We came to a big trench in which a group of thin, shivering horses were pawing the hard ground. Some sacks of hay — so dry it was practically dust had been ripped open and put down for them. The poor animals were sniffing at the hay with their rimy nostrils, but didn’t seem too tempted. A few frozen horse cadavers lay on the ground among the animals that were still standing. A handful of soldiers in long coats were watching the horses. We passed through a string of rough dugouts, and heard machine-gun fire coming from quite nearby.
“Machine guns!” our driver remarked, smiling strangely. “That means we’re here.” Trenches, foxholes, and dugouts stretched away as far as we could see in all directions. We were stopped by a patrol.
“Ninth Infantry Regiment, … company,” said the lieutenant. “Is it for us?”
“No, Mein Leutnant. We’re looking for the … section.”
“Ah,” said the officer. “You’ll have to leave your sleighs here. The section you want is over there on the river bank, and on that little island. You’ll have to stick to the trenches, and be careful, because you’ll be in range of the Russian forward positions, and they wake up from time to time.”
“Thank you, Mein Leutnant.” The sergeant’s voice was trembling. The lieutenant called over one of the men who was with him: “Show them the way, and then come back.”
The man saluted and joined us. Like everybody else, I had grabbed a box that was too heavy for me, and was going to carry it on my back. The sound of machine-gun fire began again, only louder.
“There it goes again. Is it serious or not?”
The gunfire grew louder, stopped, and began again, passionate and violent.
“That’s us,” our guide replied. “But wait a few minutes. You can’t tell right away whether they’re doing it just for laughs, or whether it’s the beginning of a push onto the ice.”
We listened to him without a word. He seemed almost relaxed in this disquieting atmosphere. We were perfect novices: our few scrapes on the “Third International” seemed liked nothing compared to what might happen here. The firing kept stopping and starting, sometimes very close. At other moments we could hear guns that were plainly further off.
Hals suggested that we lay our two boxes across our Mausers, to make a kind of carrying litter. We had just reorganized ourselves to put this plan into effect when we heard some heavy detonations which followed each other in rapid succession.
“That’s the Russians,” grinned the veteran, who was walking just ahead of us.
The air shook with the rhythm of the explosions. They seemed to be about three or four hundred yards ahead of us, to our left.
“That’s their assault artillery… It might be an attack.” Suddenly, about thirty yards to the left, there was a sharp and violent burst of sound, followed by a curious, catlike whine, followed by a series of similar sounds. We hastily put down our burdens, and ducked, looking anxiously in all directions. The air was still for a moment.
“Don’t panic, boys,” said our guide, who had also ducked. “We’ve got a battery of 107s behind that pile of stuff over there, and we’re answering the Russians.”
The infernal noise began again. Even though our guide had told us what it was, I could feel my stomach contracting.
“Put on your helmets,” said the sergeant. “If the Russians spot that battery, they’ll fire on it.”
“And let’s keep going,” our guide added. “There isn’t a quiet corner within sixty miles. We’re no safer here than anywhere else.” We began to move forward, bent double. The air around us shook for the third time, and we could hear gunfire all around us. The German battery was firing nonstop, and ahead the noise of the spandau was getting closer. We passed three soldiers who were unrolling a telephone wire along a footpath which crossed our route. The sound of explosions now seemed to have a regular rhythm.
“This might be an attack,” said the soldier who had come with us. “I’ll leave you here. I’ve got to get back to my section.”
“Which way do we go?” asked our sergeant, who was clearly terrified.
“Follow the path as far as the geschnauz[7] over there on the right. They’ll be able to tell you. But eat something first. It’s lunchtime.”
He took a few steps in the other direction, doubled over, as before. So, that is how one moves on a battlefield! A few days later I was used to it, and paid no more attention.
We opened our mess tins, and ate huddled in the snow. I didn’t feel particularly hungry. The explosions, which made my head ring inside my icy helmet, seemed far more interesting than food.
Hals, who was not entirely in control of his feelings, rolled his eyes like a hunted animal, and looked at me, shaking his head.
“Maybe we shouldn’t stop to eat… If an officer came along…”
A deafening salvo which seemed to be passing right over our heads interrupted us, and we instinctively hunched our shoulders and shut our eyes. Hals was about to speak again when another explosion, different in kind, but no less brutal, shook the earth, followed by a loud whistle and another explosion. This time we felt as if we were being lifted from the ground. We were shaken by a displacement of the air of an astonishing violence. Then an avalanche of stones and chunks of ice poured down on us.
We made ourselves as small as we could, not daring to move or speak. We had dropped our guns and our mess tins.
“They’ll kill me!” shouted a young fellow who had hurled himself into my lap in the general confusion.
“They’re going to kill me!” There was another loud boom, and then a deafening German salvo passed over our heads.
“Let’s go on; we can’t stay here!” yelled our sergeant, shoving his helmet further down onto his head.
We picked up our boxes like automatons. The trench was wide enough for four men to walk abreast, but we proceeded single file, keeping close to one of the walls. I was with Hals, directly behind the sergeant, who kept exhorting us to move.
“Hurry up! Quick! The Russians have spotted our battery! They can see it, and we’re right beside it! This damned trench is heading right into their fire. We’ve got to get to that communication trench down there.”
Every other minute we had to throw ourselves into the bottom of the trench. The heavy cases kept slipping from our icy fingers no matter how tightly we tried to hold them: it still seems astonishing that they didn’t explode in our faces.
“Hurry up,” said the sergeant, disregarding our troubles. “It’s down there.”
“Tell me,” said Hals. “There’s still twice as much as this on the sleighs. Do we have to bring all that too?”
“Yes, of course… I don’t know…. Hurry up, for God’s sake!” While the Russians were reloading, our battery had fired twice. The next Russian salvo fell about forty yards behind us, followed by two others at an indefinable distance, which nonetheless made us double over a little lower. Suddenly there was a deafening hooting sound, followed by an overwhelming noise which shook the earth and the air. One side of the trench collapsed. It all happened so quickly I had no time to duck. I remember seeing what looked like a disintegrating scarecrow flying through the rubble in a cone of flame, and falling in several pieces onto the edge of the trench, before rolling to the bottom. We were all thrown to the ground without the strength or courage to get up again.
“Quick! Up! We’ve got to get to the other trench!” shouted the sergeant, whose face was contorted by fear.
“If a shell lands here, it will be a volcano.”
There were two more explosions. Our guns were firing steadily. Dragging the cases, we climbed across the debris and the body of the poor wretch who had been blown into the air. I glanced at him quickly as we went by. It was a horrible sight. His helmet had fallen down over his face, and its visor was half-buried in his chin, or neck. His heavy winter clothes were like a sack holding together something which no longer bore any resemblance to the human form. He was missing a leg — or perhaps it was doubled under him. Another body was mixed into the rubble a short way off. The Russian shell must have landed right on some poor fellows who had ducked their heads and were waiting for the storm to pass.