by Ernst Jünger
‘Two men appeared, crossing the field in great bounds. I shouted out to them in German and English; they vanished into the mist like shadows, without appearing to have heard me. At last, three other men came towards me. I recognized one of them as the NCO who had lain next to me the previous day. They took me with them to a little hut near by – it was full of wounded men, who were being tended by a couple of medical orderlies. I had lain thirteen hours in the crater.
‘The huge bombardment of the battle was working away like a monstrous hammering and rolling mill. Shell after shell smacked down next to us, often drenching the roof with sand and earth. I was bandaged up, and given a fresh gas mask, a piece of bread and red jam, and a little water. The orderly looked after me as though I’d been his own son.
‘The British were beginning to press forward. They approached with little leaps and bounds, then ducked away in the craters. Shouts and calls were heard from outside.
‘Suddenly, bespattered with mud from his boots to his helmet, a young officer burst in. It was my brother Ernst, who at regimental HQ the day before had been feared dead. We greeted one another and smiled, a little stiffly, with the emotion. He looked about him and then looked at me with concern. His eyes filled with tears. We might both be members of the same regiment, true, but even then this reunion on the battlefield had something rare and wonderful about it, and the recollection of it has remained precious to me. After just a few minutes, he left me, and brought in the last five members of his company. I was laid on a tarpaulin, they stuck a sapling through the straps, and shouldered me off the battlefield.
‘My carriers took it in turn to carry me. Our little sedan-chair veered now right, now left, zigzagging to avoid the frequent shells. Forced on occasion to take cover abruptly, they dropped me a few times, sending me bashing into shell-holes.
‘At last we reached the tin- and concrete-cladded shelter that went by the odd name of “Columbus’s Egg”. I was dragged down the stairs and laid on a wooden pallet. With me in the room were a couple of officers I didn’t know, sitting and listening in silence to the hurricane concert of the artillery. One, I later heard, was Lieutenant Bartmer, the other a medical orderly by the name of Helms. Never have I enjoyed a drink more than the mixture of rainwater and red wine that he gave me to sip. I was burning up with fever. I struggled for breath, and felt oppressed by the notion that the concrete ceiling of the shelter was on my chest, and that with each breath I had to heave it up.
‘The assistant surgeon Köppen came in, himself quite out of breath. He had run across the battlefield, shells following him at every step. He recognized me, bent over me, and I saw his face contort to a soothingly smiling grimace. After him came my battalion commander, and when, strict man that he was, he patted me kindly on the back, I had to smile because I got the idea that the Kaiser himself would appear any moment, and ask how I was doing.
‘The four of them sat together, drinking out of tin cups and whispering among themselves. I realized that they must have been talking about me at one stage, and then I heard odd words like “brothers”, “lung” and “wound”, which I couldn’t quite make sense of. Then they went back to talking aloud, about the state of the battle.
‘Mortally tired as I was, a feeling of happiness now sneaked in that grew stronger and stronger, and which stayed with me throughout the ensuing weeks. I thought of death, and the thought did not disturb me. Everything within me and around me seemed stunningly simple, and, with the feeling “You’re all right,” I slid away into sleep.’
Regniéville
On 4 August, we left the train at the famous station of Mars-la-Tour. The 7th and 8th Companies were billeted at Doncourt, where we led a life of calm contemplation for a few days. The only thing that made difficulties for me were the short rations. It was strictly forbidden to go foraging; and, even so, every morning the military police brought me the names of men they’d caught lifting potatoes, and whom I had no option but to punish – ‘for being stupid enough to get yourselves caught’ was my own, unofficial, reason.
That it doesn’t do to steal was brought home to me as well in those days. Tebbe and I had snaffled a glass coach from an abandoned Flemish mansion and managed to get it on the transport, away from prying eyes. Now, we wanted to undertake a jaunt to Metz, to live life at the full once more. So we harnessed up one afternoon, and drove off. Unfortunately, the carriage, constructed for the plains of Flanders rather than the hills of Lorraine, had no brakes. We left the village already doing quite a lick, and before long we were on a wild ride that could only end badly. First to go was the coachman, then Tebbe, who made a hard landing on a pile of agricultural implements. I stayed behind on the silken upholstery, feeling rather unhappy. A door sprang open, and was knocked off by a passing telegraph mast. At last the carriage raced down a steep slope, and smashed against a wall at the bottom. Leaving the wrecked conveyance by a window, I was to my astonishment unhurt.
On 9 August, the company was inspected by the divisional commander, Major-General von Busse, who praised the men for the way they had comported themselves in the recent battle. The following afternoon, we were put on trains and taken up towards Thiaucourt. From there we marched straight to our new position, which was on the wooded hills of the Côte Lorraine, facing the much-shelled village of Regniéville, a name familiar from dispatches.
On the first morning, I took a look at my sector, which seemed rather long for one company, and consisted of a confused mass of half-collapsed trenches. The firing trench had been flattened in quite a few places by a type of heavy mortar-bomb much in favour in these parts. My dugout was a hundred yards back, down the so-called Commercial Trench, close to the main road out of Regniéville. It was the first time in quite a while that we were up against the French.
A geologist would have enjoyed the posting. The approach trenches cut through six distinct types of rock, from coral rag to the Gravelotte marl that the firing trench had been cut into. The yellow-brown rock was full of fossils, especially of a flattish, bun-shaped sea urchin, which one could see literally thousands of along the trench walls. Each time I walked along the sector, I returned to my dugout with my pockets full of shells, sea urchins and ammonites. It was a pleasant feature of the marl that it stood up to bad weather much better than the clay we were used to. In places the trench was even carefully bricked up, and the floor concreted, so that even quite large amounts of water drained away easily.
My dugout was deep and drippy. It did have one quality I didn’t much care for: instead of the lice we were used to, this area offered their more mobile cousins. The two sorts apparently stand in much the same adversarial relationship to one another as black rats and Rattus norvegicus. In this instance, even the usual complete change of undergarments didn’t help, as the thoughtful parasites would stay behind in the straw bedding. The sleeper on the brink of despair would be driven to unmake his bed, and have a thorough hunt.
The food also left quite a bit to be desired. Aside from a rather watery soup at lunchtime, there was just a third of a loaf of bread with an offensively small quantity of ‘spread’, which usually consisted of half-off jam. And half of my portion was invariably stolen by a fat rat, which I often vainly tried to catch.
The companies in reserve and on rest lived in curious villages of blockhouses hidden deep in the forest. I was particularly fond of my quarters in reserve, which were glued on to the steep slope of a wooded ravine, in a blind corner. There I lived in a tiny hut that was half bedded into the slope, surrounded by rampant hazel and cornel-cherry bushes. The window looked out on to a wooded facing slope, and a narrow strip of meadow at the bottom, which a stream flowed through. Here, I amused myself by feeding innumerable garden spiders, who had set up their huge webs across the bushes. A collection of bottles of all sorts against the back wall of the hut suggested that my eremitic predecessors must have spent some contemplative times here, and I endeavoured to keep up the proud tradition of the place. In the evening, when the mists rose
off the stream bed, and mingled with the heavy white smoke of my wood fire, and I sat in the gloaming with the door open, between the chill autumnal air and the warmth of the fire, I thought I had come up with just the right peaceful sort of drink: a fifty-fifty mixture of red wine and advocaat in a big-bellied glass. I would sip the mixture, and read or keep my diary. These quiet soirées helped me to get over the fact that a gentleman from the depot who had seniority over me had popped up to claim command of my company from me, and that, as a platoon commander, I was relegated to boring trench duty. I tried to vary the endless sentry spells as before, with regular jaunts ‘up-country’.
On 24 August, the gallant Captain Böckelmann was wounded by a shell splinter – the third commanding officer the battalion had lost in a very short space of time.
In the course of trench duty, I struck up a friendship with Kloppmann, an NCO, an older, married man who distinguished himself by his great zest for battle. He was one of those men in whom, in respect of courage, there isn’t the slightest deficiency anywhere; a man among hundreds. We agreed we should like to visit the French in their trenches, and decided to make a date for our first call on 29 August.
We crawled towards a gap in the enemy wires, which Kloppmann had cut the night before. We were unpleasantly surprised, then, to find it had been patched up; therefore we cut it again, rather noisily, and climbed down into the trench. After lurking for a long time behind the nearest traverse, we crept on, following a telephone wire to its end in a bayonet stuck in the ground. We found the position blocked off several times by wire, and once by a heavy gate, but all of it unoccupied. After taking a good look at it all, we went back the same way, and patched the wire to conceal the fact that we’d been.
The following evening, Kloppmann went snuffling around the place again, only this time to be received by rifle fire and those lemon-shaped hand-grenades also known as ‘duck’s eggs’, one of which landed perilously close to his head as he pressed it into the ground, but failed to detonate. He needed to show a turn of speed. The evening after, we were both out there again, and found the front trench occupied. We listened to the sentries and identified their positions. One of them was whistling a pretty tune. At last, they started firing at us and we crept back.
When I was back in the trench, my comrades Voigt and Haverkamp suddenly appeared. They had obviously been celebrating, and had had the bizarre idea of leaving our cosy reserve camp behind, walking through the pitch-black wood to the front line, and, as they said, go on patrol. It’s always been a principle of mine that a man should be responsible for himself, and so I let them climb out of the trench, even though our opponents were still agitated about something. Their patrol, admittedly, consisted of nothing beyond looking for the silk parachutes of French rockets, and swinging these about their heads, chasing one another back and forth under the enemy’s noses. Of course, they were fired at, but after a long time they returned happily enough. Bacchus looks after his own.
On 10 September, I went from the reserve camp to regimental headquarters to ask for leave. ‘You’ve been on my mind,’ the colonel gave back, ‘but the regiment needs to embark on some clearing action, and I want to entrust that to you. Pick a few men, and go and practise with them in the Souslœuvre camp.’
We were to enter the enemy trench in two places and try to take prisoners. The patrol was divided into three, a couple of storm units and one detachment that was to sit in the enemy trench and guard our rear. I was in overall command, and led the left-hand group, the right I entrusted to Lieutenant von Kienitz.
When I called for volunteers, to my surprise – it was, after all, late in 1917 – about three fourths of the men in all companies of the battalion stepped forward. I chose the participants in my wonted way, passing them in review, and choosing the ‘good faces’. A few of those that didn’t make it were almost in tears over their rejection.
Myself included, my party consisted of fourteen men, including Ensign von Zglinitzky, the NCOs Kloppmann, Mevius, Dujesiefken, and a couple of pioneers. All the free spirits of the 2nd Battalion were there.
For ten days, we practised throwing hand-grenades, and rehearsed the undertaking on a piece of trench that was made in the image of the original. It was astonishing that with so much realism, I only had three men hurt by splinters. We were excused all other duties, so that on 22 September when I returned to the company position for the night, I was in charge of a semi-wild but useful band of men.
In the evening, Kienitz and I walked through the wood to the regimental headquarters, where Captain Schumacher had invited us for a farewell dinner. Then we lay down in our dugouts for a few hours’ rest. It’s a strange feeling, knowing that the next day you’ll be risking your life, and before falling asleep you examine your conscience.
At three in the morning we were woken, got up, washed, and had breakfast prepared for us. I had a scene right away with my servant, who had used too much salt and ruined the fried eggs I had ordered especially to give me strength for the occasion; not a good beginning.
We pushed away our plates and went over all the possible contingencies. We passed around the cherry brandy, and Kienitz told us some fine old jokes. At twenty to five, we gathered up the men and led them to the jumping-off point in the firing trench. Gaps had already been cut in the wire, and long arrows whitened with lime pointed us to our objectives. We said goodbye with a handshake and waited for whatever was to pass.
I had got together some kit appropriate to the sort of work I meant to be doing: across my chest, two sandbags, each containing four stick-bombs, impact fuses on the left, delay on the right, in my right tunic pocket an 08 revolver on a long cord, in my right trouser pocket a little Mauser pistol, in my left tunic pocket five egg hand-grenades, in the left trouser pocket luminous compass and whistle, in my belt spring hooks for pulling out the pins, plus bowie knife and wire-cutters. In my inside tunic pocket I carried a full wallet with my home address, in my right back pocket, a flat flask of cherry brandy. We had removed shoulder straps and Gibraltar badges, so as to give our opponents no clue as to our regiment. For identification, we had a white band round each arm.
At four minutes to five, the division on our left started a little diversionary fire. On the dot of five, the sky opened up behind our front, and the shells arced and whooshed over our heads. I stood with Kloppmann outside the dugout, smoking one last cigar; then, because a number of the shells were falling short, we were forced to take cover within. Watch in hand, we counted off the minutes.
At precisely five past five, we were out of the dugout and on to the prepared paths through the enemy wires. I ran ahead, a hand-grenade in my raised hand, and saw the right-hand party rushing out through the first glimmer of dawn. The enemy entanglement was feeble; I cleared it in a couple of bounds, then stumbled over a trip-wire and plunged into a crater from which Kloppmann and Mevius had to pull me out.
‘In!’ We leaped into the first trench, encountering no resistance, while to our right we heard the crash of a hand-grenade battle commence. Paying no attention to it, we crossed a line of sandbags, ducked into more craters, and surfaced again in front of a line of knife-rests in the second line. Since that too was completely shot up, and offered no prospect of prisoners, we hurried on along a communication trench. Finding it blocked, I first sent our pioneers forward to deal with it; but then, as they seemed to be making no progress, I took up a pickaxe myself. This was no time for fiddling about.
As we entered the third trench, we made a discovery that gave us pause: a burning cigarette end on the ground told us the enemy were in the immediate vicinity. I made a sign to my men, clutched my grenade a little harder, and crept through well-constructed trenches, with many rifles leaning against their walls. In situations like this, your memory latches on to the tiniest thing. Here, it was the image – as in a dream – of a mess-tin with a spoon standing in it. In twenty minutes’ time, that piece of observation was to save my life.
Suddenly we saw shadowy figures
disappear in front of us. We gave chase, and found ourselves in a dead end, with the entrance to a dugout in one wall. I stood there and called out: ‘Montez!’ A tossed-out hand-grenade was the only reply. Evidently, it was a timed fuse; I heard the little snap, and had time to leap back. It tore out part of the opposite wall at head height, ripped my silk cap, gave me several lacerations on my left hand, and took off the tip of the little finger. The pioneer officer next to me had his nose pierced. We took a few steps back, and bombed the dangerous place with hand-grenades. One enthusiast threw in a smoke stick, thereby making any further attack on the place impossible. We doubled back, and followed the third line in the opposite direction, looking for enemy. Everywhere we saw discarded weapons and bits of equipment. The question, where were the owners of all these rifles and what did they have in mind for us, kept putting itself ever-more insistently, but with primed grenade and pistol at the ready, we went grimly on, ever deeper into the bare, gunpowdery trench.
It was only thinking about it later that I understood our subsequent course. Without realizing it, we had turned into a third communication trench, and – well into the middle of our own barrage – were approaching the fourth line. From time to time, we ripped open one of the boxes built into the trench walls, and popped a hand-grenade into our pockets as a souvenir.
After running down a series of cross and parallel trenches, no one knew where we were, or where the German lines were. Gradually we were getting flustered. The needles of our luminous compasses danced in our unsteady hands, and as we scanned the heavens for the Pole Star, all our school lore suddenly left us. The sound of voices in a nearby trench indicated that the enemy had got over his initial surprise. Soon they would be on to us.
After turning back yet again, I found myself the last in line, and suddenly saw the mouth of a machine-gun swinging to and fro over a sandbag traverse. I leaped towards it, stumbling as I did so over a French corpse, and saw NCO Kloppmann and Ensign von Zglinitzky busying themselves with it, while Fusilier Haller was going through a blood-stained corpse for papers. We struggled with the gun, barely conscious of where we were, obsessed with the idea of bagging some booty. I tried to undo the screws; another man severed the loading belt with his wire-cutters; finally we plucked up the thing, tripod and all, and dragged it away with us entire. At that instant, from a parallel trench, in the direction where we thought our own lines were to be found, came an excited but threatening enemy voice: ‘Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?’ and a black ball, dimly visible against the still-dark sky, came flying towards us in a high arc. ‘Watch it!’ There was a flash between Mevius and me; a splinter drove into Mevius’s hand. We dispersed, getting further and further tangled up in the mesh of trenches. The only men I still had with me at this stage were the pioneer NCO, blood pouring from his nose, and Mevius, with his damaged hand. The only thing that delayed our end was the confusion of the French, who still hadn’t dared to come out of their holes. Even so, it could only be a matter of minutes till we encountered some detachment of sufficient strength and resolve, who would happily put us out of our misery. Mercy wasn’t exactly in the air.