The Attack at Loos: From the Diary of Lieutenant Mallet of the French Army

May 9, 1915 — 4.30 A.M. — I receive the order to form my men. A company of engineers joins us to dig the communication to the enemy’s trench as soon as we have cleared them out. On our left — probably the British lines — a continuous deafening boom of heavy guns goes on without interruption.

5.15 A.M. — No orders to attack as yet. It is getting late. The guns on our left continue their war, but ours remain silent. I would give much to know . . .

7 A.M. — Here come the orders: ‘The attack will begin at ten sharp.’ No signal will be given; all watches are set. We are all to leave our trenches at the stated time. Our guns will first shell the enemy’s trenches for an hour, then again from nine till ten. Big shells are thundering; they rise like shuttlecocks and fall to earth as lightly; they look as if they would ricochet, but as soon as they touch the ground it is like the eruption of a volcano.

I am extraordinarily calm. I cannot realize that in a few minutes (what are two hours?) there will be a mad rush, a hand-to-hand fight, hideous mutilated corpses, and perhaps, for me, death.

I have only one thought: that everything should go well and that I should make no mistakes. I am responsible before God for my fifty men.

At nine o’clock, while I complete final preparations, shot and shell seem to crush the enemy’s lines; the noise of guns is deafening, the smoke stifling and blinding.

10 A.M. — At a quarter to ten my section is formed up, knapsacks on; the engineer sections keep close to me, back of the trench so as not to interfere with our movements.

I stand at the centre of my section looking at my watch. I call out, ‘Five minutes — Two minutes, — ’ glancing sideways at the men. I see in their faces a fixed, intense expression almost that of men in a hypnotic trance.

I call out, ‘Only half a minute!’ and then see the left wing of my section starting. They get a few yards ahead of me. It is all important for us to keep in line. I shout, ‘Forward!’ and rush headlong for the first German lines, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.

I am vaguely conscious that the 75’s have not yet slackened their fire, but we are no longer our own masters — thousands of determined men are racing blindly toward the same common goal.

I reach the first German entanglements and look back. All have followed; my men are close to me. In a second we leap over the parapet of the first German line. I shout to them, ‘Do not enter the communication trench! This trench we are in is empty save for a man here and there; we must seize the second lines!’ My bluecoats bound forward, their bayonets flashing. The sun is blazing, not a cloud is in the sky. We go heads down into the hellish zone.

No words, no coloring, no sound can give an idea of it.

To prevent our advance the Germans fire salvos; we have to penetrate into a suffocating mist where high explosive shells and bombs burst at such close intervals that the ground seems every moment to open at our feet. As in a dream I see glorious blue silhouettes, frenzied, charging madly in the midst of columns of smoke; also the outlines of terrified Germans caught between our bayonets and the fire of their own artillery. They emerge from everywhere. Some call, ‘Mercy!' others circle round like madmen, others rush upon us to drive us back. The shells deal havoc in our ranks. I can see groups of five and six of our men mown down.

For one instant I see P., the section corporal, at the head of his group. Oblivious of everything I call out to him, ‘Go it, P., bravo!’ There he stands on a mound, coatless and bareheaded, his herculean figure clad in a black jersey; reckless of shells and bullets, he brandishes his rifle; a very God of War! His terrible bayonet is streaming; he seems possessed with a blind fury. All my life I shall see him thus — standing out against the blue sky, leading the others to carnage!

We are getting on, my section and I. We are a few metres from the last of the German trenches. At every step gray uniforms appear. I fire off my revolver right and left; groans and cries are drowned by the noise of shrapnel.

We have reached the farthest parapet; another second and we shall occupy their last positions. What remains of my section follows me blindly. I jump on to the parapet shouting, ‘Forward, boys, here we are!’

A violent blow on my back — as if I were hit by the butt end of a rifle — makes me drop my revolver and the hand-grenade I hold in my left hand. I roll over wounded into the crater made by a shell. I remember hearing Y. say yesterday, ‘ If anything happens to the little lieutenant we won’t leave him behind.’ The next moment he is beside me with two or three others and carries me to the communication trench. Before us is nothing, no further defensive work: we have carried their position to the very last line. I have hardly reached the dugout when I hear some one say, ‘Pass on Lieutenant M.’s morphia for Lieutenant D.’ I realize that the poor fellow is badly hit. I pass on three opium pills to him; then we begin to organize the defense. I am up again.

The guns have ceased firing. The men who are not digging themselves in are looking out. We wonder from what side the Germans will try to overpower us, for we know nothing of the ground beyond those trenches. Suddenly I see two Germans escaping from a small dugout, crying, ‘Mercy!’ I shoot the first one straight off, suspecting a trap. The second, a boy of sixteen, has an expression of terror I shall never forget. He calls out: ‘Pardon, mercy, comrade, prisoner!’ and his shrill scream makes me shudder.

I detail a man to shoot at all who attempt to escape on that side; a little later he has killed three.

D. reports that the major has been killed by a bullet through the head. Of officers only R. and I are left in our company, and R. takes over the command. Seated on the parapet of the trench he superintends preparations for the defense. The guns are silent; only the whistling of bullets is heard, and cries of alarm; ‘Look out on the right!' — ‘Look out on the left!’ — ‘They are coming through the further trench!’ R. is shot in the head by a bullet; he falls at my feet, and I remain alone in command of the company. Wounded, I can feel blood trickling down my back and my muscles stiffening. My men want me to give up, but I brace myself with the energy of despair. Some one passes me a flask of ether, and I lean against the parapet, determined to die there if need be. I am alone in charge of the company, and my head is still clear; I will remain, whatever happens.

Till 12 o’clock parapets are being turned up with feverish haste; also traverses to protect the trench, which is partly enfiladed. All goes well as far as the road, but from that point touch is lost. The remainder of the company is behind in a trench parallel to mine; a few metres away, on the other side of the road to Lens, the Germans have retained their position. They are close by, though out of sight — dug in, ready to leap out on us.

Adjutant M.¹ and Sergeant-major D. are miracles of courage and energy. Lying helpless at the bottom of the trench, I gave them my instructions, and they have carried them out with remarkable ability and presence of mind.

The hours pass slowly; the tension is great. The sun burns fiercely in the trench, giving the corpses lying there a livid yellow color. The wounds are horrible.

The Germans are bombarding the zone behind us so as to stop our reinforcements from coming up. Bullets must be failing like hail into the trench where sappers and the other companies are massed. A few bombs drop into our trench and several of my men are killed. B.’s head is severed from his body.

12 o’clock. — We stop working and take a few minutes’ rest; the men search among the helmets left by the Germans. P. brings me Egyptian cigarettes. M. dresses my wound, putting his hand through the hole in my cape, which is as large as my fist.

Then the sergeant-major and I explore the position. The communication trenches are destroyed by shells. In some places for as much as twenty metres we are entirely without cover; in other places the passage through the trench is obstructed by corpses. As we pass some German wounded lying on their backs in the sun, they open their eyes and complain of thirst. We have no time to stop; the bombardment may begin afresh at any moment, and it is vital for us to find some means of communicating with the colonel. In a shelter I find several of my men wounded. When we return to the trench nothing has changed. That good fellow M. is unceasingly on the alert. The trench which blocks the road has been strengthened, and a machine gun placed there.

1.30 P.M. — The whole company looks as if it had received an electric shock; a thrill passes from man to man, and yet there is not a sound, not a shot. Every one feels that the counter-attack is imminent. I marvel at the good nature and cheerfulness of my men. I try to speak to them but their spirits need no bracing up; they cry, ‘Vive le lieutenant!’ and I am too moved to answer.

Suddenly volleys of musketry burst upon us. They start with no hesitation, deliberately, ruthlessly, with precision. We feel that it is not a case of random shooting due to nervousness, but that every man aims with care. I look through my glasses in the direction it comes from, about three hundred metres away. The Germans are masters of a position at right angles to ours. They emerge from it in close formation, four abreast, trying to force their way in on my left. They do not get on an inch; every section of fours is struck down as if by lightning. A whole company is mown down; not one goes back, not one survives.

The second counter-attack on my right takes place under the same conditions. The Germans are massed in the communication trench parallel to ours. A few minutes later, the enemy on our left takes advantage of a small wood to mass his men there and to attempt a sortie, but this is stopped short.

They resign themselves to wait as we are doing, and through our periscopes we can see them smoking and waiting. To show one’s head is fatal and several of our men are shot through the forehead. The body of the major lies just outside the parapet, face down in the grass. I will have it brought in after dark.

3 P.M. — The colonel sends me as reinforcement the 7th company under Captain D. I tell him of my wish to remain where we are. It is my men and I who have captured the position, and it is ours to hold. The captain settles down on our right; I am now no longer unsupported.

The complete silence of our artillery puzzles me. There is a sound of heavy wheels on the height above; it must be the ammunition wagons.

Seated in the trench, I feel my head getting light and giddy. I am asked for orders, but though I rack my brains, I can find nothing to say. I try to joke with the men, but an unutterable sadness steals over me as I grasp that I am no longer fit for anything. Adjutant M. must now take the command. What should I do without him?

7. P.M. — The order for the advance has come: ‘The 3d battalion to attack the village, taking as its line of direction the church steeple, keeping touch on the left with the —th. Be ready to start at any moment, but await the order to advance.’

Night is falling fast and I hand over command to the adjutant. My wound is giving me horrible pain. I feel as if my left shoulder were being torn off. Yet I must find my colonel and speak to him. I doubt my being able to reach him but I know that in a case of necessity one can do a lot. (Alas! I was not to see my company again, or my colonel.)

I stagger on like a man drunk, from one side of the trench to the other. Now I have to scramble over mounds of corpses, now cross the open among whistling bullets and the crash of shells bursting on all sides. I think sadly of the stupidity of being killed there, all alone, after the battle is over!

I meet some of our engineers, some prisoners, and messengers. All hurry on, hustling one another, and I repeat automatically the same sentence, ‘Take care, don’t touch me; I am wounded!’ I wonder whether it is possible to suffer more than I do. I can hardly see. Moaning ceaselessly, I walk as in a trance and turn several times round about the same spot, asking every one, ‘Where is the colonel?’ They say to me, ‘Which colonel?’ I don’t know — then everything becomes very dim. I meet two men with fixed bayonets escorting three prisoners. They give me a drop of wine and lead me on. We pass a ruined factory and I notice the broken machinery silhouetted against the sky. Stretcher-bearers pick me up and carry me to safety.

The first-aid post sends me by ambulance to the divisional dressing-station, where I spend the night. The dressing-station is in total darkness for fear of being fired at. Our heavy 120 m. guns are firing close by; at every shot the walls shake and windows rattle. It feels like being in mid-battle. The noise of the volleys seems to come from the garden.

The remembrance of the gruesome sight there haunts me. The wounded are just visible in the twilight, lying in long lines on straw on the ground. There are riflemen, artillerymen, Algerian sharpshooters. Their outlines are barely distinguishable; their dressings and bandages show up strongly as white patches in the night. Through the thundering of the guns a long moan is heard — a moan broken by short, incoherent, delirious sentences. Officers and men live again through the day’s fighting, and orders are issued which are infinitely painful to hear: ’Advance in open order!’ — ‘Look out on the right!’ — ‘Bring the machine gun!’ — ‘To arms!’ . . . I take three opium pills and stretch myself on the straw in the least crowded corner.

The next day, at 10 A.M., we are taken to Voeux-les-Mines and from there entrained — destination unknown.