1914 Read Online Free PDF Page A

left eye of Noblès and exit above his nape, behind his right ear and then the Farman, now beyond his control, remains for a moment on its flight path before heading down at an increasingly steep angle as Charles, gaping over Alfred’s slumped shoulder, sees the ground on which he will crash approaching at tip-top speed, offering not a hint of hope for any alternative save his imminent and permanent death—ground currently occupied by Jonchery-sur-Vesle, a pretty village in the Champagne-Ardenne region, and whose inhabitants are called Joncaviduliens.

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    W HEN THE RAIN BEGAN , the knapsack almost doubled in weight and there was a mass uprising of stormy wind so deeply frozen that the men wondered how it could even blow: it was perishingly cold when they reached the Belgian border where the customs officials, on the day of the mobilization, had lighted a great bonfire they’d kept going ever since, and around which the troop tried to huddle tightly in an effort to get some sleep. Anthime envied those customs fellows, the tranquil life he assumed they led, their jobs he was sure were safe, and their sheepskin sleeping bags. He envied them again and even more after leaving the village, another two days of marching later when he began to hear the big guns, closer and closer, a basso continuo accompaniedby scattered shooting that probably meant skirmishes between patrols.
    It was shortly after encountering this battlefront echo that the troop was suddenly sent right into the line of fire, in some foothills a little beyond the Belgian village of Maissin. Now there was no other option: that’s when they really understood they had to fight, had to go into battle for the first time, but until a shell actually landed near him, Anthime had not truly believed it. Once compelled to believe it, he discovered that everything he carried had grown heavier: knapsack, weapons, even the signet ring on his little finger, which was now deadweight and had no power to prevent the return, more painful than ever, of the ache in his wrist.
    Then orders were shouted for them to advance. Essentially pushed forward by the others, he wound up without much knowing what to do in the middle of a battlefield that couldn’t have been more real. He and Bossis looked at each other; behind them Arcenel was adjusting a strap, and Padioleau was blowing his nose, but his face had turned whiter than his hankie. At that point, there was nothing for it, they had to advance on the double while behind them, a group of about twentymen gathered in a circle as calmly as you please without seeming to take any notice of the shelling. It was the regimental band, whose conductor, white baton in hand, brought it down to conjure up “La Marseillaise,” aiming to provide valiant commentary on the assault. The enemy had taken up strong defensive positions concealed in a wood, so the men had trouble advancing at first, but when the artillery behind the troop joined the fray to weaken the foe the men tried again to attack, running clumsily hunched over, hampered by their impedimenta, each man leading with his bayonet and spearing the frozen air before him.
    As it happened they charged too soon, compounding the error by massing on the road that ran through the combat theater. Open and thoroughly familiar to the enemy artillery set up behind the trees, this road was in fact a perfectly clear target, and right away a few men not far from Anthime set about falling. He thought he saw two or three great spurts of blood but shoved them vigorously out of his mind, not being even certain, not having had time to be certain, that it was blood under arterial pressure—or even that he’d ever really seen blood until then, at least not in that way or that form.Besides his mind wasn’t in good shape for thinking, only for trying to shoot at whatever seemed hostile and above all for hunting down some possible cover wherever it might be. Luckily, although the