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FreeNach Verdun!
F. Britten Austin
Adapt
In the long luxurious saloon car of the special train, an officer in the field-service uniform of a South-Eastern Power sat talking with a colonel of the German General Staff. The deference shown to him made it clear that he was an important person representing a neutral whose friendship mattered. His dark, intelligent eyes rested thoughtfully on the groups of officers crowding the car. Everywhere was a buzz of talk, a suppressed excitement. The air was thick with cigar smoke.
"Yes, Excellency," said the German colonel, tapping the table with his plump fingers. "The secret is out. You have correctly guessed our objective." His eyes belonged to a clumsy, not overly scrupulous diplomat. His smile was deliberate flattery. "Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune. You will see our war economy at work," he pronounced the word with emphasis, "at the moment it operates at full power to shape Germany's final victory."
The distinguished neutral smiled, perfectly courteous. He spoke with a slight Austrian accent.
"I can understand your desire for the final," he stressed the word slightly, "victory, Colonel."
The German stared at him, suspicious of the quicker mind.
"Who would not desire it, Excellency? This dreadful slaughter," he waved a dismissive hand. "It is terrible that our adversaries do not see they are already beaten."
The neutral nodded.
"Bar-le-Duc and the Upper Marne, I suppose—Paris!"
The German colonel's eyes went dead.
"Excellency, I believe the supreme command reserves the honor of explaining its plans to you."
The conversation faded. The train rolled on, heavily comfortable. Staff officers talked earnestly among themselves, often repeating "Majesty." Orderlies, dressed as soldiers but clearly royal valets, moved silently in and out, frequently going to the next car. On those occasions the neutral glimpsed a world-famous figure, upturned mustache on a tired face, gray uniform heavy with decorations.
The train pulled into a station and stopped. A military band struck up precisely on arrival. The platform was crowded with officers, bright with the red of the General Staff.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 1 / 14
# chapter_page: 1
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
In the long luxurious saloon car of the special train, an officer in the field-service uniform of a South-Eastern Power sat talking with a colonel of the German General Staff. The deference shown to him made it clear that he was an important person representing a neutral whose friendship mattered. His dark, intelligent eyes rested thoughtfully on the groups of officers crowding the car. Everywhere was a buzz of talk, a suppressed excitement. The air was thick with cigar smoke.
"Yes, Excellency," said the German colonel, tapping the table with his plump fingers. "The secret is out. You have correctly guessed our objective." His eyes belonged to a clumsy, not overly scrupulous diplomat. His smile was deliberate flattery. "Allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune. You will see our war economy at work," he pronounced the word with emphasis, "at the moment it operates at full power to shape Germany's final victory."
The distinguished neutral smiled, perfectly courteous. He spoke with a slight Austrian accent.
"I can understand your desire for the final," he stressed the word slightly, "victory, Colonel."
The German stared at him, suspicious of the quicker mind.
"Who would not desire it, Excellency? This dreadful slaughter," he waved a dismissive hand. "It is terrible that our adversaries do not see they are already beaten."
The neutral nodded.
"Bar-le-Duc and the Upper Marne, I suppose—Paris!"
The German colonel's eyes went dead.
"Excellency, I believe the supreme command reserves the honor of explaining its plans to you."
The conversation faded. The train rolled on, heavily comfortable. Staff officers talked earnestly among themselves, often repeating "Majesty." Orderlies, dressed as soldiers but clearly royal valets, moved silently in and out, frequently going to the next car. On those occasions the neutral glimpsed a world-famous figure, upturned mustache on a tired face, gray uniform heavy with decorations.
The train pulled into a station and stopped. A military band struck up precisely on arrival. The platform was crowded with officers, bright with the red of the General Staff.The distinguished neutral paid little attention to the ceremony outside. He busied himself gathering his small belongings. Through the large windows he saw the salutes of rigidly erect officers. Above the band he heard repeated "Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!" from soldiers cheering in perfect unison.
He stepped onto the platform, followed by the colonel appointed as his guide. "Majesty" had already left. Officers were hurrying to the exit, laughing and talking, excited, showing despite the gray and red of their uniforms the basic childishness of a crowd. "To Verdun!" said one close to the neutral, nudging another. "To Verdun!" He repeated the password of victory like a schoolboy repeating a new slang phrase. The officers around him laughed. The crowd buzzed with high spirits.
Outside the station, the road was jammed with waiting cars, lined with soldiers adjusting their helmets after the tumultuous cheers. Some cars—those carrying the highest officials—had already departed. One by one the rest were filled, pulled out, and sped away. The distinguished neutral and his companion found a car reserved for them. The colonel led him to it with an air suggesting, "See how even small details are arranged!" They too drove off through walls of infantry.
Behind the soldiers were a few listless French inhabitants; from the windows of that French town hung German flags, but no French faces looked out. Shops were open, but no owners stood in doorways. The neutral noticed these things. The utter apathy of the people contrasted with stories his companion had told on the train. In many side streets, long convoys of ammunition and supply wagons waited to let them pass. On one of the leading wagons was written in large chalk letters: "To Verdun!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 2 / 14
# chapter_page: 2
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The distinguished neutral paid little attention to the ceremony outside. He busied himself gathering his small belongings. Through the large windows he saw the salutes of rigidly erect officers. Above the band he heard repeated "Hoch! Hoch! Hoch!" from soldiers cheering in perfect unison.
He stepped onto the platform, followed by the colonel appointed as his guide. "Majesty" had already left. Officers were hurrying to the exit, laughing and talking, excited, showing despite the gray and red of their uniforms the basic childishness of a crowd. "To Verdun!" said one close to the neutral, nudging another. "To Verdun!" He repeated the password of victory like a schoolboy repeating a new slang phrase. The officers around him laughed. The crowd buzzed with high spirits.
Outside the station, the road was jammed with waiting cars, lined with soldiers adjusting their helmets after the tumultuous cheers. Some cars—those carrying the highest officials—had already departed. One by one the rest were filled, pulled out, and sped away. The distinguished neutral and his companion found a car reserved for them. The colonel led him to it with an air suggesting, "See how even small details are arranged!" They too drove off through walls of infantry.
Behind the soldiers were a few listless French inhabitants; from the windows of that French town hung German flags, but no French faces looked out. Shops were open, but no owners stood in doorways. The neutral noticed these things. The utter apathy of the people contrasted with stories his companion had told on the train. In many side streets, long convoys of ammunition and supply wagons waited to let them pass. On one of the leading wagons was written in large chalk letters: "To Verdun!""To Verdun!" That was the theme behind all the intense military activity filling the town and, as they sped beyond the houses, the countryside too. Every road was packed with columns of marching infantry, endless wagons, gun limbers, ambulances. Even cavalry appeared, riding with tall lances and rifles slung on their saddles, on miserable-looking horses. "To Verdun!" The German colonel, though careful not to reveal secrets, could talk of nothing else. Under the gray February sky, distant artillery rumbled and boomed. The neutral listened with a professional ear and was puzzled. It was persistent but not the prolonged roar of a preparation bombardment.
The car swung into a park drive. A tunnel of winter-stripped trees, brown above with green streaking the bark, led to a large château blocking the view. Other cars had arrived before them and were parked in a group. A crowd of officers stood around the great doors, buzzing from the recent passage of the All-Highest. The neutral was shown to his room, with the colonel apologizing for having to share it due to space.
Several hours later, the neutral was brought into a vast, high-ceilinged room whose tapestry walls were almost covered with large maps pinned up. On easels stood more maps with strange diagrams in red, green, and black ink. On a large table was a relief model of hills and woods, a river with tributaries, a red spot in the valley, thin red lines converging on it, passing through, and spreading out again. On all maps, and on the red spot in the model, the name "Verdun" was repeated again and again.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 3 / 14
# chapter_page: 3
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"To Verdun!" That was the theme behind all the intense military activity filling the town and, as they sped beyond the houses, the countryside too. Every road was packed with columns of marching infantry, endless wagons, gun limbers, ambulances. Even cavalry appeared, riding with tall lances and rifles slung on their saddles, on miserable-looking horses. "To Verdun!" The German colonel, though careful not to reveal secrets, could talk of nothing else. Under the gray February sky, distant artillery rumbled and boomed. The neutral listened with a professional ear and was puzzled. It was persistent but not the prolonged roar of a preparation bombardment.
The car swung into a park drive. A tunnel of winter-stripped trees, brown above with green streaking the bark, led to a large château blocking the view. Other cars had arrived before them and were parked in a group. A crowd of officers stood around the great doors, buzzing from the recent passage of the All-Highest. The neutral was shown to his room, with the colonel apologizing for having to share it due to space.
Several hours later, the neutral was brought into a vast, high-ceilinged room whose tapestry walls were almost covered with large maps pinned up. On easels stood more maps with strange diagrams in red, green, and black ink. On a large table was a relief model of hills and woods, a river with tributaries, a red spot in the valley, thin red lines converging on it, passing through, and spreading out again. On all maps, and on the red spot in the model, the name "Verdun" was repeated again and again.The neutral officer noticed these details with the corner of his eye—the large writing desks with high-ranking officers, others grouped in a corner. His full attention was on the figure he saluted. A lean man of medium height, gray field uniform, gold cord across his chest, a star above the Iron Cross, gilt epaulettes, and red collar tabs. The would-be conqueror of the world stood stiffly, acknowledging the salute. His up-brushed mustache was still dark, though his hair was gray, almost white. His face was deeply lined with worry, but his blue eyes, with pouched lower lids, gleamed with excitement. He spoke in a jerky but clear manner showing a temperament of long-suppressed impulses.
"Good evening, General! Welcome to Germany's greatest hour! You shall see our sun rise triumphantly, breaking through the dark clouds of enemies who gather against us in vain!" His tone was of practiced rhetoric. He gestured with his right hand while his left arm remained noticeably still. "General!" he turned to an officer at a desk, "please explain everything to our friend here."
It was understood that the All-Highest was graciously condescending.
The neutral officer bowed, thanked him, and made a request: "That I might observe your war machine at work, Majesty—go where I please."
"By all means, General. We have nothing to hide. You will find much of interest, much to tell our well-wishers in your country. General! See that a pass is given to our friend granting him full freedom." The All-Highest returned the salute, ending the conversation.
Seated at the huge carved table with the officer he had been directed to, the neutral found himself looking into keen gray eyes behind pince-nez under bushy white eyebrows. The German spread out maps and indicated positions. He pointed out that all roads converged at Verdun like a bottleneck over the river, then fanned out on the east bank to a long line of positions climbing from the river over the Heights of the Meuse and down into the plain of the Woëvre.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 4 / 14
# chapter_page: 4
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The neutral officer noticed these details with the corner of his eye—the large writing desks with high-ranking officers, others grouped in a corner. His full attention was on the figure he saluted. A lean man of medium height, gray field uniform, gold cord across his chest, a star above the Iron Cross, gilt epaulettes, and red collar tabs. The would-be conqueror of the world stood stiffly, acknowledging the salute. His up-brushed mustache was still dark, though his hair was gray, almost white. His face was deeply lined with worry, but his blue eyes, with pouched lower lids, gleamed with excitement. He spoke in a jerky but clear manner showing a temperament of long-suppressed impulses.
"Good evening, General! Welcome to Germany's greatest hour! You shall see our sun rise triumphantly, breaking through the dark clouds of enemies who gather against us in vain!" His tone was of practiced rhetoric. He gestured with his right hand while his left arm remained noticeably still. "General!" he turned to an officer at a desk, "please explain everything to our friend here."
It was understood that the All-Highest was graciously condescending.
The neutral officer bowed, thanked him, and made a request: "That I might observe your war machine at work, Majesty—go where I please."
"By all means, General. We have nothing to hide. You will find much of interest, much to tell our well-wishers in your country. General! See that a pass is given to our friend granting him full freedom." The All-Highest returned the salute, ending the conversation.
Seated at the huge carved table with the officer he had been directed to, the neutral found himself looking into keen gray eyes behind pince-nez under bushy white eyebrows. The German spread out maps and indicated positions. He pointed out that all roads converged at Verdun like a bottleneck over the river, then fanned out on the east bank to a long line of positions climbing from the river over the Heights of the Meuse and down into the plain of the Woëvre."The matter is extremely simple!" he said like a man explaining a chess problem. "The French have three divisions of Territorials facing us to hold the entire sector. That force is not strong enough to defend it and certainly too weak to have kept the trenches in good repair. Indeed, we know they have fallen into ruin. We have fifteen divisions in the front line and fifteen in reserve. We do not intend to throw those divisions away. No. Our artillery will blast a path for them step by step—see, here are our gun positions," he showed concentric rings on the map around the doomed sector. "It is the largest artillery concentration the world has ever seen. Even our concentration on the Donajetz last year is surpassed.
We shall wipe out the positions in front of us—other batteries will drench the supply routes with shells, since they all must pass through the town—and our infantry will simply march into the destroyed positions, then wait for the next step to be cleared. I can tell you that the French have only one small branch railway line safe from our fire. We have built fourteen new lines besides those already existing. In supply we have overwhelming superiority. We also believe we have surprise. The French certainly have no concentration nearby. In four days we will be in Verdun. The Western Front will be broken."
"In four days?" The neutral looked at the map like a chess player examining the board. "And—if I may ask—what if you don't take Verdun in four days? I hear there is a huge Allied force somewhere in France."
"We have one more day," said the German, slightly annoyed at explaining the obvious. "We have five clear days before any reinforcements can arrive—all possibilities were calculated. If we are not in Verdun by the evening of the fifth day—well, battle will continue. But I repeat, we will be in Verdun within four days. It is certain!"
"Of course it is, General," said another voice above them. Both officers looked up and rose. "In four days we'll be in Verdun. In a fortnight—Paris!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 5 / 14
# chapter_page: 5
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
"The matter is extremely simple!" he said like a man explaining a chess problem. "The French have three divisions of Territorials facing us to hold the entire sector. That force is not strong enough to defend it and certainly too weak to have kept the trenches in good repair. Indeed, we know they have fallen into ruin. We have fifteen divisions in the front line and fifteen in reserve. We do not intend to throw those divisions away. No. Our artillery will blast a path for them step by step—see, here are our gun positions," he showed concentric rings on the map around the doomed sector. "It is the largest artillery concentration the world has ever seen. Even our concentration on the Donajetz last year is surpassed.
We shall wipe out the positions in front of us—other batteries will drench the supply routes with shells, since they all must pass through the town—and our infantry will simply march into the destroyed positions, then wait for the next step to be cleared. I can tell you that the French have only one small branch railway line safe from our fire. We have built fourteen new lines besides those already existing. In supply we have overwhelming superiority. We also believe we have surprise. The French certainly have no concentration nearby. In four days we will be in Verdun. The Western Front will be broken."
"In four days?" The neutral looked at the map like a chess player examining the board. "And—if I may ask—what if you don't take Verdun in four days? I hear there is a huge Allied force somewhere in France."
"We have one more day," said the German, slightly annoyed at explaining the obvious. "We have five clear days before any reinforcements can arrive—all possibilities were calculated. If we are not in Verdun by the evening of the fifth day—well, battle will continue. But I repeat, we will be in Verdun within four days. It is certain!"
"Of course it is, General," said another voice above them. Both officers looked up and rose. "In four days we'll be in Verdun. In a fortnight—Paris!"The speaker was a youngish man with a long nose, long face, slightly balding, a clipped mustache above a thin mouth. His manner suggested shady finance mixed with Monte Carlo and behind-the-scenes dealings.
He repeated, slapping the neutral on the back, "In a fortnight—Paris!" He said the city's name with relish.
"Undoubtedly, Highness," said the German general, his professional air replaced by courtier obsequiousness. "An army led by Your Highness cannot fail to conquer."
"Verdun—Paris! This time it will not fail." He walked off, tapping his tall leather boots with a riding switch, chanting, "To Verdun! To Verdun—Paris!"
The morning of February 21, 1916, dawned damp and bleak. Over the heavy clay fields of the Woëvre plain, mist hung persistently, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards. Through the gloom, poplars lining the roads loomed like ghosts, water dripping from bare branches. In the copses and the larger woods of the Forêt de Spincourt, thick mist fell like rain. From either of the high knolls known as the Twins of Ornes, southwest of the forest, the wooded slopes of the Meuse Heights—Merbebois and Bois de Wavrille—rose dark and indistinct, seen only briefly when a gust of raw east wind from the Orne valley tore a rift in the fog.
The neutral and his inseparable companion, the German colonel, stood on the southern twin. Around them were artillery officers. In front was a deep dugout with a sod roof, where telephone operators waited. It was an artillery observation post. The light was dim, though the wet fog was white. They had arrived before dawn, driving over muddy roads.
The journey had been long, their car squeezing past endless columns of infantry slogging along terrible roads. In the darkness, the thousands of men were barely visible like phantoms, singing continuously as they marched, keeping time to tunes started by chosen singers at the head of each company. Those just singing along often shouted jokes at the struggling car. In high spirits, they wagered they would be the first, after all, to reach Verdun.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 6 / 14
# chapter_page: 6
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The speaker was a youngish man with a long nose, long face, slightly balding, a clipped mustache above a thin mouth. His manner suggested shady finance mixed with Monte Carlo and behind-the-scenes dealings.
He repeated, slapping the neutral on the back, "In a fortnight—Paris!" He said the city's name with relish.
"Undoubtedly, Highness," said the German general, his professional air replaced by courtier obsequiousness. "An army led by Your Highness cannot fail to conquer."
"Verdun—Paris! This time it will not fail." He walked off, tapping his tall leather boots with a riding switch, chanting, "To Verdun! To Verdun—Paris!"
The morning of February 21, 1916, dawned damp and bleak. Over the heavy clay fields of the Woëvre plain, mist hung persistently, limiting visibility to a few hundred yards. Through the gloom, poplars lining the roads loomed like ghosts, water dripping from bare branches. In the copses and the larger woods of the Forêt de Spincourt, thick mist fell like rain. From either of the high knolls known as the Twins of Ornes, southwest of the forest, the wooded slopes of the Meuse Heights—Merbebois and Bois de Wavrille—rose dark and indistinct, seen only briefly when a gust of raw east wind from the Orne valley tore a rift in the fog.
The neutral and his inseparable companion, the German colonel, stood on the southern twin. Around them were artillery officers. In front was a deep dugout with a sod roof, where telephone operators waited. It was an artillery observation post. The light was dim, though the wet fog was white. They had arrived before dawn, driving over muddy roads.
The journey had been long, their car squeezing past endless columns of infantry slogging along terrible roads. In the darkness, the thousands of men were barely visible like phantoms, singing continuously as they marched, keeping time to tunes started by chosen singers at the head of each company. Those just singing along often shouted jokes at the struggling car. In high spirits, they wagered they would be the first, after all, to reach Verdun.On the hilltop, there was tense anticipation. The fog refused to lift. Only occasionally did they glimpse the wooded heights everyone stared at with thrilling foreknowledge. For now, all was quiet, broken only by an occasional isolated explosion echoing down the Orne valley, reverberating from the misty woods on the great scarp that guarded the doomed city. An officer checked his watch. The gesture was contagious. Seconds and minutes dragged. It was like waiting for a curtain to rise. Watches showed 8:13 German time—8:14—8:15!
A single enormous roar erupted from an arc stretching from far northwest around behind them to the south. It did not cease. Minute after minute it continued, unabated, prolonged. At first it seemed one colossal bellow of sound, steady. But as ears adjusted, they could distinguish even fiercer bursts: the heavy thud of the largest guns, the frantic hammering of quick-firing field guns. Hearing was overwhelmed, but the view did not change. Mist still veiled the landscape. Below on the right, a howitzer battery, daringly positioned, tore the fog with flashes of orange-red flame.
In the deafening blast, it seemed the French artillery was not responding. Occasionally a shell whined toward them, ending in an ugly rush and crash somewhere on the knoll. They barely noticed these random death-spirits, so ineffective compared to the whirlwind sweeping the other way. Now the experienced ear could pick out the rumbling, tram-like passage of heavy shells overhead, the fierce drone of lighter ones, all woven into an unbroken sheet of sound.
What was happening over there among the damp wooded hills? Nothing visible, but imagination sketched fearful havoc: trees blasted and toppling, parapets leaping, horrors in the earth that had been a dugout, collapsing trenches, men cowering in a shambles, death raining from above—such thoughts crossed the minds of those straining into the fog. An artillery officer turned to the neutral.
"Five hours of this, Excellency," he said with a smile, "then the first step to Verdun!"
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 7 / 14
# chapter_page: 7
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
On the hilltop, there was tense anticipation. The fog refused to lift. Only occasionally did they glimpse the wooded heights everyone stared at with thrilling foreknowledge. For now, all was quiet, broken only by an occasional isolated explosion echoing down the Orne valley, reverberating from the misty woods on the great scarp that guarded the doomed city. An officer checked his watch. The gesture was contagious. Seconds and minutes dragged. It was like waiting for a curtain to rise. Watches showed 8:13 German time—8:14—8:15!
A single enormous roar erupted from an arc stretching from far northwest around behind them to the south. It did not cease. Minute after minute it continued, unabated, prolonged. At first it seemed one colossal bellow of sound, steady. But as ears adjusted, they could distinguish even fiercer bursts: the heavy thud of the largest guns, the frantic hammering of quick-firing field guns. Hearing was overwhelmed, but the view did not change. Mist still veiled the landscape. Below on the right, a howitzer battery, daringly positioned, tore the fog with flashes of orange-red flame.
In the deafening blast, it seemed the French artillery was not responding. Occasionally a shell whined toward them, ending in an ugly rush and crash somewhere on the knoll. They barely noticed these random death-spirits, so ineffective compared to the whirlwind sweeping the other way. Now the experienced ear could pick out the rumbling, tram-like passage of heavy shells overhead, the fierce drone of lighter ones, all woven into an unbroken sheet of sound.
What was happening over there among the damp wooded hills? Nothing visible, but imagination sketched fearful havoc: trees blasted and toppling, parapets leaping, horrors in the earth that had been a dugout, collapsing trenches, men cowering in a shambles, death raining from above—such thoughts crossed the minds of those straining into the fog. An artillery officer turned to the neutral.
"Five hours of this, Excellency," he said with a smile, "then the first step to Verdun!"The colonel elaborated on the wonderful German system that kept all these batteries firing without pause. "Who can resist us?" was the obvious conclusion. The neutral was duly impressed, his dark eyes serious.
The bombardment continued and became monotonous. The fog thinned a little but still allowed no clear sight. The guns fired by the map, following a prearranged plan. The colonel suggested there was no point staying.
"I would like to see your guns at work, Colonel," said the neutral, and the colonel saw he would have to skip lunch at Corps HQ. Thinking of divisional messes nearby, he replied, "Of course, Excellency."
They scrambled down the rough path through birch trees into the thicker mist below. Suddenly they came upon long ranks of resting infantry squatting and lying near piled arms. The field-gray uniforms merged with the fog, but they sensed thousands. The colonel and his guest walked freely; shadowy gray forms kept appearing. All were cheerful, confident. Officers in small groups smiled as they talked, bending over maps. The men grinned. They were waiting for the guns to clear the way for their "stroll."
At last the infantry ranks ended. They reached a field battery firing furiously. The guns stood in the open, their limbers with lids upright as shields. Busy gunners moved with rapid intensity, passing long gleaming shells from hand to hand, loading and firing. Behind them were piles of brass cartridge cases. Officers in helmets and long buttoned coats watched their sections. The battery hurled out death without fear; no enemy shell came. The fog hid the target.
Beyond was another battery, nearly wheel to wheel. And further on, more and more, an endless line, all out in the open, firing as fast as sweating men could load and pull the lanyard. Behind them came the deep, continuous roar of heavier guns. The sky rumbled with shell traffic.
The neutral and his guide turned east toward the heavy howitzer zone. They passed through more waiting infantry. The mist had lifted, giving long views. Everywhere soldiers: battalion after battalion. Time had passed—the neutral had been so busy observing it was now almost noon.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 8 / 14
# chapter_page: 8
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The colonel elaborated on the wonderful German system that kept all these batteries firing without pause. "Who can resist us?" was the obvious conclusion. The neutral was duly impressed, his dark eyes serious.
The bombardment continued and became monotonous. The fog thinned a little but still allowed no clear sight. The guns fired by the map, following a prearranged plan. The colonel suggested there was no point staying.
"I would like to see your guns at work, Colonel," said the neutral, and the colonel saw he would have to skip lunch at Corps HQ. Thinking of divisional messes nearby, he replied, "Of course, Excellency."
They scrambled down the rough path through birch trees into the thicker mist below. Suddenly they came upon long ranks of resting infantry squatting and lying near piled arms. The field-gray uniforms merged with the fog, but they sensed thousands. The colonel and his guest walked freely; shadowy gray forms kept appearing. All were cheerful, confident. Officers in small groups smiled as they talked, bending over maps. The men grinned. They were waiting for the guns to clear the way for their "stroll."
At last the infantry ranks ended. They reached a field battery firing furiously. The guns stood in the open, their limbers with lids upright as shields. Busy gunners moved with rapid intensity, passing long gleaming shells from hand to hand, loading and firing. Behind them were piles of brass cartridge cases. Officers in helmets and long buttoned coats watched their sections. The battery hurled out death without fear; no enemy shell came. The fog hid the target.
Beyond was another battery, nearly wheel to wheel. And further on, more and more, an endless line, all out in the open, firing as fast as sweating men could load and pull the lanyard. Behind them came the deep, continuous roar of heavier guns. The sky rumbled with shell traffic.
The neutral and his guide turned east toward the heavy howitzer zone. They passed through more waiting infantry. The mist had lifted, giving long views. Everywhere soldiers: battalion after battalion. Time had passed—the neutral had been so busy observing it was now almost noon.
The infantry was forming columns, marching forward with songs and shouts, their spiked helmets decorated with fir sprigs. "Forward!" came the sharp commands. "To Verdun!" shouted the men, drunk with the thought of easy victory.
And still the tireless batteries hammered, spewing death so their men could live. From behind hedges, hills, in long lines across open fields—so many they ignored the enemy's reply—their muzzles flashed. The dark Forêt de Spincourt was torn by red flames. As the two approached, they saw smoke over the trees, flashes in the undergrowth. Inside, the air choked with explosive fumes. The wood was a nest of howitzer batteries. On concrete and timber platforms, the monsters squatted, lowering their barrels to receive shells, then raising them slowly, jaws gaping skyward, belching flame and shock. Behind each gun were stacks of shells. Men hurried, two to a tray, feeding the iron monsters. Further in, even larger guns were loaded by cranes on rails. The earth shook.
"Frau Bertha has a persuasive voice, don't you think?" said the colonel. The neutral agreed politely amid the noise, his eyes contemptuous of the dapper, plump colonel whose soul, even in this crisis, was that of a traveling salesman. The order to Krupp was not yet given.
At one o'clock—noon by French time to the anxious general across the distance—the bombardment stopped as suddenly as it began. An uncanny silence fell. Everyone knew what it meant: the infantry was advancing. Would machine guns fire? No sound. Then suddenly, the bombardment resumed, violent as before.
The German guns placed a curtain of fire behind the doomed positions, cutting off help. Far away, huge shells crashed down from a curve four miles high, turning a peaceful cathedral town into hell, destroying bridges, blocking every supply route.
That night at Army HQ was one of celebration. Courtier soldiers, who nonetheless worked late on complex plans, glanced at a youngish, high-ranking figure and murmured about the drunkenness of success. An even higher figure strode among the generals, giving orders received as genius, then lost amid the flood of commands.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 9 / 14
# chapter_page: 9
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The infantry was forming columns, marching forward with songs and shouts, their spiked helmets decorated with fir sprigs. "Forward!" came the sharp commands. "To Verdun!" shouted the men, drunk with the thought of easy victory.
And still the tireless batteries hammered, spewing death so their men could live. From behind hedges, hills, in long lines across open fields—so many they ignored the enemy's reply—their muzzles flashed. The dark Forêt de Spincourt was torn by red flames. As the two approached, they saw smoke over the trees, flashes in the undergrowth. Inside, the air choked with explosive fumes. The wood was a nest of howitzer batteries. On concrete and timber platforms, the monsters squatted, lowering their barrels to receive shells, then raising them slowly, jaws gaping skyward, belching flame and shock. Behind each gun were stacks of shells. Men hurried, two to a tray, feeding the iron monsters. Further in, even larger guns were loaded by cranes on rails. The earth shook.
"Frau Bertha has a persuasive voice, don't you think?" said the colonel. The neutral agreed politely amid the noise, his eyes contemptuous of the dapper, plump colonel whose soul, even in this crisis, was that of a traveling salesman. The order to Krupp was not yet given.
At one o'clock—noon by French time to the anxious general across the distance—the bombardment stopped as suddenly as it began. An uncanny silence fell. Everyone knew what it meant: the infantry was advancing. Would machine guns fire? No sound. Then suddenly, the bombardment resumed, violent as before.
The German guns placed a curtain of fire behind the doomed positions, cutting off help. Far away, huge shells crashed down from a curve four miles high, turning a peaceful cathedral town into hell, destroying bridges, blocking every supply route.
That night at Army HQ was one of celebration. Courtier soldiers, who nonetheless worked late on complex plans, glanced at a youngish, high-ranking figure and murmured about the drunkenness of success. An even higher figure strode among the generals, giving orders received as genius, then lost amid the flood of commands.The distinguished guest sat with the white-browed general, who patiently explained everything.
"All went exactly to schedule," said the German. "The first-line trenches are ours. There was a counterattack in the Bois de Caures, but we stopped it. Elsewhere no serious fight. A brilliant first day. We pierced the line where we intended. If the French hold their flanks, they are doomed. Tomorrow we push to the Ornes-Louvemont road. Their defense is dead. Tomorrow will bring collapse. On the third day we take Fort Douaumont, key to Verdun."
"And on the fourth?" asked the neutral, staring at the map.
"We'll be in Verdun," said the German.
"Verdun! Verdun! After Verdun—Paris!" sang an unsteady voice across the room, ending with something like a hiccup. Silence, then a buzz of serious talk.
Day followed day, heavy with fate. Men who dropped from exhaustion to sleep woke with tight chests and trembling nerves. Their frantic brains resented any unconsciousness. Day and night, the staffs worked desperately, for after the second day they were behind schedule. On that day, the French defense they thought annihilated fought back fiercely. The whole front from Brabant to Ornes saw terrible fighting. At dawn, another bombardment. The infantry advanced in masses, found the trenches barely held, and took them. But on the way, shells rained down, strewing the ground with dead and wounded. Further advance was stopped by rifle fire and machine guns. There were ugly rumors of losses. The day's goal was not reached. Counterattacks pushed the gray infantry out of captured positions.
During the dark night of February 22-23, while German gun teams struggled forward over shell-torn ground, the French left wing fell back from Brabant. German guns blindly shelled the new lines, no longer having them marked on maps. Once more the gray masses surged forward, once more the shell storm beat them down. By day's end, the center had broken in confusion, but the French resistance lived, ready to die rather than give way. The timetable was hopelessly off. That night, the French fell back on both wings, abandoning Ornes.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 10 / 14
# chapter_page: 10
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The distinguished guest sat with the white-browed general, who patiently explained everything.
"All went exactly to schedule," said the German. "The first-line trenches are ours. There was a counterattack in the Bois de Caures, but we stopped it. Elsewhere no serious fight. A brilliant first day. We pierced the line where we intended. If the French hold their flanks, they are doomed. Tomorrow we push to the Ornes-Louvemont road. Their defense is dead. Tomorrow will bring collapse. On the third day we take Fort Douaumont, key to Verdun."
"And on the fourth?" asked the neutral, staring at the map.
"We'll be in Verdun," said the German.
"Verdun! Verdun! After Verdun—Paris!" sang an unsteady voice across the room, ending with something like a hiccup. Silence, then a buzz of serious talk.
Day followed day, heavy with fate. Men who dropped from exhaustion to sleep woke with tight chests and trembling nerves. Their frantic brains resented any unconsciousness. Day and night, the staffs worked desperately, for after the second day they were behind schedule. On that day, the French defense they thought annihilated fought back fiercely. The whole front from Brabant to Ornes saw terrible fighting. At dawn, another bombardment. The infantry advanced in masses, found the trenches barely held, and took them. But on the way, shells rained down, strewing the ground with dead and wounded. Further advance was stopped by rifle fire and machine guns. There were ugly rumors of losses. The day's goal was not reached. Counterattacks pushed the gray infantry out of captured positions.
During the dark night of February 22-23, while German gun teams struggled forward over shell-torn ground, the French left wing fell back from Brabant. German guns blindly shelled the new lines, no longer having them marked on maps. Once more the gray masses surged forward, once more the shell storm beat them down. By day's end, the center had broken in confusion, but the French resistance lived, ready to die rather than give way. The timetable was hopelessly off. That night, the French fell back on both wings, abandoning Ornes.The fourth day dawned—the day appointed for final victory—but the fight raged fiercer than ever. Slowly the German infantry pressed on, leaving a carpet of gray bodies. The artillery fire swelled to incredible violence. In the dark, near Fort Douaumont, men fought body to body, rifles fired point-blank, bayonets thrust, fingers clutched throats. The French made a supreme stand. The Germans fought like men grasping for victory, maddened it slipped away. The French fought like heroes, outnumbered, knowing they must die. When night fell, the defense held, but the French had fallen back to their last line covering Douaumont.
"We still have one more day," said the German general to the neutral that night. "We allowed that margin. Tomorrow our greatest effort, Douaumont taken, Verdun impossible." The neutral's dark eyes saw worry in the German's face despite his confident tone.
"It has been harder than expected?"
"Their field guns have been terrible," the German admitted. "Without them..." He gestured. "But tomorrow we deliver the final blow. We do not boast idly." He searched the neutral's calm face. "When Germany threatens, she acts."
On the morning of the 25th, the German guns roared over snow-white fields through veils of falling flakes. The thunder grew as batteries, having moved after the French retreat, opened fire, searching for targets despite poor visibility. No time to lose. The anxious staff knew French reinforcements were rushing up; some might already have arrived. If night fell without a clear win, fresh troops would strengthen the defense. A victory today—taking Douaumont and pushing into Verdun—would be decisive. So the effort was massive. By noon, every battery fired at maximum. Under a leaden sky, over white ground, in bitter cold, the roar was endless. Eighteen German divisions massed to break resistance. They had attacked again and again. French guns answered desperately. On the plateau, in the misty gullies and open spaces among woods, the snow had turned gray and red, except where fresh flakes fell on the silent bodies.
In the afternoon, the weather cleared a little, allowing longer views.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 11 / 14
# chapter_page: 11
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The fourth day dawned—the day appointed for final victory—but the fight raged fiercer than ever. Slowly the German infantry pressed on, leaving a carpet of gray bodies. The artillery fire swelled to incredible violence. In the dark, near Fort Douaumont, men fought body to body, rifles fired point-blank, bayonets thrust, fingers clutched throats. The French made a supreme stand. The Germans fought like men grasping for victory, maddened it slipped away. The French fought like heroes, outnumbered, knowing they must die. When night fell, the defense held, but the French had fallen back to their last line covering Douaumont.
"We still have one more day," said the German general to the neutral that night. "We allowed that margin. Tomorrow our greatest effort, Douaumont taken, Verdun impossible." The neutral's dark eyes saw worry in the German's face despite his confident tone.
"It has been harder than expected?"
"Their field guns have been terrible," the German admitted. "Without them..." He gestured. "But tomorrow we deliver the final blow. We do not boast idly." He searched the neutral's calm face. "When Germany threatens, she acts."
On the morning of the 25th, the German guns roared over snow-white fields through veils of falling flakes. The thunder grew as batteries, having moved after the French retreat, opened fire, searching for targets despite poor visibility. No time to lose. The anxious staff knew French reinforcements were rushing up; some might already have arrived. If night fell without a clear win, fresh troops would strengthen the defense. A victory today—taking Douaumont and pushing into Verdun—would be decisive. So the effort was massive. By noon, every battery fired at maximum. Under a leaden sky, over white ground, in bitter cold, the roar was endless. Eighteen German divisions massed to break resistance. They had attacked again and again. French guns answered desperately. On the plateau, in the misty gullies and open spaces among woods, the snow had turned gray and red, except where fresh flakes fell on the silent bodies.
In the afternoon, the weather cleared a little, allowing longer views.
On the higher of the Twins of Ornes, stood the one man who more than any other would answer for all the agony before him, for agony spread across continents. He wore a spiked helmet and a long gray cavalry cloak, held field glasses with one hand, and gazed at the distant battle. At his side was a younger man, also with binoculars. Behind them were high generals, the neutral, and the colonel. All peered toward the wooded scarps of the Meuse Heights, focusing southwest.
The great forests rose dark above the snow, and beyond them the bare plateau humped higher, gray against the sky, culminating at Douaumont! That bare stretch was covered with drifting smoke, and the summit seemed a volcano, with fountains of smoke erupting constantly. It was the objective of the 3rd Corps (Brandenburgers), attacking under the Kaiser's eye. Their orders were to take Douaumont at all costs. On the twin hill, operators from Army HQ had taken over the telephone dugout; the line to Berlin was open, waiting for the news that would thrill the world.
Impatiently, the neutral scanned the distant scene. Shell bursts showed combat but not the outcome. His professional instinct demanded a closer look, to describe the effects of French fire for his report. He saw a vantage point on the Heights and waited for permission. When the All-Highest glanced his way, the neutral stepped forward, saluted, and pointed.
"May I have permission, Majesty?"
The Kaiser frowned, intolerant of anything but the battle.
"Granted," he said curtly.
The colonel behind turned pale. He had to accompany this foreigner into danger. He saluted and followed as the neutral headed for the horses. Soon they were riding across the snowy valley toward Ornes.
They passed through the ruined village of Ornes, full of Brandenburgers waiting to advance. They followed the road south toward Bezonvaux, dodging shells. The cannonade was deafening. French shells screamed and exploded around them. Bezonvaux was destroyed. They turned up a rough track into the woods. The snow was churned to slush, littered with bodies and discarded weapons. The horses shied at the red stains.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 12 / 14
# chapter_page: 12
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
On the higher of the Twins of Ornes, stood the one man who more than any other would answer for all the agony before him, for agony spread across continents. He wore a spiked helmet and a long gray cavalry cloak, held field glasses with one hand, and gazed at the distant battle. At his side was a younger man, also with binoculars. Behind them were high generals, the neutral, and the colonel. All peered toward the wooded scarps of the Meuse Heights, focusing southwest.
The great forests rose dark above the snow, and beyond them the bare plateau humped higher, gray against the sky, culminating at Douaumont! That bare stretch was covered with drifting smoke, and the summit seemed a volcano, with fountains of smoke erupting constantly. It was the objective of the 3rd Corps (Brandenburgers), attacking under the Kaiser's eye. Their orders were to take Douaumont at all costs. On the twin hill, operators from Army HQ had taken over the telephone dugout; the line to Berlin was open, waiting for the news that would thrill the world.
Impatiently, the neutral scanned the distant scene. Shell bursts showed combat but not the outcome. His professional instinct demanded a closer look, to describe the effects of French fire for his report. He saw a vantage point on the Heights and waited for permission. When the All-Highest glanced his way, the neutral stepped forward, saluted, and pointed.
"May I have permission, Majesty?"
The Kaiser frowned, intolerant of anything but the battle.
"Granted," he said curtly.
The colonel behind turned pale. He had to accompany this foreigner into danger. He saluted and followed as the neutral headed for the horses. Soon they were riding across the snowy valley toward Ornes.
They passed through the ruined village of Ornes, full of Brandenburgers waiting to advance. They followed the road south toward Bezonvaux, dodging shells. The cannonade was deafening. French shells screamed and exploded around them. Bezonvaux was destroyed. They turned up a rough track into the woods. The snow was churned to slush, littered with bodies and discarded weapons. The horses shied at the red stains.At the edge of the plateau, the neutral stopped, dismounted. The colonel did too, shaking.
"We'll see nothing," he pleaded.
"Let's try," replied the neutral. "Something is happening over there."
Ahead was tremendous noise and confusion. Behind them, a column of infantry was climbing, singing like doomed gladiators. They passed. The neutral led the way to a tall tree with a rope ladder—an abandoned French observation post. He climbed, followed by the trembling colonel. At the top was a small platform.
The neutral adjusted his binoculars and looked out. Below him, a bare ridge rose to a hilltop wreathed in smoke—Douaumont!
On the snowy expanse between the fort and the woods, it seemed to crawl with tiny figures. Shell bursts erupted among them.
Suddenly, masses of gray figures rushed from the woods toward the fort. The open ground was covered with them. Then, as if by magic, fountains of dark smoke and debris leaped among them. Men fell in rows, screaming. More came, were cut down. A wild retreat began.
The shellfire pursued them toward the woods, closer and closer to the observation post. The colonel grabbed the neutral's arm.
"Excellency! We must go! I insist! I have orders—written authority!" He waved a paper. "Arrest! Arrest if you don't come!"
The shells were very near. The neutral shrugged and descended. On the ground, they found wounded and terrified men. A tall, bearded Brandenburger, clothes in tatters, was shrieking and laughing horribly. "Only I am left! They are all dead! They were dead men before we attacked—I saw it in their faces—only I was alive! Now they still crawl—dead men!" His words froze the blood. A sentry lowered his rifle.
The maniac turned and pointed west. The setting sun appeared through a break in the clouds, a red ball sinking over the plateau. Its last light fell on his face as he stood like a prophet.
"Woe! Woe! To Verdun! After Verdun—Eclipse!" he screamed, reveling in the pun. "To Verdun—Eclipse!"
The neutral and colonel hurried back to their horses. As they climbed the Twin of Ornes, they heard cheering: "Douaumont is taken!" Rockets soared. The news had already gone to Berlin.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 13 / 14
# chapter_page: 13
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
At the edge of the plateau, the neutral stopped, dismounted. The colonel did too, shaking.
"We'll see nothing," he pleaded.
"Let's try," replied the neutral. "Something is happening over there."
Ahead was tremendous noise and confusion. Behind them, a column of infantry was climbing, singing like doomed gladiators. They passed. The neutral led the way to a tall tree with a rope ladder—an abandoned French observation post. He climbed, followed by the trembling colonel. At the top was a small platform.
The neutral adjusted his binoculars and looked out. Below him, a bare ridge rose to a hilltop wreathed in smoke—Douaumont!
On the snowy expanse between the fort and the woods, it seemed to crawl with tiny figures. Shell bursts erupted among them.
Suddenly, masses of gray figures rushed from the woods toward the fort. The open ground was covered with them. Then, as if by magic, fountains of dark smoke and debris leaped among them. Men fell in rows, screaming. More came, were cut down. A wild retreat began.
The shellfire pursued them toward the woods, closer and closer to the observation post. The colonel grabbed the neutral's arm.
"Excellency! We must go! I insist! I have orders—written authority!" He waved a paper. "Arrest! Arrest if you don't come!"
The shells were very near. The neutral shrugged and descended. On the ground, they found wounded and terrified men. A tall, bearded Brandenburger, clothes in tatters, was shrieking and laughing horribly. "Only I am left! They are all dead! They were dead men before we attacked—I saw it in their faces—only I was alive! Now they still crawl—dead men!" His words froze the blood. A sentry lowered his rifle.
The maniac turned and pointed west. The setting sun appeared through a break in the clouds, a red ball sinking over the plateau. Its last light fell on his face as he stood like a prophet.
"Woe! Woe! To Verdun! After Verdun—Eclipse!" he screamed, reveling in the pun. "To Verdun—Eclipse!"
The neutral and colonel hurried back to their horses. As they climbed the Twin of Ornes, they heard cheering: "Douaumont is taken!" Rockets soared. The news had already gone to Berlin.The dignitaries descended to their cars. Along the road, wounded men stumbled. The war lords were joyful. One familiar voice chanted, "To Verdun! After Verdun—Paris!"
From the darkness came a scream of insane laughter: "To Verdun—Eclipse! To Verdun—Eclipse!"
It was the mad Brandenburger, being dragged away. All through the bumpy ride, the words echoed in the neutral's mind: "To Verdun—Eclipse." Was it Germany's sun setting? The colonel was talkative and cheerful.
That night at headquarters, they learned their advance was stopped.
The next morning, French counterattacks surrounded the few defenders in the fort so dearly bought. Reinforcements had arrived.
# book_id: global-gutenberg-story-6624fe85b37642799df596cb53f66d1e
# book_title: Nach Verdun!
# chapter_id: 1-nach-verdun
# chapter_title: Nach Verdun!
# book_page: 14 / 14
# chapter_page: 14
# language: en
# content_format: markdown
# reading_structure: unknown
# render_mode: prose
The dignitaries descended to their cars. Along the road, wounded men stumbled. The war lords were joyful. One familiar voice chanted, "To Verdun! After Verdun—Paris!"
From the darkness came a scream of insane laughter: "To Verdun—Eclipse! To Verdun—Eclipse!"
It was the mad Brandenburger, being dragged away. All through the bumpy ride, the words echoed in the neutral's mind: "To Verdun—Eclipse." Was it Germany's sun setting? The colonel was talkative and cheerful.
That night at headquarters, they learned their advance was stopped.
The next morning, French counterattacks surrounded the few defenders in the fort so dearly bought. Reinforcements had arrived.
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