1914 Read online

  Two weeks after the expedition had set out was also when Anthime suddenly realized that he never saw Charles anymore. Risking a razzing, he spent two days going up and down the company’s ranks as they tramped along, hoping at least to catch a glimpse of him but succeeding only in exhausting himself even further. Then he started asking around, questioning tight-lipped and supercilious noncoms at first, until a more cooperative sergeant told him one evening that Charles had been transferred, no one knew where, a military secret. Anthime hardly reacted at all, he was so dead on his feet.

  In the evenings, moreover, it was often quite a challenge to find a place to sleep where the troop had halted. Since there wasn’t much room for the men in the villages, half the company was usually obliged to try sleeping outdoors; when a village was deserted, the luckiest men camped in abandoned houses, where there might still be a bit of furniture and even sometimes beds, but no bedding. Most of the time, though, they’d fix up sleeping spots in the gardens or out in the fields of beets or oats or in the woods, beneath shelters they constructed from branches or in a providential haystack, and once in an abandoned sugar factory. Wherever they wound up, they never found comfort yet fell asleep fast.

  In spite of their fatigue, before turning in for the night they tended to routine chores: laundry duty, inspection of shoes and feet. For distraction and relaxation, some men played cards, dominos, checkers, leapfrog, and even organized high-jump competitions or sack races. Arcenel, however, would simply carve his name with his knife, and Anthime just his initials along with the day’s date, on a tree or a wooden roadside cross. After the evening meal, the men would sleep, then set out again at the bugler’s call after harnessing themselves up, slinging their rifles, musette bags, and canteens over their shoulders, with cartridge pouches at their belts, but only after first hoisting onto their backs the 1893 model knapsacks nicknamed the Ace of Diamonds, made of a square wooden frame covered with a thick envelope of blackboard-green or licorice-brown canvas.8 The men buckled them on with a pair of shoulder straps, each made of two pieces of leather joined by a brass rivet.

  Empty, the pack weighed only one and a third pounds. It quickly grew heavier, however, with a first lot of regulation equipment carefully arranged inside and consisting of alimentary matériel (bottles of strong mint extract, coffee substitute, tins and sachets of sugar and chocolate, water bottles and cutlery of tin-plated iron, pressed iron mug, can opener, penknife), clothing (long and short underpants, cotton handkerchiefs, flannel shirts, suspenders, puttees), cleaning and maintenance products (clothes and shoe brushes, and for the weapons, tins of grease, polish, plus extra laces and buttons, sewing kit with round-tipped scissors), first-aid and toiletry articles (individual bandages, absorbent cotton wool, towel, mirror, soap, razor and strop, shaving brush, toothbrush, comb), as well as personal items (tobacco and rolling papers, matches and tinderbox, flashlight, nickel silver and aluminum bracelet with identification disk, individual service record booklet, and a small Prayer Book for Soldiers).

  Though that already seemed quite a load for one knapsack, the men then strapped various accessories to the outside. At the very top, on the rolled-up blanket placed over the tent canvas enclosing poles, stakes, and cords, would sit an individual mess tin, at a slight tilt to the rear so as not to bump the soldier’s head, while at the back of the pack a small bundle of dry wood for cooking supper at the bivouac would be wedged over a stewpot anchored by a strap running up across the mess tin, and from the sides of the pack would hang a few field tools inside their leather covers: ax or shears, billhook, saw, shovel, pick, spade pick, take your pick—along with a collapsible canvas bucket known as the water cow and a lantern in its canvas carrying case. By now this entire edifice would weigh at least seventy-seven pounds, in dry weather. Before sunshine gave way, as it must, to rain.

  7

  THIS MOSQUITO, at one o’clock, appears in air of a normal end-of-summer blue over the département of the Marne in northeastern France.

  Let’s propel ourselves up toward this insect: as we draw closer, it gradually grows into a small plane, a Farman F 37, a two-seater biplane carrying two men, a pilot and an observer sitting one behind the other in crude seats barely protected by two rudimentary windshields. Buffeted by the wind, without the shelter of the closed cockpits that will eventually appear, the pair seem installed upon a narrow panoramic porch from which one can admire the landscape of nascent conflict: columns of trucks and soldiers on the move, cantonments and their parade grounds.

  And on the ground itself, where all that is crawling and groaning and the earthbound troops are sweating, it is extremely hot, one of the last heat waves of this mid-August before the swing into autumn takes hold. But high in the sky, where it can be cooler, the men have bundled up.

  Underneath their helmets and big protective goggles, dressed alike in leather jackets and trousers, overalls of black rubberized cloth lined with rabbit fur and reinforced with goatskin, plus fur-lined boots and gloves, the two men look all the more identical because their bodies are invisible, aside from their cheeks, jaws, and their mouths, as they try to talk to each other but prove unable to exchange more than poorly articulated exclamations they can hardly hear, deafened as they are by the eighty-horsepower engine, while the brisk air sweeps away their words. The two men seem cast in the same mold, figurines with faintly visible soldered joints, identical lead soldiers except for a brown scarf around the neck of the observer named Charles Sèze, the pilot being Alfred Noblès.

  They are not armed, which is to say: not yet carrying the hundred-and-thirty-odd pounds of bombs this biplane can handle; the small machine gun on board is not operational. Although fixed to the fuselage, its design has still not produced satisfactory results—given that it’s difficult to aim and reload while piloting, especially since the synchronization gear for firing through the spinning propeller is not yet just right.

  What’s more, they are not afraid, despite the novelty of this assignment for which they’ve received barely any training, having been sent on only this one reconnaissance mission. Noblès is at the controls, glancing briefly at the altimeter, compass, speedometer, and inclinometer. Charles Sèze holds an ordnance survey map open on his lap; his brown scarf is entangled with the straps of his binoculars and the aerial photography camera hanging heavily around his neck. As they fly they study the landscape, their only orders being to observe.

  Later will come the dogfights and bombing, the no-fly zones over the enemy’s territory, the attacks from dirigibles and barrage balloons when things will, and very soon, become immeasurably worse. For the moment reconnaissance is all: taking photographs, reporting troop movements, calculating future adjustments of fire, noting the positions of lines, the capabilities and layouts of airfields and zeppelin hangars along with their outbuildings: depots, garages, command posts, dormitories, canteens.

  So they’re aloft, keeping their eyes open, when another mosquito shows up way behind the Farman on the left, a new and almost imperceptible insect that neither Sèze nor Noblès notices at first and which, as they have done, will grow bigger and clearer. Wooden framework covered with canvas and adorned with the Maltese cross on the wings, rudder, and the wheels of the landing gear, a fuselage of duralumin: it’s an Aviatik biplane making a beeline toward the Farman that leaves little doubt as to its intentions, particularly since as it draws nearer, Charles Sèze spots an infantry rifle protruding from its cockpit and aimed unmistakably his way, upon which he immediately warns Noblès.

  We are in the first weeks of the war and the airplane is a new mode of transportation, never before used in a military context. A Hotchkiss machine gun has been mounted on the Farman, true, but as an experiment and without ammunition, so it isn’t operational: the use of repeating weapons aboard planes has not yet been authorized by the powers that be, less because of their weight and imperfect performance than for fear that the enemy will take note and arm their planes in turn. Until things change and as a precaution, witho
ut paying too much attention to their higher-ups, flight crews do carry along rifles or handguns. Spurred by the sight of that infantry rifle, while Noblès begins evasive maneuvers with the Farman, zigzagging to keep out of the enemy’s line of fire, Charles rummages through a pocket of his overalls to pull out a Savage pistol especially adapted for aviation, fitted with a screen to catch spent casings so they won’t stray into the propeller.

  In the minutes that follow, without losing sight of each other, the Aviatik and the Farman will fly over, pass, avoid, and close in on each other almost to the point of touching, a dry run of what will become the main maneuvers of aerobatics—loop, roll, spin, humpty-bump, Immelmann—with each plane looking to feint while at the same time seeking the best angle of attack to achieve a ballistic advantage. Charles is crouched in his seat, both hands on the pistol grip to steady his gun, unlike the enemy observer, who constantly reorients the barrel of his rifle. When Noblès suddenly sends his plane climbing into the sky, the Aviatik keeps close on his tail, slipping suddenly under him to climb again abruptly while turning, thus targeting the Farman while hiding the Aviatik from Charles behind his own pilot, leaving him helpless. A single shot then sounds from the artillery rifle: a bullet travels 40 feet through the air at 3,280 feet per second at an altitude of 2,300 feet to enter the left eye of Noblès and exit above his nape, behind his right ear and then the Farman, now beyond his control, remains for a moment on its flight path before heading down at an increasingly steep angle as Charles, gaping over Alfred’s slumped shoulder, sees the ground on which he will crash approaching at tip-top speed, offering not a hint of hope for any alternative save his imminent and permanent death—ground currently occupied by Jonchery-sur-Vesle, a pretty village in the Champagne-Ardenne region, and whose inhabitants are called Joncaviduliens.

  8

  WHEN THE RAIN BEGAN, the knapsack almost doubled in weight and there was a mass uprising of stormy wind so deeply frozen that the men wondered how it could even blow: it was perishingly cold when they reached the Belgian border where the customs officials, on the day of the mobilization, had lighted a great bonfire they’d kept going ever since, and around which the troop tried to huddle tightly in an effort to get some sleep. Anthime envied those customs fellows, the tranquil life he assumed they led, their jobs he was sure were safe, and their sheepskin sleeping bags. He envied them again and even more after leaving the village, another two days of marching later when he began to hear the big guns, closer and closer, a basso continuo accompanied by scattered shooting that probably meant skirmishes between patrols.

  It was shortly after encountering this battlefront echo that the troop was suddenly sent right into the line of fire, in some foothills a little beyond the Belgian village of Maissin. Now there was no other option: that’s when they really understood they had to fight, had to go into battle for the first time, but until a shell actually landed near him, Anthime had not truly believed it. Once compelled to believe it, he discovered that everything he carried had grown heavier: knapsack, weapons, even the signet ring on his little finger, which was now deadweight and had no power to prevent the return, more painful than ever, of the ache in his wrist.

  Then orders were shouted for them to advance. Essentially pushed forward by the others, he wound up without much knowing what to do in the middle of a battlefield that couldn’t have been more real. He and Bossis looked at each other; behind them Arcenel was adjusting a strap, and Padioleau was blowing his nose, but his face had turned whiter than his hankie. At that point, there was nothing for it, they had to advance on the double while behind them, a group of about twenty men gathered in a circle as calmly as you please without seeming to take any notice of the shelling. It was the regimental band, whose conductor, white baton in hand, brought it down to conjure up “La Marseillaise,” aiming to provide valiant commentary on the assault. The enemy had taken up strong defensive positions concealed in a wood, so the men had trouble advancing at first, but when the artillery behind the troop joined the fray to weaken the foe the men tried again to attack, running clumsily hunched over, hampered by their impedimenta, each man leading with his bayonet and spearing the frozen air before him.

  As it happened they charged too soon, compounding the error by massing on the road that ran through the combat theater. Open and thoroughly familiar to the enemy artillery set up behind the trees, this road was in fact a perfectly clear target, and right away a few men not far from Anthime set about falling. He thought he saw two or three great spurts of blood but shoved them vigorously out of his mind, not being even certain, not having had time to be certain, that it was blood under arterial pressure—or even that he’d ever really seen blood until then, at least not in that way or that form. Besides his mind wasn’t in good shape for thinking, only for trying to shoot at whatever seemed hostile and above all for hunting down some possible cover wherever it might be. Luckily, although the road immediately received a proper drubbing from enemy fire, it did have low-lying areas here and there where the men had at first been able to seek shelter for a short while.

  But for too short a while: barked orders prodded the first lines of infantry off the road and into the oat field alongside it where they were clearly at risk and now, not content with taking fire from the enemy, the men began receiving it as well in the back from the imprudent shooting of their own forces, after which disorder spread swiftly through the ranks. The thing is, they were green troops, and the foul-ups were just beginning; only later would the men be ordered to sew a large white rectangular patch on the backs of their greatcoats, to make them more visible to the observing officers and minimize such blunders. Meanwhile, as the band played its part in the engagement, the baritone sax was shot in the arm and the trombone fell gravely wounded; the group closed ranks and although their circle was reduced, kept playing without missing a note and then, when they began to reprise the measure in which “the bloody standard is raised,” the flute and tenor sax fell down dead.

  The artillery having come to the company’s aid too late in their advance, the troop had been unable to gain the advantage all day, constantly moving forward only to retreat right away. Finally, at dusk, with a last effort they managed to drive the enemy back beyond the woods with a bayonet charge: Anthime saw—thought he saw—men stabbing other men right before his eyes, then firing their weapons to retrieve the blades from the flesh via the recoil. Clutching his rifle, he himself now felt ready to stab, impale, transfix the slightest obstacle, the bodies of men, of animals, tree trunks, whatever might present itself: a fleeting state of mind yet absolute, blind, excluding all others, but in the event the opportunity never arose. He continued to advance with all the others, laboriously, without lingering over the details, but the ground thus gained did not remain that way for long: the company had to withdraw almost immediately, since their position was not tenable without reinforcements that did not arrive. All this Anthime put together only later, when it was explained to him, for at the time he hadn’t understood a thing, which is par for the course.

  So this was the first taste of combat for him and the others, at the end of which Captain Vayssière, an adjutant, and two quartermaster sergeants were found among the few dozen dead, not to mention the wounded, hastily removed by stretcher bearers just after nightfall. The band had suffered further casualties: one of the clarinetists had been gutshot, the bass drummer and his instrument had been sent tumbling by a bullet through his cheek, and the second flutist had lost half a hand. Picking himself up again when it was all over, Anthime noticed that his mess tin and stewpot had been shot through, and his kepi as well. Shrapnel had torn away the entire bottom of Arcenel’s knapsack, in what remained of which he’d found a projectile that had ripped his jacket on the way in. After roll call it turned out that the company was missing seventy-six men.

  Leaving at dawn the next morning, the survivors had a lot more marching to do, often through forests where they were less exposed to the enemy’s binoculars and aerial observation f
rom aviators and observers in barrage balloons, although the often uneven terrain made progress more difficult and tiring. They were finding more and more corpses, abandoned weapons and equipment; on two or three occasions they had to fight again, but fortunately only in brief affrays that were even more chaotic but in any case less bloody than the first engagement at Maissin.

  This slog lasted all autumn and became so routine that by the end they’d practically forgotten they were marching. Which wasn’t that bad, after all, one kept busy that way: the body mechanically set in motion left one free to think about something else or more often plain nothing, but the procession had to halt when the war seized up in the winter. What with all this advancing against one another until both sides found themselves unable to extend their positions, it had to happen: everything froze in a standoff during a serious cold snap, as if troop movements had suddenly congealed all along the great line from Switzerland to the North Sea. It was somewhere along this line that Anthime and the others found themselves paralyzed, bogged down in a vast network of line trenches tied together by communication trenches. This whole system, in principle, had been initially dug out by the army engineers, but also and above all by the soldiers, since the spades and picks they bore on their backs weren’t there just for show. And as time passed, by trying every day to kill the maximum possible of those across the way plus crawl forward the minimum number of yards the high command required, that’s where they plowed themselves under.