The Great War

by Peter Hart

  Captain Alphonse Grasset, 103rd Regiment

  Lacking the experience of realistic peacetime manoeuvres the French artillery batteries were relatively ineffective in comparison to their well-drilled German counterparts. Unsure of their targets and unable to open fire, the French guns had often been caught out in the open fields as the morning mists cleared away.

  Near the crest of the hill we took up our position on the edge of an oat field. The limbers went off to the rear to shelter somewhere in the direction of Latour, the steeple of which could be seen overtopping the trees in the valley on our left. Crouching behind the armoured doors of the ammunition wagons and behind the gun shields, we awaited the order to open fire. But the Captain, kneeling down among the oats in front of the battery, his field-glasses to his eyes, could discover no target, for yonder, over the spreading woods of Ethe and Etalle, now occupied by the enemy, a thick mist was still floating. All round us, behind our guns, over our heads, and without respite, high-explosive and shrapnel shells of every calibre kept bursting and strewing the position with bullets and splinters. Death seemed inevitable. Behind the gun was a small pit in which I took refuge while we waited for orders. A big bay saddle-horse with a gash in his chest from which a red stream flowed, stood motionless in the middle of the field. What with the hissing and whistling of the shells, the thunder of the enemy’s guns, and the roar from a neighbouring 75 mm battery, it was impossible to distinguish the different noises in this shrieking inferno of fire, smoke, and flames. The battery became enveloped in black, nauseating smoke. Somebody was groaning, and I got up to see what had happened. Through the yellow fog I saw Sergeant Thierry stretched on the ground and the six members of the detachment crowding round him. The shell had burst under the chase of his gun, smashing the recoil-buffer, and effectually putting the piece out of action.8

  Gunner Paul Lintier, 11th Battery, 44th Artillery Regiment

  Often the only positive thing the French could do was retreat before they were over-run by the Germans.

  Over the crest of the hill came some infantry in retreat. The sound of the machine-guns approached and eventually became distinguishable from the roar of the artillery. The enemy was advancing and we were giving way before them. Shells continued to fly over us, and entire companies of infantry fell back. The officers consulted together. ‘But what are we to do? There are no orders, no orders!’ the Major kept repeating. And still we waited. The Lieutenant had drawn his revolver and the gunners unslung their rifles. The German batteries, possibly afraid of hitting their own troops, ceased firing. At any moment now the enemy might set foot on the ridge. ‘Limber up!’ The order was quickly carried out. We had to carry Thierry, whose knee was broken, with us. He was suffering horribly and implored us not to touch him. In spite of his protests, however, three men lifted him on to the observation-ladder. He was very pale and looked ready to faint. ‘Oh!’ he murmured. ‘You are hurting me! Can’t you finish me?’ The rest of the wounded, five or six in number, hoisted themselves without assistance on to the limbers and the battery swung down the Latour road at a quick trot. We had lost the battle.9

  Gunner Paul Lintier, 11th Battery, 44th Artillery Regiment

  At the end of that terrible day, up and down the battlefield the French fell back.

  In the evening we gathered in a field at the entrance to Harnoncourt. Without doubt we were going to billet there overnight. But no! After having checked our arrangements my company went on – exhausted!! We marched for ages, climbing the hillsides, passing along narrow paths, shattered, we penetrated deep into a wood. A civilian guide was leading us. It was a very black night, walking in single file we were obliged to keep in physical touch to prevent us getting lost as we couldn’t see each other. There was absolute silence. We marched for a long, long time. Tangled up in the bushes, we marched in the mud, the water, without a clue of where we were going. We fell down with fatigue, we wanted to sleep. Suddenly we heard a cry of bewilderment. One man has lost touch with the man in front of him. We are lost! Alone in this huge dark wood, traversed by Uhlan patrols. The officers weren’t with us! What were we to do? We stood still. You listen out – nothing! You whistle – nothing! You shout out – still nothing! We are panicking! What about our officers left with only four or five men? What about ourselves? What was to become of us left stewing in our ignorance in the long black night? At last we retraced our steps to the edge of the forest and fell asleep awaiting the dawn.10

  Private Alfred Joubaire, 1st Battalion, 124th Infantry Regiment

  The battlefield was littered with French units retreating in various states of confusion and disarray, physically or metaphorically lost. It had been a day to remember for all the wrong reasons: it is shocking to record that some 27,000 Frenchmen died on 22 August alone. This was an almost unprecedented slaughter in the long history of warfare.

  All day I was fighting, I was slightly wounded by a bullet that went through my haversack, passed through my overcoat, scraped across my chest and hit me in the hand. I show the bullet to my friend, Marcel Loiseau, and put it in my wallet. I continue the fight, until Loiseau is hit in the leg and we see my lieutenant cut through by a bullet. The fight goes on, a lot of my friends lying dead or wounded all around me. About 3 o’clock in the afternoon, while shooting at the enemy occupying a trench 200 metres from me, I was hit by a bullet in the left side, I felt a terrible pain as if I’d broken a bone. The bullet passed through the whole of my body, through the pelvis and lodged above the knee. Immediately I was suffering greatly with a burning fever. The bullets continue to rain down all around me, I may be hit again, so I do my best to drag myself into a hole, I find it hard to gain any comfort. The fight is over: all my comrades have retreated, and we wounded are left without care, dying of thirst. What an awful night! Nothing but more shooting, every sound made by the wounded triggered a resumption of fire. Machine guns swept the ground, bullets flying over my head, but they can no longer touch me in my hole. Thirst tortures me more. As I suffer, I think about my parents, especially my mother, remembering when I was sick and very young. It wasn’t only me thinking of their mothers, for I could hear the wounded and dying calling out for their ‘Maman’.11

  Private Désiré Renault, 3rd Battalion, 77th Infantry Regiment

  It was a terrible night not only for those, like Renault, who had been wounded and would ultimately be picked up and made prisoner by the Germans, but also for those who had been left unscathed but who could hear their comrades suffering with little hope of rescue.

  Night fell. The cold became intense. This is the time, when the battle is over, that the wounded that we haven’t yet found, cry out loud in their pain and suffering. And these shouts, these plaintive cries, these moans torment all those who can hear them; an especially cruel punishment for soldiers who must stick to their post, when all they wanted to do was run to the gasping comrades, to tend to them, to comfort them. But they cannot, they must remain static, weighed down by a heavy heart, raw nerves, actually trembling at the unceasing frantic calls in the night. ‘Drink! Are we going to let me die here?’ ‘Stretcher-bearers!’ ‘Drink!’ ‘Stretcher-bearers!’ ‘I hear one my men say, ‘Yes, what the bloody hell are they doing, the stretcher-bearers? They only know how to hide, those pigs! It’s like the police; you never see one when you need one!’ And before us the dark shadow seems to groan with all the wounds that bled and were not dressed. Faint voices, weary from crying out: ‘What have I done to get killed in this war?’ ‘Mother, oh mother!’ ‘Jeanne, my little Jeanne! Oh, say that you can hear me, my Jeanne?’ ‘I’m thirsty! I’m thirsty! I’m thirsty! I’m thirsty!’ The cries appal us, they cut us to the quick. ‘I don’t want to die here, oh God!’ ‘Stretcher-bearers! Stretcher-bearers!’ ‘Bastards! Is there no one with any pity?’ A German (he can’t have been more than 20 metres away) intones, ‘Kamerad Franzose! Kamerad! Kamerad Franzose!’ And lower down, pleading: ‘Hilfe! Hilfe!’ His voice bends, breaks and quavers like a crying child. Then his screec
hing grows and all night long he was like a dog howling to the moon. It was a dreadful night.12

  Lieutenant Maurice Genevoix, 106th Infantry Regiment

  The next day Joffre wanted to renew the offensive but was soon thwarted. It was simply impossible to reorganise the shattered units; more pertinently, the Germans were driving deep into the French, throwing the Third and Fourth Armies right back to their start lines. There was widespread chaos; no one knew what was happening and terrible mistakes were made which added to the massive casualty toll. Certainly it was typical that the senior officers of the 300th Infantry Regiment seemed to have no grasp whatsoever of the urgency of the situation as they began their retreat on 24 August.

  The weather continued to be splendid. Colonel Colombier, commanding the Regiment, gave the order the evening before to dump in the nearest field to their primitive trenches, the sheaves of straw which the men had gathered to help spend the night in the wood. This task although hardly explicable in the circumstances, was nevertheless carried out punctually and without much complaint. At last when everything was ready to set out on the march, another order was issued for the officers and NCOs to inspect their men to ensure they were correct in their marching order. After a good half hour devoted to the execution of these various orders emanating from another era, the Battalion was finally on the road, the regimental transport at the head of the column, followed by Colonel Colombier on his horse, with each of the four Companies marching behind in columns of four but there was a failure to put into effect any of the precautionary measures necessary for any movement in the field – the vanguard, flankguard or rearguard detachments. We had hardly gone 100 metres when we spotted behind us an artillery battery galloping along at full speed in our direction in the middle of a veritable dust storm. Everyone was convinced that they could not be anything but French artillery and the battalion continued to march quietly onwards. When they got to within 400 or 500 metres of us the artillerymen dismounted and dropped their battery into action: in less time than it takes to write shells were raining down on our heads. At the centre and rear of our column a hail of 77 mm shells burst with great force in the ploughed fields and enveloped us all in a thick cloud. This surprise attack was all the more unexpected because everyone was convinced that other French units were staying behind to protect our backs. It had the effect of creating panic in the ranks and there was a terrible disorder as the men, deaf to the appeals of their NCOs, began dumping their equipment to allow them to run faster, dashing madly towards the Forêt du Banel, a distance of about 100 metres away. Some of them were shouting, ‘Treason!’ but it was all really the fault of our Colonel, who failed, through sheer short-sightedness, to take even the most elementary precautions.13

  Lieutenant Jacques Cisterne, 4th Battalion, 300th Infantry Regiment

  This was a reserve unit unexpectedly caught up in the action, but the colonel’s attitude was symptomatic of an inability among a whole generation of French officers to realise the serious nature of war.

  Yet it was not all one-way traffic. This was open warfare and the Germans, too, could be caught unawares. When they had the chance, the French 75 mm guns could provide formidable opposition. At Marville on 25 August Lintier’s guns could at last open up with their own deadly staccato fire.

  ‘Fire!’ The gun reared like a frightened horse. I was shaken from head to foot, my skull throbbing and my ears tingling as though with the jangle of enormous bells which had been rung close to them. A long tongue of fire had darted out of the muzzle, and the wind caused by the round raised a cloud of dust round us. The ground quaked. I noticed an unpleasant taste in my mouth, musty at first and acrid after a few seconds. That was the powder. I hardly knew whether I tasted it or smelled it. We continued firing, rapidly, without stopping, the movements of the men co-ordinated, precise and quick. There was no talking, gestures sufficing to control the manoeuvre. The only words audible were the range orders given by the Captain and repeated by the Nos. 1. ‘Two thousand five hundred!’ ‘Fire!’ ‘Two thousand five hundred and twenty-five!’ ‘Fire!’ After the first round the gun was firmly settled, and the gun-layer and the firing number now installed themselves on their seats behind the shield. On firing, the steel barrel of the 75 mm gun recoils on the guides of the hydraulic buffer, and then quietly and gently returns to battery, ready for the next round. Behind the gun there was soon a heap of blackened cartridge cases, still smoking.14

  Gunner Paul Lintier, 11th Battery, 44th Artillery Regiment

  Somewhere those shells were streaming down from the skies, killing and maiming Germans. This was what the famous ‘soixante-quinze’ had been designed to do. But they were soon located by German aircraft, those eyes in the skies that were something new to warfare. Once they spotted the battery positions, they used flares to work a simple system of artillery observation bringing shells down on their target.

  Another aeroplane; the same black hawk silhouetted against the pale blue sky which at every moment was getting brighter. The men swore and shook their fists. What tyranny! It was marking us down! Suddenly the enemy’s heavy artillery opened fire on the hills we were occupying as well as on a neighbouring wood. It was time to change position, since for us the most perilous moment is when the teams come up to join the guns. A battery is then extremely vulnerable. Before the enemy could correct his range the Major gave an order and we moved off to take up a fresh position.15

  Gunner Paul Lintier, 11th Battery, 44th Artillery Regiment

  Thus the French gunners were harassed incessantly as the retreat continued.

  OVERALL IT WAS EVIDENT that the Germans were more tactically astute, better equipped and far more skilled and drilled in the arts of war than their opponents. It was not that the French did not fight hard: instances of sangfroid and heroism, grit and determination abound. But it was all for nothing. The 24-year-old Lieutenant Charles de Gaulle summed up the essence of the experience in a few short words.

  Suddenly the enemy’s fire became precise and concentrated. Second by second the hail of bullets and the thunder of the shells grew stronger. Those who survived lay flat on the ground, amid the screaming wounded and the humble corpses. With affected calm, the officers let themselves be killed standing upright, some obstinate platoons stuck their bayonets in their rifles, bugles sounded the charge, isolated heroes made fantastic leaps, but all to no purpose. In an instant it had become clear that not all the courage in the world could withstand this fire.16

  Lieutenant Charles de Gaulle, 33rd Infantry Regiment

  The tragic outcome was evident for all to see. French casualties during these failed offensives exceeded 200,000, of which over 75,000 were dead in just a few days of desperate fighting. They elicited little sympathy from their German opponents, as witnessed by a young German civilian, William Hermanns, in Koblenz.

  I saw French prisoners escorted over the Rhine bridge to the fortress Ehrenbreitstein. They wore red trousers, and the people were amused that France should send its soldiers as living targets against our troops that were so efficiently camouflaged in uniforms of earth grey. Women singing ‘Deutschland Über Alles’, accompanied these prisoners-of-war. I watched a well-dressed woman shout in French to one of the prisoners, who was wearing patent leather shoes, ‘You thought you’d dance into Germany, didn’t you?’17

  William Hermanns, Koblenz

  The Battle of the Frontiers was not just a disaster for the French Army; it was a disaster for the whole French nation.

  The Schlieffen Plan: advance through Belgium

  The worst threat was yet to come. The Battle of the Frontiers had not gone well for France, but the main drive would be launched by the German First Army commanded by General Alexander von Kluck on the far right flank, alongside the Second Army under General Karl von Bülow and the Third Army commanded by General Max von Hausen – together a truly formidable force. The Germans advanced through Belgium, capturing Brussels and sweeping aside the Belgian Army, which fell back on Antwerp. The only real
opposition facing them was the French Fifth Army commanded by General Charles Lanrezac, who, with just fifteen divisions, found himself confronted by the thirty-eight divisions of the German Second and Third Armies. Lanrezac had long been worried by the vulnerability of his left flank, where it was intended to station the four divisions of the British Expeditionary Force when they had completed their mobilisation and concentration at Maubeuge. But Joffre did not share Lanrezac’s misgivings, not least because he underestimated the scale of the German onslaught. This led to a series of confrontations that soured relations between the two men without achieving anything concrete. By the time there was unequivocal evidence that Lanrezac was right it was almost too late, but Joffre grudgingly allowed the Fifth Army to move towards Namur in Belgium. By 20 August, Lanrezac had stationed I Corps as a flank guard on the right looking east across the River Meuse with his main strength of the X, III and XVIII Corps disposed along the River Sambre looking more to the north. Joffre had still not grasped the scale of the German threat and issued orders for the Fifth Army for an attack across the Sambre on 21 August. This offensive intent would be forestalled when von Bülow’s Second Army launched its own offensive, crossing the Sambre between Namur and Charleroi. Over the next two days of severe fighting known as the Battle of Charleroi, the Fifth Army was attacked on both flanks and forced back, first from the Sambre, then from the Meuse. Lanrezac’s position was dire and he had no chance of help from the neighbouring Fourth Army, which was busy fighting for its very existence in the Ardennes.