OVERVIEW:
A GERMAN DESERTER’S WAR EXPERIENCES by Anonymous is a historical account written in the early 20th
century. This work provides a vivid and harrowing portrayal of a young German
soldier's experiences during World War One, particularly focusing on his time
on the front lines in Belgium. The narrative explores the grim realities of
war, emphasizing the brutality, chaos, and moral dilemmas faced by soldiers,
contrasting the glorification of warfare with its harsh truths. The opening of
the book sets the stage for the soldier’s reluctant entry into combat after
being mobilized into service. The feelings among the soldiers oscillate between
excitement and dread, as they are swept along in a nationalistic fervor that
they do not fully comprehend. The narrator, still an anti-militarist at heart,
reflects on the absurdity of fighting an unknown enemy while witnessing the
emotional farewells between soldiers and their loved ones. As the narrative
unfolds, it hints at the unfolding horrors and dehumanizing experiences
inherent to war, foreshadowing the author's critical perspective on militarism
and the devastation it brings to both soldiers and civilians.
The following excerpt from A GERMAN DESERTER’S WAR EXPERIENCES is titled 21. IN THE HELL OF VAUQUOIS:
21. IN THE HELL OF VAUQUOIS
We soon found our company, and our
comrades told us what hell they had gotten into. The next morning our turn
came. We had to reach the position before daybreak, for as soon as it got
light, the French kept all approaches under constant fire. There was no trace
of trenches at Vauquois. All that
could be seen were pieces of stones. That heap of ruins, once a village, had
changed hands no fewer than fifteen times. When we arrived, half of the place
was in the possession of the Germans. But the French dominated the highest
point, from where they could survey the whole country for many miles around. In
the absence of a trench, we sought cover behind stones, for it was impossible
to construct trenches—the artillery was shooting everything to pieces.
Thus the soldiers squatted behind
piles of stones and fired as fast as their rifles would allow. Guns of all
sizes were bombarding the village incessantly. There was an army of corpses,
Frenchmen, and Germans, all lying about pell-mell. At first, we thought that
that terrible state of things was only temporary, but after a few days, we
recognized that a slaughter worse than madness was a continuous state of things
at that place. Day and night, it was always the same. With Verdun as a base of operations, the French
continually brought up fresh masses of troops. They had carried along a
field railroad the heavy pieces of the neighboring forts of Verdun, and in the spring of 1915, an
offensive of a local, but murderous kind was begun. The artillery of both sides
bombarded the place to such an extent that not a foot of ground could be found
that was not torn up by shells. Thousands upon thousands of shells of all sizes
were employed. The bombardment from both sides lasted three days and three
nights, until at last not a soldier, neither French nor German, was left in the
village. Both sides had been obliged to retreat before the infernal fire of the
opponent, for not a man would have escaped alive out of that inferno. The whole
slope and height were veiled in an impenetrable smoke. In the evening of the
third day, the enemy's bombardment died down a little, and we were ordered to
go forward again into the shell-torn ruins. It was not yet quite dark when the
French advanced in close order.
We were in possession of almost the
whole of the village and had placed one machine gun next to another. We could
see the projectiles of the artillery burst in great numbers among the reserves
of the attackers. Our machine guns mowed down the first ranks. Five times, the
French renewed their attack during that night, their artillery meanwhile making
great gaps in our ranks. We soldiers calculated that the two sides had together
some three or four thousand men killed in that one night. The next morning, the
French eased their attacks, and their guns treated us again to the accustomed
drum fire. We stood it until 10 a.m.; then we retreated again without awaiting
orders, leaving innumerable dead men behind. Again, the French advanced in the
face of violent German artillery fire, and effected a lodgment at the northern
edge of the village of Vauquois that
used to be. A few piles of stones were all that still belonged to us. We
managed to put a few stones before us as protection. The guns of neither side
could hurt us or them, for they, the enemy, were but ten paces away. But the
country behind us was plowed by projectiles. In the face of the machine gun
fire, it was found impossible to bring up ammunition.
The sappers undid the coils of rope
worn around their bodies, and three or more men crept back with them. One of
them was killed; the others arrived safely and attached the packets of
cartridges to the rope. Thus we brought up the ammunition using a rope running
in a circle, until we had enough or till the rope was shot through. At three
o'clock in the afternoon, we attacked again but found it impossible to rise
from the ground on account of the hail of bullets. Everybody was shouting,
"Sappers to the front with hand grenades!" Not a sapper stirred. We
are only human, after all.
A sergeant major of the infantry
came creeping up. He looked as if demented, his eyes were bloodshot.
"You're a sapper?" "Yes," "Advance!"
"Alone?" "We're coming along!" We had to roar at each other
to make ourselves understood in the deafening, confounded row. Another sapper
lay beside me. When the sergeant major saw that he could do nothing with me, he
turned to the other fellow. That man motioned to him to desist, but the
sergeant major got ever more insistent until the sapper showed him his dagger,
and then our superior slung his hook. Some twenty hand grenades were lying in
front of us. Ten of them I had attached to my belt for emergencies. I said
to myself that if all of them exploded, there would not be much left of me. I
had a lighted cigar in my mouth. I lit one bomb after the other and threw them
over to some Frenchmen who were working a machine gun in front of me, behind a
heap of stones. All around me, machine gun bullets were splitting the stones. I
had already thrown four grenades, but all of them had overshot the mark. I took
some stones and threw them to find out how far I would have to throw to hit the
fire-spitting machine gun in front. My aim got more accurate each time until I
hit the barrel of the gun. "If it had only been a hand grenade," I
thought. An infantryman close to me was shot through the shell of one ear, half
of which was cut in pieces; the blood was streaming down his neck. I had no
more material for bandaging except some wadding, which I attached to his wound.
In my pocket, I had a roll of insulating ribbon, the rubber used to insulate
wires—with that I bandaged him. He pointed to the machine gun. Thereupon I gave
him my cigar, telling him to keep it well alight to make the fuse which I
desired to light by it. In quick succession, I threw six hand grenades. I don't
know how many of them took effect, but the rags of uniforms flying about and a
demolished machine gun said enough. When we advanced later, I observed three
dead men lying around the machine gun.
That was only one example of the
usual, daily occurrences that happen day and night, again and again, and
everywhere, and the immense number of such actions of individual soldiers makes
the enormous loss of human life comprehensible.
We were still lying there without
proceeding to the attack. Again, ammunition was brought up by ropes from
the rear. A hand grenade duel ensued; hundreds of hand grenades were thrown by
both sides. Things like that could not go on long—we felt that something was
bound to happen. Without receiving an order and yet as if by command, we all
jumped up and advanced with a dagger in our hands right through the murderous
fire, and engaged in the maddest hand-to-hand fighting. The daggers, sharp as
razors, were plunged into head after head, chest after chest. One stood on
corpses to make corpses of others. New enemies came running up. One had
scarcely finished with one when three more appeared on the scene.
Next time: AN AVIATOR’S FIELD
BOOK by Oswald Bölcke . . . . .
Never miss a new Post! Scroll down to the
lower left sidebar to enter your email address for your FREE subscription.
You’ll get every new Post from ww1 FRAGMENTS
sent straight to your inbox.
Comments