip to bring back the body of Caubel’s would-be rescuer.

“Why did you risk your life for that?” Henri asked, when he heard about it next morning. “I’m not so flush with good lieutenants that I can afford to lose one to a sniper.”

“It’s Lent,” Rejol observed. “You’re a religious man, aren’t you, captain? Haven’t you been praying your stations of the cross?”

“What about it?”

“The thirteenth station. We still owe respect to the body, even after it is dead.”

On the third day, the regiment was ordered back to reserve positions, out of the front line. They took their dead with them, and in the makeshift cemetery behind the field hospital, with its rows of rough wooden crosses, Rejol said a funeral mass, a black and gold stole draped over the shoulders of his uniform tunic. Most of the company attended.

Read the next installment.

Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Chapter 2-1

This took longer than I'd expected, but I hope you'll enjoy it now it's here. We're with Henri, on the front lines.

7th Division Headquarters: Champagne , France. February 26th, 1915 The staff officer bore the same captain’s insignia as Henri, yet the difference in status between a captain on the divisional staff and a captain commanding an infantry company was clear. Captain Vasseur looked to be little more than thirty. His hair and mustache were carefully trimmed. His gold rimmed glasses would have looked just as appropriate in a doctor’s or lawyer’s office. The uniform tunic he wore was new and of the pale Horizon Blue color which was only just being issued and had not yet made its way to the 104th Régiment d'Infanterie where the more muted colors might have actually helped the men blend into their surroundings better than the dark blue coats and red trousers of the old uniforms.

Vasseur shuffled the papers of Henri’s report. “I’ve read what you wrote, of course, but help me to understand it better. You took the German first trench with few casualties.”

“Yes. With only three men wounded and none killed.”

“And then after you had captured the trench, that is when the casualties came?”



Front Line near de Perthes les Hurlus: Champagne , France. February 23th, 1915 It had still been dark that Tuesday morning, just after 6:00 AM, when the company had filed into the jumping-off trench that the sappers had dug over the last few days, jutting out at a right angle from the front line. The attack trench was narrow -- only three men could stand abreast in it -- and it was shallow. The men crouched down to keep their heads safe below the level of the earth.

The weather, the week before unseasonably warm, had turned cold again. Men pressed together in small groups, sharing warmth and seeking the reassurance of human touch at one and the same time. Henri’s back and shoulders ached, tensed from both fear and cold. He closed his eyes for a moment and with deep breaths tried to force the painful knots in his soulders to unwind. At least the ground would be firm, frozen hard.

“Sergeant Bertrand.”

The supply sergeant, a replacement who had arrived in January but already used to the necessities of keeping quiet in the forward trenches, moved next to him and leaned his head in to hear.

“Have the brandy ration served out now. It’ll keep the men warm and they’ll be past the first dullness by the time we advance.”

The sergeant nodded and moved off again, moving like an ape, doubled over, with hands swinging close to the ground. A strange fate that modernity should have brought man back to his origins.

In a few moments Henri could hear the shifting and clattering of the men taking off their heavy packs and getting out their tin mugs to accept the warming draft that Bertrand was spreading among them.

The company had been on the move since two that morning, when the sections had formed up on the streets of Suippes. It had taken four hours to cover the three miles from the village to the front line, first walking beside the unpaved country roads along which horse wagons and motor trucks lumbered, carrying supplies and artillery shells forward, then through the network of trenches to the front line. Logistics officers had stood at each crossroads, guiding them through the maze of trenches crowded with other traffic, as units that had been in the front moved back for rest, and others moved forward for the attack. With so much confusion and congestion in the network of defenses, there was no chance that coffee or hot breakfast could make it from the mobile kitchens to these attack trenches, and so the day’s brandy ration was the practical solution to giving the men a little warmth and comfort before the attack began.

“Care for a drink, sir?” Lieutenant Morel held out a small, flat bottle. “None of your government issued brandy here. Picked it up when I was on leave last month.”

“Not yet,” said Henri. “Offer me some when we have their trench and I’m your man.” On quiet days, the wine or brandy ration gave the men a distraction from the tedium and loneliness of military life. Before an attack, it tamped down fears and made men more willing to fight. But the clumsiness that often came with that courage was something an officer could ill afford at the start of an attack, however attractive the warmth and solace it might bring. Afterwards there would be time enough.

Henri pulled out his watch when the first shells screamed over. Seven o’clock. The sky was beginning to glow with the diffuse light of approaching dawn. To the rhythmic shriek of a 75mm shells passing over thirty times a minute and the thunder of those shells exploding on the German front line trench three hundred yards away was added a more steady mechanical buzz. Henri looked up, as did others, and soon they could see the white shape against the lightening blue sky. With its enchanting slowness an aeroplane was flying forward to observe the accuracy of the bombardment that was being poured upon the German positions.

At seven twenty, with the light strengthening but the sun still below the horizon, the tempo of the shelling increased. No longer could they distinguish single shells passing overhead. Instead there was a single flow of noise, the high pitched sound of shells above and the thunder of the bombardment hitting the German line, explosions which they could now feel through the ground as well as the abused and quivering air. Over it all, the aeroplane droned slowly, making big circles like a carrion bird above the front lines. The slow two-seater carried a heavy wireless set which allowed the observation officer to tap out messages to the artillerists telling them where their shells were falling to most effect.

Signalling to his section leaders, Henri advanced through the huddled men to one of the short scaling ladders at the end of the attack trench and climbed its few steps up to ground level. The men filed after.

Up here he could see the fountains of smoke and earth erupting from the German lines, a billowing and quivering cloud, dark with the occasional flash breaking through from within the undulating mass of destruction. The officers and NCOs formed up the company into sections, each group of sixty men filing through a gap pre-cut in the barbed wire entanglements which guarded the French line. Across the no man’s land they moved, the lines fanning out as the men picked their way across the uneven, frozen ground. Just as well, lest a German shell catch a clump of men and wipe out a whole squad at a blow. It was only as they came within a hundred yards of the German trench the the men went to ground again, waiting for the deadly rain of shells to cease before they could move any closer. They were so close to the barrage now that the concussions echoed in their chests while the sound rang in their ears. Stray fragments from a shell that fell short set two men screaming, and stretcher bearers trotted forward silently to do their lifesaving work.

The enemy lines remained empty and motionless under the pounding fury of the shells. No rifles appeared on the parapet. The defenders were down in their dugouts, sheltering from the attack.

Then the shells stopped. 7:30. A ringing, screaming silence which seemed in the first moment to tear at the senses with its sheer absence of noise.

Henri fumbled his whistle to his mouth and blew it as he heaved himself to his feet, drew his pistol, and rushed forward. He could hear other whistles shrilling too, his lieutenants and NCOs and those of the other companies in VI Battalion to the right and left of them.

As he reached the German wire he looked back. They were following, just as they should. He saw no bodies lying on the ground, and still there was no activity at the German parapet. This silence could last only seconds more. In the bunkers dug deep under the German lines, the soldiers must be grabbing weapons and rushing up the stairs to meet them.

The high explosive shells had done their work on the German entanglements of barbed wire. It slowed him only a moment to pick through the gaps and shallow craters which had been blasted in the defensive barrier. A few dozen paces more and the parapet. This was the most terrifying moment of all. At any moment a rifle’s muzzle might appear, and it would be a bad soldier who could fail to hit him at this distance. His reason, his very body, screamed to stop, to slow. But the training -- distilled by the army from its experiences of the last six months -- was clear: the soldier is most in danger as he moves towards the parapet. Do not stop. Do not slow, until you are in the enemy trench. Then you can see your enemy as well as he can see you, and your chances are greatly improved.

He reached the parapet and, with a muttered prayer as his boots left the ground and his overcoat flared out around him, jumped down into the enemy trench.

It was empty, save for a grey-clad body that lay on the ground a half dozen paces away, and Corporal Sellier who had half-slid down into the trench a moment before Henri jumped. Soon more men appeared to right and left.

“Sixth Squad, come on!” shouted Corporal Sellier, and led his men off down the trench. Henri took a moment to lean back against the trench wall. His breath steamed in the cold morning air, but he felt hot enough to wish he could tear off his heavy wool overcoat. It would pass soon enough. Lieutenant Morel’s brandy would be welcome now too. Perhaps he’d find him.

Pushing away from the wall, Henri started down the trench after Sixth Squad. The trench walls were lined with tree branches woven together like a basket. The floor was lined with heavy wooden planks. Every twenty yards the trench turned, following a sawtooth path which made it impossible to look, or shoot, too far in a straight line. Each turn was a question: What was beyond it? Friend or foe?

Henri had just passed the first turning when Lieutenant Rejol came down nearly on top of him. Both men shouted and Henri half raised his revolver before seeing who the other was. Then they attack turned into an embrace instead.

“I’m glad it’s you. Are you alright? Any trouble?” Henri asked.

“Got hung up in the wire.”

“I almost shot you. Why don’t you have your pistol out?”

“Because I don’t want to shoot you.”

“You didn’t know it would be me.”

Rejol shrugged. In civilian life, before he was called back up into the army, Maurice Rejol had become a priest. The French Republic, however, was resolutely secular. Priests remained subject to mobilization just like men their age of any other occupation.

“If you won’t take the basic precaution of drawing your weapon, there will be no one but you to blame if you’re killed,” Henri said.

“I think I’ve seen enough men die while bearing weapons by now to know that holding a gun is no talisman against death.”

It was Henri’s turn to shrug. “I respect your principles, father. But what are you going to do if you meet a German at one of these sharp turns? Bless him?”

“I might just.”

From further down the trench they heard confused shouting and followed by shots. Both men ran toward the sound. By the time they reached Sixth Squad, Corporal Sellier and his men were herding a dozen Germans with their hands behind their heads into a bay in the trenchline where a machine gun tripod stood empty.

“Any officers among them?” Henri asked, scanning the captured men for rank insignia. A captured officer could provide useful intelligence about troop strength and position.

“He resisted capture and I had to shoot him,” said Corporal Sellier, jerking a thumb.

Now Henri saw the body, sprawled on the rough boards of the trench floor, as if he had been shot while running away.

He turned the grey-coated man over. His chest was an ugly sight. Blood soaked his tunic, the three ragged exit wounds barely distinguishable from the sticky, pulsing mess of red. He gasped for air and his eyes fluttered.

“This officer is wounded,” Henri said. “Call stretcher bearers.” That at least was a more honorable task then what he must do next. Folding back the German’s overcoat he checked the man’s pockets. A little leather bound prayer book, the spidery Gothic lettering stamped on its cover looking darkly medieval. A folded letter, which even Henri’s cursory German skills could tell was from the man’s wife, no military secrets here. A photograph of a little boy in miniature soldier uniform sitting aside a wooden horse. A box of matches. A half smoked cigar wrapped in a handkerchief.

Henri shoved the item’s back into the officer’s pockets, guilty at the bloody smear he left on the letter.

“How about his watch?” asked Corporal Sellier. “German watches are good, yes?”

“Did you send for that stretcher bearer?” Henri replied, ignoring the suggestion of plunder.

“He won’t survive that chest wound. If the stretcher bearers are going to risk their necks crossing no man’s land, it should be for our men.”

“Call them, Corporal.” Henri let an edge creep into his voice, and this time Sellier saluted and sent a man from his squad in search of stretcher bearers.

“Form up the rest of the squad,” Henri ordered. “Rejol, take Sixth Squad and find the rest of your section. Get this sector of the front line swept.”

Henri continued down the front line trench, gathering up stray men, putting squads and sections under officers or NCOs, ordering them to secure the intersections with the communication trenches. He routed a half dozen men out of a bunker where they had found bottled beer and a gramophone. The tinny sound of a walz echoed up the stairs of the tunnel as Henri drove the men before him, back to the work of securing the trench.

Everywhere were the signs of the half hour’s bombardment which had preceded their attack. Floorboards were smashed and wicker walls blown out where explosive shells had caved in the trench itself. Shell fragments, jagged pieces of metal up to six inches long, were embedded in the wooden planks here and there, while in other places scattered blasts of round holes showed where timed fuses on shrapnel shells had sent their inch-wide round bullets down from above.

After twenty minutes, the front line was secure. The company had rounded up nearly fifty prisoners. They made them stack their rifles in a dugout and then Henri sent them back to the French line under the guard of Twelfth Squad. One of his own men had been wounded in the brief, confused fighting in the trenches, but both could walk back to the mobile hospital under their own power. The German dead they could leave where they lay until later. Now they must push on.

The German line in this sector consisted of two fire trenches spaced a hundred and fifty yards apart. These two parallel fire trenches, connected every hundred yards by perpendicular communication trenches, formed the first German defensive line. The second line of defense, which the attack timetable called for their regiment to assault at nine o’clock, after a second preparatory bombardment, was a similar pair of trenches half a mile further back, beyond a wooded rise that made it difficult for French artillery observers to target.

Henri sent Lieutenant Rejol, leading Second and Third Sections, up the first communication trench. Then Henri and Lieutenant Morel gathered the remaining two sections at the intersection with the second communication trench.

As the men stood close around him, Henri gave his instructions. He could not afterwards remember the words. His recollection was like a dream, of his mouth moving without any knowledge of the words, of the faces -- intent, nervous, grim -- looking at him, and then of the stick grenades awkwardly tumbling through the air.

How could an attack possibly come from behind, from the fire trench they had just cleared? Fortunately, it was not the rational part of the mind which was responsible for reaction to the sight of a hand grenade. Everyone burst into instant motion. In the tight quarters of the trench someone collided with Henri and shoved him back against the wall of the trench. Shots rang out. Henri struggled to draw his own revolver, pushing away the man who had stumbled against him. Men nearer to the fire trench fought to level their rifles in the press of bodies. The grenades went off with a flash and an earsplitting report. There was shoving and struggling as some men tried to get away from the explosions while others tried to get at their attackers. Several men were on the ground, screaming, struck by fragments from the grenades.


7th Division Headquarters: Champagne , France. February 26th, 1915 “And how was it that you were attacked from the rear in a trench that you had just cleared?”

The staff officer’s tone was dispassionate, but being asked the question by this well-groomed man in his brand new uniform caused anger and frustration to clench at Henri’s throat.

“At the moment we knew only that we were attacked, and by the end of the firefight there were no German prisoners to interrogate. It wasn’t till that night, digging in to hold what we still possessed after the attack on the second line beyond the ridge had failed, that we realized what must have happened. One of the large bunkers under our sector of trench had passages leading up to both the firing trenches. The squad of Germans must have gone through this bunker to come up behind us and attack us unawares.”

Captain Vasseur made rapid jottings in his notebook. “And your men who cleared the bunkers did not notice this second passage leading up to the other fire trench still in German hands?”

“No.” Of course they had not. The attack squads were supposed to move quickly. If no enemy appeared, they moved on. Letting them slow and search only led to looting and shirking.

“It’s understandable of course. It could happen to anyone. But perhaps there are a few suggestions I could make that would help you in future.”

The other officer’s last sentence robbed all that came before of reassurance. Did he think that the frontline officers were incompetent fools? Let him try to lead a company and clear a sector of enemy trench. Had he even been in combat, or had he spent the last six months in staff positions telling others how to do their jobs?

“There’s no way to make a detailed search of every dugout and bunker while maintaining the speed of the attack,” said Henri. “We clear them as best we can. We’ll do better in future. But attack cannot be without risk.”

“Of course, of course.” The staff officer held out his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me, Captain Fournier. You were there and I was not. Nor can I claim credit for any of these ideas. I sit here. I interview men like you who have fought in the front lines. They tell me what worked and what didn’t. When I hear of something that worked well, I write it up. And then I read reports from others like me in other divisions. It’s not glorious work. But day by day, we learn. And one of these days, we’ll defeat these invaders.”

It was an honorably made little speech. Despite their equal rank, this man who talked with colonels and generals every day was under no obligation to treat a reserve captain from the line with consideration. He was going out of his way to polite, and if Henri had any justice -- or self interest -- he must find some way to return the courtesy. After all, had this man done anything to cause offense? Nothing, except to have the duties and influence which, had obligations to family not intervened, Henri himself might have had.

“I’m sorry.” Henri gave a slight bow of the head as he said the words. “You said there were suggestions you could make? What has worked for other units?”

Vasseur closed his notebook and steepled his fingers. “Our infantry companies are designed for fighting open warfare in the field: two hundred and fifty riflemen all trained to do the same things with the same weapons. However what we’re fighting now is essentially siege warfare. That takes specialized troops. Designate one of your sections as trench cleaners. They hold back in the initial attack, and follow along to clean out every bunker and dugout. It’ll be their job to be sure that you aren’t taken from behind by enemies who’ve hidden underground.”

This was the great insight? Assign a whole section to clearing duty? “That’s a quarter of my men. It will decrease my attacking strength.”

“Your men will attack better if they aren’t slowed down by having to clear every shelter. But this is not just a duty assignment. Don’t assign one of your existing sections or rotate the duty amongst them. Pick the right NCO to command the cleaners. Pick the right men. You need killers; not your nice farm boy who follows along bravely in the attack but fires his rifle high because he doesn’t really want to kill anyone. These men will be clearing rooms. Not every Poilu is going to like that.

“Once you have the right men, you’ll need to train them differently. Each squad in the section should learn to fight independently. That way you can assign a squad of cleaners to follow each section of attacking infantry. They also need to be armed for close quarters fighting. Rifles and bayonets will only get in the way in a bunker. Have your supply sergeant to talk to division and tell them I approved you to form a cleaner section. They’ll need hand grenades, revolvers, and knives. The supply situation is wretched, but they’ll do what they can for you. The 104th Regiment is being rotated out of the front line for a bit to recover from Tuesday’s attacks, so you’ll have some time for the training and equipment issues.”

Henri nodded. What he thought of these suggestions he wasn’t yet sure, but he must at least show outward assent. If the in the end decided to ignore the advice… Well, this fellow would probably be promoted to some other duty soon enough, and perhaps he’d even remember which company commanders had obediently listened to his ideas.

“I know it sounds like a great deal of change, I know.” Captain Vasseur leaned forward and spoke in a lower tone. “I wouldn’t throw all this any every officer. But I see from your file that you were a professional soldier before going to the reserves. These mixed function companies are the future. The army needs our most experienced officers to test these tactics and tell us what they learn. We’ll have to learn a new kind of fighting if we’re to defeat an enemy dug ten meters into the ground.”

Read the next installment.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

Chapter 1-3

This took a little longer than I'd hoped. I guess I'm still getting into the swing on turning out wordcount. I am, however, pretty pleased with the results.

Incidentally, the events in this chapter are drawn very closely from an incident in the WW1 diary which future priest Yves Congar wrote as a young French boy living under occupation in Sedan.

This concludes Chapter 1. Chapter 2 will focus on Henri.

Village of Chateau Ducloux, France. May 13th, 1915. Pascal returned home on a Saturday afternoon. Even before his call of, “I’m home!” brought his sisters thundering and squealing down the stairs, he received his first greeting from Yves. The dog had been lying on the entrance rug wondering when someone would think to take him out for a walk. When the young master opened the door, Yves was instantly upon his feet, barking excitedly, and then clambering up to rest his paws on Pascal’s shoulders while showering his face with doggy affection.

It was a sight which caused Philomene a pang when she arrived a moment later to greet her son with her own maternal hugs and kisses. “Not tonight,” she told Grandpere, as Pascal went up to his room to change from his dirty work clothes. “There will be time to tell him tomorrow.”

Louis shrugged. “No longer, then. We’ll have to get it over with.”

It had only been two weeks, and Pascal seemed already to have changed. Could he have become taller? He was certainly browner. And yet there was still so much of the boy about him. He played with his sisters, leading them in the backyard adventures which had been listless without him. And he romped with Yves so happily that Philomene felt it weighing upon her heart.

The dog, only two years younger than Pascal himself, and thus in the children’s mind as established a member of the family as any of them, had become the most difficult resident of the household to maintain. Before the war, the pork butcher, Monsieur Jobart, had often thrown in a pound of scraps for Yves without charge when filling the family’s order for meat. Now meat of any kind was becoming scarce, and there were people who were eager to pay good prices for the scraps which before had gone to Yves and others of his kind. The family had made attempts to adapt him to a diet of beans and potatoes such as they themselves increasingly lived on, but while he happily ate whatever was put before him, such meals seemed always to make an untimely and catastrophic re-appearance from one end of the dog or the other. And so Yves continued to eat meat, even as the family got less and less. Philomene shuddered at the expense, and felt pangs of guilt when she thought of that some people went hungry in the village even as she fed a dog, but when she saw how tenderly the little girls and Pascal clung to the animal who was a constant from the happy and peaceful days before, she had always relented. Now, however, it was out of her hands.

“There was another requisition announced by the Germans while you were gone,” she told Pascal Sunday evening, after the little girls had gone up to their bed.

“Another labor requisition? When will I have to go?”

“No. Not another labor requisition.” She hesitated. The news would hurt him. And yet, she could see the alarm building in him as she paused. What terrible thing must he be imagining, and what possible good did she do by drawing out the revelation? It would have to happen. Refusing to say the words did not avoid the end. “This is a requisition of dogs. All dogs larger than ten kilograms to be requisitioned for army use. They will take those they want for the army and have the rest destroyed so that they don’t consume excess food. The only exception to the requisition is if we purchase a special license for three hundred francs.”

“We can’t let them take Yves! He’s not a fighting dog. He’s our dog. And he’s French. He doesn’t like Germans.”

“I know.”

“No! This has to stop. We have to--“ He had raised his arms, as if to strike someone, but he turned abruptly away and stalked to the other side of the sitting room, his hands working as if crushing something.

Perhaps two weeks of work in the fields had put new muscles on his boyish frame, or perhaps the absence had allowed her to see changes which had been developing for some time, but as she saw his arms and shoulders working in anger it was clear in a way it had never been before: he was stronger than she. Not yet twelve, still a child in so many ways, but if he were to lose control of himself he was no longer the little boy who in his childish tantrums she had carried kicking and screaming to his room not so many years ago.

“We can hide him,” said Pascal, turning back to her with the light of hope in his face. “I could make a dog house for him out in the woods, and go visit him every day. We could say he ran away.”


“We can’t let the take him, Mere. We can’t.”

She could see the tears glistening in his eyes even as he blinked them back, and he was her little boy again. But before she could pull him close and comfort him, she had to tell the worst.

“We would never let them take Yves. He’s not the kind of dog they would keep anyway. They would only put him down. But we also can’t pay the Germans three hundred francs, which would only go to help their war effort. It would be like buying them bullets to shoot at Father. Even if it weren’t for that, meat is harder to come by every week, and he’s an old dog who can’t get used to eating other things.”

He was shaking his head. He seemed to know what was coming, and the tears in his eyes accused her.

“Grandpere and I talked about this a great deal, and we agree that there is only one choice. We must have Doctor Durand put him down. It will be painless. He will be here with us. He has had a long life. It is the kindest thing we can do.”

Pascal was snuffling unashamedly, and smeared the back of his hand across his nose. “But we’d be killing him. We can’t kill Yves. You wouldn’t have the doctor kill me to keep me from working for the Germans.”

“Come here.” She tried to pull him close, but he shook himself away. “We love him very much, Pascal, but he is a dog, not a person. If we have to choose between meat for him and meat for people, if we have to choose between having him die peacefully with us or letting him die scared and alone with the Germans, we have a duty to give him a quiet, happy end. He can’t understand suffering. God has given us the duty to decide for him.”

She tried again to take her son in her arms and comfort him, but he turned away. Instead he sat on the floor and cried muffled sobs into the well-worn cushion of Grandpere’s chair.

“It’s not fair. It’s not right. We’ll be murdering him.”

She sat down next to him and ran her hand over his hair. “I’m sorry. I know. I love him too. He’s a good dog.”

Pascal’s head came up from the cushion suddenly and he turned red rimmed eyes on her. “I hate you. You’re killing my dog, and I hate you.”

Before she could reply he ran from the room. She heard his feet pounding up the stairs and then the slam of his door. She thought of going up to try again to talk to him, but perhaps what he needed more than anything was time.

She put the house in order and went upstairs. Standing, for a moment, outside of Pascal’s little room, she could hear muffled sobs from within.

Back in her own room, settled in her own bed, the candle out and the darkness drawing round, the cold cruelty of it all seemed to crawl in next to her filling with its malign presence the place where Henri should have been, the source of strength and warmth that belonged next to her.

How could this be happening? After so many people had died, after her own husband had been taken she knew not where, why was she crying over a dog? And yet she did. Death and separation had come before, but always from outside. Now she was forced to take an active hand in ending a life. And however well she had braced herself against the quiet, loyal place that Yves had filled in their family for nearly ten years, the look of sadness, anger, and betrayal which her son had turned on her was not one which could be easily dismissed.


The day came all too soon. Pascal had slept only fitfully. As soon as the window was brightening with daylight he got up and dressed. He found Yves sleeping in his usual place, on an old blanket by the kitchen door. The dog looked up and focused large brown eyes on him, but did not rise.

Pascal crouched down and stroked the dog’s soft ears, one brown, one white.

“Shall we take a walk, while it’s still early?”

The returning gaze was soft, but without comprehension. Part of the cruelty was that the dog could not know why this morning was important, could not treasure this last walk together. Or perhaps that was a kindness. In school they had read about Iphigeneia, the Greek princess sacrificed to the gods by her father, King Agamemnon, so that the Greeks could have a favorable wind to sail and attack Troy. Surely she must have looked at her father on the last day with fear and hatred, but with Yves there was only trust.

“Come on.” He pulled gently at the dog’s collar, and after a moment’s confused resistance Yves got to his feet and shook himself.

It was not usual for the boy to want to go out so early. Many days, when the boy was home from school and crouched next to Grandpere’s chair in the sitting room reading one of the books from the shelf, Yves had to nuzzle and prod him repeatedly before he could persuade the boy to take him outside. But if today the boy wanted to go out early, Yves would shake the growing stiffness from his limbs and go out to see what sights and smells awaited.

The streets were mostly empty in the peaceful morning light. Yves nosed and looked about just as always, but Pascal turned back often to look at his companion, trying to imprint on his mind each moment so that he could recall it later: Yves sniffing at a beetle that walked along the paving stones, Yves pausing to scratch an ear, Yvet watching wrapt as a squirrel jumped from one tree to another.

A pair of German soldiers, out walking early, saw the two of them. One of them waved while the other called to the dog and tried to make enticing clicking noises at him. Pascal remained outwardly calm, even returned the wave, but seethed with anger. How dare they call to Yves when it was because of them he must die?

He turned aside into the Mourat Orchard, where he and Baptiste had so often played before the war. On a hot August day last year, he had taken his lead soldiers here and played out the triumphs and tragedies of a great battlefield struggle, even as miles to the north the real French army was facing the invading Germans. How long ago all that was now.

Yves was nosing at something, and Pascal approached to find a cache of items left by someone else seeking privacy in the garden: two empty wine bottles, a few cigarette butts, and a hair ribbon.

It had been by no means unusual to find such signs of assignation in the orchard before the war, but the knowledge that this was almost certainly from a German turned it from tawdry to disgusting and spoiled the orchard as a place of privacy.

On the way home, they stopped by Monsieur Jobart’s butcher shop, and Pascal purchased a packet of scraps for the last time. Yves watched, quiet and well-behaved, his frantically wagging tail the only sign that betrayed his excitement as Madame Jobart wrapped the scraps in paper and tied the package with a string. Once home, Pascal spilled the scraps onto a dish and watched as Yves eagerly wolfed them down.

Doctor Durand arrived in the mid-morning. He was a small man with thick white hair, and a voice barely above a whisper. Yves at first glared at him and whined, recalling earlier and unhappy times spent with him, but with soft words and gentle hands the veterinarian soon reassured his patient.

“You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to,” his mother told him. The little girls were both hiding in the nursery. Pascal, however, knew his duty was here, even as his throat felt so choked with held-back tears that breathing was difficult.

“You’re a very brave boy,” said Doctor Durand. “And I can see he trusts you. Here, will you hold his head in your lap and talk to him while I give him the shot? Really, this will not hurt him at all. For you and me, very bad perhaps. But for him, it will only feel like going to sleep.”

For Yves’s sake, Pascal remained stoic until the veterinarian told him that it was all over. Only then did he lay his face against the dog’s still warm flank and cry.


“We have to hold a funeral for Yves,” said Charlotte. Funerals had been the tender-hearted seven year old’s passion for nearly a year. Whenever she found some small creature suitable for her tragic instincts -- a mouse some cat had finished with, a fallen nestling, sometimes merely a large beetle -- she insisted on holding a ceremony, digging a small hole, then placing flowers on the mound and providing speeches and prayers of her own imagining.

“This isn’t one of your games,” Pascal told her.

“But Yves is a hero of France. He died because of the Germans. He has to have a funeral.”

There was a justice to this. In the numbness that had filled the day, he had not thought about what was to be done with the body that was lying under a blanket in Grandpere’s stock room. Surely Yves deserved some final recognition for having given all rather than help the Germans.

Pascal found Grandpere sitting behind the counter in the shop. “What are you going to do with Yves’s body?”

“Well.” Grandpere scratched at his chin, patted down his pockets, pulled out his pipe, then put it away again. “He’s not a small dog, Pascal. Durand said I should take him down to Monsieur Oudin.”

“To be carted away like bones from the butcher shops and made into glue?”

“I don’t say I like it, but what can we do?”

“We should give him a proper burial.”

Grandpere spread his hands. “I’m sorry, but he’s a good sized dog. We’d need to dig quite a deep hole, and we couldn’t do it in the garden for fear of attracting animals.”

“I’ll do it.” Pascal drew himself up in ready to defy any gainsaying. “I’m not afraid of work. I did plenty of digging for the Germans on labor requisition. I can dig for Yves.”

“There’s still the matter of attracting animals.”

“We’ll go somewhere else. We won’t bury him in the garden.”

“All right.” Grandpere shrugged. Perhaps this final service was what the boy needed to reach some peace with the painful necessity. “You can take my big shovel and the wheelbarrow.”

The funeral procession set off down the Rue des Remparts a little while later. Pascal pushed the wheelbarrow. In it, Yves was draped in his blanket, across which the little girls had scattered flowers. Charlotte carried Grandpere’s garden shovel, taller than she was, over her shoulder. Lucie Marie brought up the rear, carrying a discarded glass jar filled with water and more flowers.

The first place that Pascal had thought of was the belt of trees to the north of town where Baptiste had been accidentally shot and killed by German soldiers. It seemed appropriate that Yves stand eternal guard over the place his friend had been slain. But when he recalled the rifle shots ringing out across the fields, it became clear that he should not take his little sisters there. Where was a safe place within the town boundaries?

He had settled on the abandoned Mourat Orchard where he and Yves had rambled that same morning. There was a clearing on the east side where he could dig without running into tree roots, and the grey stone wall could serve as a headstone.

As Grandpere had predicted the digging took a long time, but it was work that Pascal was hardened to after the last few weeks. The girls wandered among the trees and collected more flowers.

At last all was ready, and they gathered solemnly to give Yves his last respects. It seemed wrong to shovel dirt directly on him, so Pascal lowered the dog into the hole still wrapped in the old blanked which had for many years served as his bed. It was so faded and redolent of doggy smells that perhaps Mother would not object to its being used as a shroud.

For a moment, as the body settled on the uneven bottom of the grave, one back leg with its glossy brown fur came uncovered and lay against the bare earth. No wonder people were buried in coffins. There was something so desperately sad about seeing a once living limb against the dirt. Pascal reached down and tucked the blanket snuggly around the body. His throat was suddenly tight and he didn’t trust his voice. Instead he nodded to Charlotte who, accustomed to improvised prayers for animals, assured God that Yves had always been a good dog and would always do what he was told if he were allowed into heaven. Pascal could not afterwards remember the words, so much as the conversational tone of the small voice saying them. What he did remember long after, with perfect clarity, was how after a moment’s silence, she became to sing in pure high tones.

“Allons enfants de la Patrie, Le jour de gloire est arrivé!”

The Marseillaise, along with the Tricolor, had been banned since the occupation. And yet what better tribute could there be to a dog who had died loyal to France. Grandpere had always said it was a filthy song of revolutionaries and atheists, but Pascal had seen him take off his hat and join in when the children’s choir had sung it at the fete, that warm summer night when the announcement of mobilization had arrived.

After the first lines Charlotte began to stumble, clearly not knowing the words as well, but Pascal joined her and together they finished strong, a fitting tribute to the hero dog.

“What’s all this? That song if forbidden.”

Caught up in their farewell to Yves, they had not seen the three soldiers, one with a gefreiter’s red and gold tabs on his tunic, approaching through the trees.

“Well, boy?” the NCO asked, pointing at Pascal. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

Pascal swallowed, trying to fight down panic. He mustn’t let any harm come to the girls. If someone had to be punished, it should be him.

“It’s my fault, sir. I’m sure they don’t even know all the words.”

“But what are you doing?” the German persisted.

“We’re burying our dog, sir. He had to be put down because of the requisition.” Was it wrong to admit this? The tragedy of losing Yves had weighed so heavily it had not occurred to him until this moment to wonder whether having their dog put down to avoid the requisition was itself a crime.

“Because of the requisition, eh?” The officer seemed to be contemplating the same question.

“We were singing the song because Yves died a hero of France,” announced Charlotte, in a surprisingly carrying voice. “He died like a soldier, so we had to give him a soldier’s funeral.”

Pascal would have stopped her if he could have, but the words poured out as he listened helpless. He had just a moment to imagine the soldiers marching all three of them off to jail, and to wonder how he could ever explain to Mother that he had allowed this to happen to his sisters, when the gefreiter burst into laugher. The two soldiers looked between their officer and the children for a moment, until he recovered enough to explain to them in German, “She says their dog is a French soldier, so they had to give him a soldier’s funeral!”

The other two howled with laughter in their turn. “We’re fighting an army of dogs, lads. That explains everything!”

Slapping each other on the back and still laughing, the three soldiers ambled away into the trees.

For a long moment the children stood looking after them. Then Pascal began silently to shovel the dirt back into the hole.

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