Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 99, Indianapolis, Marion County, 4 September 1929 — Page 16

PAGE 16

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' 'CHAPTER XIII 'Continued) ■We wait and wait. By midday what I expected happens. One of the recruits has a fit. I have been watching him for a long time, grinding his teeth and opening and shutting his fists. These hunted, protruding eyes, we know them too well. During the last few hours he has had merely the appearance of calm. He had collapsed like a rotten tree. Now he stands up, stealthily creeps across the floor, hesitates a moment and then glides towards the door. I intercept him and say: “Where are you going?” "I’ll be back in a minute,” says he. and tries to push me "Wait a bit. The shelling will Stop soon.” He listens and for a moment his eye becomes clear. Then again he has the glowering eyes of a mad dog. He is silent, he shoves me aside. "One minute lad,” I say. Kat notices. Just as the recruit shakes me off. Kat jumps in and we hold him. Then he begins to rave: "Leave me alone, let me go out, I will go out!” He won t listen to anything and hits out. his mouth is wet. ant pours out words, half choked, meaningless words. It is a case of clausraphobia, he feels as though he is suffocating here and wants to get out at any price. If we -let him go, he would run R. bout everywhere regardless of cover. He is not the first. Though he raves and his eyes roll, It can’t be helped, and wc have to give him a hiding to bring him to his senses. We do it quickly and mercilessly, and at last he sits down quietly. The others have turned pale; let’s hope it deters them. This bombardment is too much for the poor devils, they who have been sent straight from a recruit-ing-depot into a barrage that is enough to turn an old soldier’s hair grey. Alter this affair, the sticky, close atmosphere works more than ever on our nerves. We sit as if in our graves waiting only to be closed in. Suddenly it howls and flashes terrifically. the dugout cracks in all its joints under a direct hit. fortunately only a light one that the concrete blocks are able to withstand. It rings metallically, the walls reel, rifles, helmets, earth, mud and dust fly everywhere. Sulphur fumes pour in. If we were in one of those light dugouts that they have been building lately instead of this deep one, not one of us would now be alive. But the effect is bad enough even so. The recruit starts to rave again and two others follow suit. One jumps up and rushes out, we have trouble with the other two.

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I start after the one who escapes and wonder whether to shoot him in the leg—then it shrieks again, I fling myself down and when I stand I up the walls of the trench is plastered with smoking splinters, lumps of flesh and bits of uniform. I ; scramble back. The first recruit seems actually to have gone insane. He butts his head against the wall like a goat. We must try tonight to take him to j the rear. Meanwhile, we bind him, but in such a way that in case of attack he can be released at once. Kat suggests a game of skat: it is easier when a man has something to do. But it is no use, we listen for every explosion that comes close, | miscount the tricks, and fail to follow suit. We have to give it up. We sit as though in a hissing boiler that is being belaboured from without on all sides. Night again. We are deadened by the strain —a deadly tension that scrapes along one’s spine like a gapped knife. Our legs refuse to move, our hands tremble, our bodies are a thin skin stretched painfully over repressed madness, over an almost irresistible, bursting roar. We have neither flesh nor muscles any longer, we dare not look at one another for fear of some incalculable thing. So we shut our teeth—it will end—it will end—perhaps we will come through. Suddenly the nearer explosions cease. The shelling continues, but it has lifted and falls behind us, our trench is free. We seize the hand grenades, pitch them out in front of the dugout and jump after them. The bombardment has stopped and a heavy barrage now falls behind us. The attack has come. No one would believe that in this howling waste there still could be men; but steel helmets now appear on all sides of the trench, and fifty yards from us a machine gun is already in position and barking. The wire entanglements are torn to pieces. Yet they . offer some obstacle. We see the storm troops—coming. Our artillery opens fire. Machine guns rattle, rifles crack. The charge works its way across. Haie and Kropp begin with the hand grenades. They throw as fast as they can, others pass them, the handles with the strings already

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pulled. Haie throws seventy-five yards, Kropp sixty, it has been measured, the distance is important The enemy as they run can not do much before they are within forty yards. We recognize the distorted faces, the smooth helmets; they are French. They already have suffered heavily when they reach the remnants of the barbed-wire entanglements. A whole line has gone down before our machine guns; then we have a lot of stoppages and they come nearer. I see one of them, his face upturned, fall into a wire cradle. His body collapses, his hands remain suspended as though he were praying. Then his body drops clean away and only his hands with the stumps of his arms, shot off, now hang in the wire. The moment we are about to retreat three faces rise up from the ground in front of us. Under one of the helmets a dark pointed beard and two eyes that are fastened on me. I raise my hand but I can not throw into those strange eyes; for one mad moment the whole slaughter whirls like a circus round me, and these two eyes that are alone motionless; then the head rises up, a hand, a movement, and my hand grenade flies through the air and into him. We make for the rear, pull wire cradles into the trench and leave bombs behind us with the string pulled, which ensure us a fiery retreat. The machine guns are already firing from the next position. We have become wild beasts. We do not fight, we defend ourselves against annihilation. It is not against men that we fling our bombs, who do we know of men in this moment when death with hands and helmets is hunting us down—now, for the first time in three days we can see his face, now, for the first time in three days we oppose him; we feel a mad anger. No longer do we lie helpless, waiting on the scaffold. We can destroy and kill, to save ourselves, to save ourselves and be revenged. We crouch behind every corner, behind every barrier of barbed wire, and hurl heaps of explosives at the feet of the advancing enemy before we run. The blast of the hand grenades

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impinges powerfully on our arms and legs; crouching like cats we run on, overwhelmed by this wave that bears us along, that fills us with ferocity, turning us into thugs, into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our .deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb into him. The forward trenches have been abandoned. Are they still trenches? They are blown to pieces, annihilated —there are only broken bits of trenches, holes v linked by tracks, nests of craters, that is all. But the enemy’s casualties increase. They did not count on so much resistance. CHAPTER XIV IT is nearly noon. The sun blazes hotly, the sweat stings in our eyes, we wipe it off on our sleeves, and often blood with it. At last we reach a trench that is in a somewhat better condition. It is manned and ready for the counter-attack. It relieves us. Our guns open in full blast and cut off the enemy attack. The lines behind us stop. They can advance no farther. The attack is crushed by our artillery. We watch. The fire lifts a hundred yards and we break forward. Beside me a lance-corporal has his head torn off. He runs a few steps more while the blood spouts from his neck like a fountain. It does not come quite to hand-to-hand fighting; they are driven back. We arrive once again at our shattered trench and pass on beyond it. Oh, this turning back again! We yearn to creep in and disappear—reach the shelter of the reserves and but instead we must turn around and plunge again into the horror. If we were not automata at that moment we would continue lying there, exhausted, and without will. But we are swept forward again, powerless, madly savage and raging; we will kill, for they still are our mortal enemies; their rifles and bombs are aimed at us, and if we do not destroy them, they will destroy us. The brown earth, the torn, blasted

earth, with a greasy shine under the sun’s rays; the earth is the background of this restless, gloomy world of automatons, our gasping is the scratching of a quill, our lips are dry, our heads are debauched with stupor—thus we stagget forward, and into our pierced and shattered souls bores the torturing image of the brown earth with the greasy sun and the convulced and dead soldiers, who lie there—it can’t be helped—why cry and clutch at our legs as we spring away over them. We have lost all feeling for one another. We can hardly control ourselves when our hunted glance lights on the form of some other man. We are insensible, dead men, who through some dreadful magic, are still able to run and to kill. A young Frenchman lags behind, he is overtaken, he puts up his hands, in one he still holds his revolver—does he mean to shoot or give himself up?—a blow from a spade cleaves through his face. A second sees it and tries to run farther; a bayonet jabs into his back. He leaps in the air, his arms thrown wide, his mouth wide open, yelling; he staggers, in his back the bayonet quivers. A third throws away his rifle, cowers down with his hands before his eyes. He is left behind with a few prisoners to carry off the wounded. Suddenly in the pursuit we reach the enemy line. We are so close on the heels of our retreating enemies that we reach it almost at the same time as they. In this way we suffer few casualties. A machine gun barks, but is silenced wiht a bomb. Neverthless, the couple of seconds has sufficed to give us five stomach wounds. With the butt of his rifle, Kat smashes to pulp the face of one of the unwounded machine gunners. We bayonet the others before they have time to get out their bpmbs. Then thirstily we drink the water they have for cooling the gun. Everywhere wire cutters are snapping, planks are thrown across the entanglements, we jump through

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the narrow entrances into the trenches. Haie strikes his spade into the back of a gigantic Frenchman and throws the first hand grenade; we duck behind a breastwork for a few seconds, then the whole section of trench before us is empty. The next throw whizzes obliquely over the corner and clears a passage; as we run past we toss handfuls down the dugouts, the earth shudders, it crashes; dully and stifled, we stumble over lumps of flesh, over yielding bodies; I fall into an open belly on which lies a clean new officer’s cap. The fight ceases. We lose touch with the enemy. We can not stay here long, but must retire under cover of our artillery -to our own position. No sooner do we know this than we dive into the nearest c.ugout, and with the utmost haze, seize on whatever provisions we can see, especially the tins of corned beef and butter, before we clear out. We get back pretty well. There has been no further attack by the enemy. We lie for an hour panting and resting before any me speaks. We are played out so completely that in spite of our great hunger, we do not think of the provisions. Then gradually we become something like men again. The corned beef over there is famous along the whole front. Occasionally it has been the chief reason for a flying raid on r or part, for our nourishment is generally bad; we have a constant hunger. We bagged five tins altogether. The fellows over there are well looked after; it seems a luxury to us with our hunger-pangs, our turnip jam, and meat so scarce that we simply grab at it. Haie has scored a thin loaf of white French bread, and stuck it in behind his belt like a spade. It is a bit bloody at one corner, but that can be cut off. It is a good thing we have something decent to eat at last; we still have a use for all our strength. Enough to eat is just as valuable as a good dugout; it can save our lives; that is the reason we are so greedy for it.

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Tjaden has captured two waterbottles full of cognac. We pass them around. a a a The evening benediction begins. Night comes, out of the craters rise the mists. It looks as though the holes were bull of ghostly secrets. The white vapour creeps painfully round before it ventures to steal away over the edge. Then long streaks stretch from crater to crater. It is chilly, I am on sentry and stare into the darkness. My strength is exhausted as always after an attack, and so it is hard for me to be alone with my thoughts. They are not properly thoughts; they are memories which in my weakness turn homeward and strangely move me. The parachute lights shoot upwards—and I see a picture, a summer evening, I am in the cathedral cloister and look at the tall rose trees that bloom in the middle of the cloister garden where the monks lie buried. Around the walls are the stone carvings of the Stations of the Cross. No one is there. A great quietness rules in this blossoming quadrangle, the sun lies warm on the heavy grey stones, I place my hand upon them and feel the warmth. At the right hand corner the green cathedral spire ascends into the pale blue sky of the evening. Between the glowing columns of the cloister is the cool darkness that only churches have, and I stand there and wonder whether, when I am 20, I shall have experienced the bewildering emotions of love. The image is alarmingly near; it touches me before it dissolves in the light of the next star-shell. I lay hold of my rifle to see that it is in trim. The barrel is wet,

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