The Debacle: (1870-71)

by Emile Zola

  Then, as the enemy artillery was thus preparing for the final attack on the Calvary, General Douay made up his mind to make a last effort to recapture it. He dispatched orders, threw himself in person into the midst of the fugitives from the Dumont division, succeeded in forming a column which he hurled on to the plateau. It held good for several minutes, but the bullets were whistling by so thick and fast, and such a storm of shells was sweeping over the bare fields that panic broke out at once, throwing the men back down the slopes, bowling them along like wisps of straw blown by a sudden squall. The general obstinately sent in more regiments.

  A dispatch rider, as he galloped by, shouted an order to Colonel de Vineuil through the frightful din. The colonel was already standing in his stirrups and his face was radiant. With a great wave of his sword towards the Calvary he shouted:

  ‘Our turn at last, boys! Up there and at ’em!’

  Deeply stirred, the 106th began to move. The Beaudoin company was one of the first to get to its feet, amid jokes among the chaps who said they were rusty and had earth in their joints. But after a few steps they had to throw themselves into a trench that they came across because the fire got so fierce. Then they ran on bent double.

  ‘Mind how you go, young fellow-me-lad!’ Jean said more than once to Maurice. ‘This is the crunch… Don’t show the tip of your nose or it’ll get blown off! Keep your bones well inside unless you want to leave a few on the road. The ones who get back after this lot will be pretty good.’

  Maurice could hardly hear for the tumult and racket of the crowd filling his ears. He no longer knew whether he was afraid or not, carried along at a run by all the others, with no will-power of his own except to get it over at once. To such an extent had he become just one single wave of this rushing torrent that when there was a sudden ebb at the far end of the trench, caused by the prospect of the open ground still to be climbed, he at once felt panic come over him and was ready to run away. Instinct took over, his muscles ran amok, obeying every wind that blew.

  Men were already turning back when the colonel rushed up.

  ‘Now look here, boys, you’re not going to let me down and act like a lot of babies… Remember, the 106th has never retreated, and you would be the first to disgrace our flag…’

  He urged on his horse and blocked the way against those who were turning tail, finding some word for each one, talking of France in a voice breaking with emotion.

  Lieutenant Rochas was so moved that he fell into a furious rage and began belabouring the men with his sword as though it were a stick.

  ‘You bleeding lot of sods, I’ll get you up there with kicks up the arse! Will you do as you’re told, if not, the first man to turn on his heels – I’ll sock him one on the jaw!’

  But violence of this kind, soldiers driven into the firing line by kicks, did not appeal to the colonel.

  ‘No, no, lieutenant, they’re all going to follow me… Aren’t you, boys?… You’re not going to let your old colonel have it out with the Prussians on his own! Come on, up and at ’em!’

  Off he dashed, and they all went after him, for he had said that in such a fatherly way that you couldn’t let him down unless you were a lot of shits. But he was the only one to cross the bare fields quite calmly, on his tall horse, while the men scattered and ducked like snipers, taking advantage of every bit of shelter. The land went uphill and there were a good five hundred metres of stubble and beet patches before the Calvary was reached. Instead of the classical assault as in manoeuvres, in straight lines, all that could soon be seen was humped backs creeping along on the ground, soldiers alone or in little groups crawling or suddenly jumping up like insects and reaching the top by dint of agility and subterfuge. The enemy batteries must have spotted them, for shells were raking the ground so often that the explosions never stopped. Five men were killed; a lieutenant had his body cut in two.

  Maurice and Jean had had the good luck to find a hedge behind which they could run along unseen. But a bullet ploughed through the side of the head of one of their companions, who fell at their feet. They had to kick him to one side. However, the dead no longer counted, there were too many of them. The horror of the battlefield, a wounded man they saw shrieking and holding his entrails in with both hands, a horse still dragging itself along on its broken legs, all this frightful agony had ceased to touch them. All they suffered from now was the overpowering heat of the noonday sun gnawing at their shoulders.

  ‘Oh, how thirsty I am!’ muttered Maurice. ‘I feel as if I had some soot down my throat. Can’t you smell scorching, like burning wool?’

  Jean nodded.

  ‘It was the same smell at Solferino. I suppose it’s the smell of war… Oh, I’ve still got some brandy left, and we can have a nip.’

  They coolly stopped there for a moment, behind the hedge. But far from quenching their thirst the brandy burned their insides. It was the limit, this taste of scorching in their mouths. And they were dying of hunger too. They would have liked to take a bite at the half loaf Maurice had in his pack, only how could it be done? All along the hedge behind them other men were constantly coming up and pushing into them. At last they dashed with one bound across the last slope and were on the plateau at the foot of the Calvary, the old cross weatherbeaten by wind and rain between two scraggy lime trees.

  ‘Oh thank God, here we are!’ said Jean. ‘But the thing is to stay here!’

  He was right, it wasn’t exactly the most pleasant of spots, as Lapoulle pointed out in a doleful voice which tickled the company. Once again they all lay stretched out in the stubble, but that didn’t save three men from being killed. Up there it was hell’s own hurricane let loose, shells coming over so thickly from Saint-Menges, Fleigneux and Givonne that the earth seemed to be throwing up a fine mist as it does in heavy thunder rain. Clearly the position could not be held for long unless some artillery came as soon as possible to back up the troops so rashly engaged. General Douay, it was said, had ordered two reserve batteries to be brought up, and every second the men anxiously glanced over their shoulders expecting the guns which never came.

  ‘It’s ridiculous, ridiculous!’ Captain Beaudoin kept on saying as he went on with his jerky walking up and down. ‘You don’t send a regiment up into the air like this without supporting it immediately.’

  He noticed a dip in the land to his left and called to Rochas:

  ‘I say, lieutenant, the company should take cover over there.’

  Rochas stood there without moving, but shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Oh, captain, here or there, what’s it matter, the dance is just the same… Better not to move.’

  At that Captain Beaudoin, who never swore, burst out in a rage:

  ‘But fucking hell, we shall stay here for good, the whole lot of us. We can’t just let ourselves be done in like this!’

  He insisted on looking personally into the better position he had pointed out. But before he had gone ten steps he vanished in an explosion, and his right leg was smashed by a piece of shell. He was thrown on to his back and uttered a scream like a startled woman.

  ‘It was bound to happen,’ muttered Rochas. ‘It’s no good fidgeting about so much. What you’ve got coming to you, comes.’

  The men of his company, seeing their captain fall, leaped up, and as he was crying for help and begging to be taken away, Jean also ran over to him and Maurice after him.

  ‘Friends, in God’s name don’t leave me here, take me to the ambulance!’

  ‘Lord, captain, that’s not so easy to do… But we can always try.’

  They were thinking out how best to take hold of him when they saw, behind the hedge they had been following, two red-cross men apparently looking for a job. They waved at them frantically and persuaded them to come over. They would be saved if they could reach the ambulance station without mishap. But it was a long way, and the hail of bullets was getting still thicker.

  The ambulance men had bound the leg up tight to hold it in place, and then w
ere carrying the captain on a bandy-chair with his arms round their necks, when Colonel de Vineuil, who had been informed, came up as fast as he could urge his horse. He had known the young man since he graduated from Saint-Cyr and was fond of him, and he was visibly very upset.

  ‘Poor old chap, be brave… It won’t be anything much, and they’ll soon put you right.’

  The captain made a sign of relief as though he had been greatly heartened.

  ‘No, no, it’s all over, and I prefer it like that. What is so exasperating is waiting for what you can’t avoid.’

  He was carried off, and the bearers were lucky enough to reach the hedge without trouble, and they hurried along it with their burden. When the colonel saw them vanish behind the trees where the ambulance was, he sighed with relief.

  ‘But, sir,’ Maurice exclaimed, ‘you are wounded too!’

  He had only just noticed the officer’s left boot which was covered with blood. The heel must have been torn off and a piece of the upper had even penetrated the flesh.

  M. de Vineuil nonchalantly leaned over in the saddle and glanced at his foot which must have been very painful and weighing down his leg.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered. ‘I picked that up just now… It’s nothing, it doesn’t prevent me from sitting on my horse.’

  And as he went back to take his place at the head of his regiment, he added:

  ‘When you’re on horseback and can stay there you can always manage.’

  At last the two reserve batteries were coming up, which was an immense relief to the anxious men, for whom these guns were the rampart, the salvation, the thunder from heaven which would silence the enemy cannon over yonder. Moreover it was a superb sight, the parade-ground arrival of the batteries in battle order, each piece followed by its ammunition waggon, the drivers mounted on the near-horses and holding the off-horses by the bridle, the gunners on the boxes, with the corporals and sergeants galloping in their regulation positions. They might have been on parade, carefully keeping their distances as they advanced at a furious pace across the fields with the dull roar of thunder.

  Maurice, who had lain down again in a furrow, got up all excited and said to Jean:

  ‘Look over there, the one taking the left position is Honoré’s battery. I recognize the men.’

  With a quick back-hander Jean knocked him down again.

  ‘Just you get down and lie doggo!’

  But even with their cheeks to the ground they both kept the battery in sight, very interested in the manoeuvre, and their hearts beat wildly as they watched the calm, active bravery of these men, from whom they still expected victory.

  The battery suddenly came to a halt on a bare hilltop to the left, and in a matter of a minute the gunners jumped down from their boxes and uncoupled the limbers, the drivers left the guns in position, wheeled their horses to move fifteen metres to the rear and remain motionless, facing the enemy. The six guns were already trained, spaced well apart in three pairs commanded by lieutenants, all six being under the orders of a captain, a very tall thin man who paced fussily up and down the plateau.

  ‘Range sixteen hundred metres!’ the captain could be heard shouting after he had done his rapid calculations.

  The target was to be the Prussian battery to the left of Fleigneux which was behind some brushwood and making the Illy Calvary untenable.

  ‘You see,’ Maurice went on with his explanations, for he couldn’t stop talking, ‘Honoré’s gun is in the centre section. There he is, leaning over with his gun-layer. The layer is young Louis, we had a drink together at Vouziers, don’t you remember? And over there the offside driver, the one sitting up so stiffly on his mount, a lovely arab, that’s Adolphe…’

  The gun with its crew of six and sergeant, and beyond it the limber and its four horses mounted by two drivers, beyond that the ammunition waggon with its six horses and three drivers, still further off the supply and forage waggons and the smithy, the whole string of men, animals and equipment stretched out in a straight line for a good hundred metres to the rear, to say nothing of the spare horses, spare ammunition waggon, animals and men to fill the gaps, who were standing over to the right so as not to remain uselessly exposed in the line of fire.

  Meanwhile Honoré was busy with the loading of his gun. The two centre gunners were already on their way back with the charge and shell from the ammunition waggon where the corporal and artificer were in charge and at once the two men at the muzzle put in the charge of powder wrapped in serge, which they pushed carefully down with the ramrod, then slid in the shell, the studs of which squeaked along the rifled barrel. The assistant layer quickly exposed the powder with his wire and pushed the fuse into the touch-hole. Honoré wanted to train the first round himself, and half lying on the mounting, he turned the adjusting screw to find the range, indicating the direction with a continuous movement of his hand to the gunner behind, who with a lever moved the gun very gradually further right or left.

  ‘That’s about it,’ he said, straightening up.

  The captain came and checked the range, bending his tall form almost double. At each gun the assistant layer, string in hand, stood ready to pull the striker, the saw-edged blade that ignited the cap. Orders were called slowly by numbers:

  ‘Number one, fire!… Number two, fire!’

  The six rounds went off, the guns recoiled and were brought back, while the sergeants saw that their range was much too short. They adjusted it and the operation began again, always the same, and it was this slow precision, the mechanical job coolly done which kept up the men’s morale. Their gun, like a favourite animal, gathered a little family round it, drawn close together by their common occupation. It was the tie that bound them, their one care, for which everything existed – waggon, vans, horses and men. Hence the great cohesion of the whole battery, calm and serene like a well-run household.

  The first salvo had been greeted with cheers by the 106th. At last they were going to shut those Prussian guns up. But there was immediate disappointment when they saw that the shells stopped half way and mostly went off in the air before reaching the thickets over there in which the enemy artillery was concealed.

  ‘Honoré,’ Maurice went on, ‘Honoré says that the others are all old crocks compared with his… Oh, his gun, he’d sleep with it, you’ll never find another like it! Look at his doting eyes, and how he has it wiped in case it should be too hot!’

  He was joking with Jean, for they both felt cheered by the fine calm bravery of the gunners. But after three rounds the Prussians had readjusted their fire: too long at first, it had become so accurate that the shells were falling straight on the French guns, while the latter, for all their efforts to lengthen the range, were still not getting there. One of Honoré’s gunners, the one to the left of the muzzle, was killed. His body was pushed aside and the loading went on with the same careful, unhurried regularity. Projectiles were coming down from all directions and exploding, but round each gun the same methodical operations went on – charge and shell put in, range checked, shell fired, gun wheeled back into position – as though the men found their job so absorbing that it prevented their seeing or hearing anything else.

  But what struck Maurice most was the attitude of the drivers fifteen metres to the rear, sitting bolt upright on their horses, facing the enemy. Adolphe was there, broad-chested, with his heavy fair moustache in the middle of his red face, and you really had to be jolly brave to watch the shells coming straight at you, without batting an eyelid or even being able to bite your thumbs to take your mind off it. The gun crews who were working had something else to think about, but the drivers, motionless, could see nothing but death and had plenty of leisure to think about it and wait for it to come. They were forced to stand facing the enemy because if they had turned their backs men and beasts might have been seized by an irrestible urge to run away. Seeing the danger you face up to it. There is no heroism less in evidence or greater.

  Yet another man had had his head blown off
, two of the horses on one van were agonizing with their bellies ripped open, and the enemy was keeping up such a murderous fire that the whole battery was going to be put out of action if they hung on to the same position. This terrible bombardment must be foiled in spite of the difficulties of a change of position. Without further hesitation the captain called out the order:

  ‘Limber up!’

  The dangerous movement was carried out with marvellous speed: the drivers about-turned again and brought up the limbers, which the gun crews coupled to the guns. But in carrying out this movement they had strung themselves out into a long front which the enemy took advantage of to redouble his fire. Three more men were lost. The battery cantered on, described an arc over the fields and took up its position some fifty metres further to the right, beyond the 106th on a little eminence. The guns were uncoupled, the drivers once again found themselves facing the enemy, and the bombardment started up again without a break and with such violence that the ground shook without pause.

  This time Maurice uttered a cry. Once again, in three rounds, the Prussian batteries had readjusted their fire, and the third shell had fallen right on Honoré’s gun. He was seen leaping forward and feeling the fresh damage with a trembling hand – a big piece chipped off the bronze muzzle. But the gun could still be loaded, and the routine went on after they had cleared the wheels of the body of another of the crew, whose blood had splashed on to the gun-carriage.

  ‘No, it isn’t young Louis,’ Maurice went on, thinking aloud. ‘There he still is, laying his gun, though he must be wounded, for he’s only using his left arm… Poor little Louis, his marriage with Adolphe was doing so well as long as he, the foot-slogger, for all his superior education, remained the humble servant of the driver, the mounted man…’

  Jean, who had kept quiet, broke in with a cry of anguish:

  ‘They’ll never hold out, we’re done for!’

  It was true, and in less than five minutes this second position had become as untenable as the first. Projectiles rained down upon it with the same precision. One shell demolished one gun and killed a lieutenant and two men. Not one of the rounds went astray, so that if they stuck there any longer there would not be a single cannon or gunner left. It was a crushing, overwhelming defeat.