Destins de Verdun

On Sunday 17 September 1967, more than 5,000 people gathered: veterans, officials, standard-bearers and pilgrims. They all stood in front of the parvis of the building that had just been completed. The inauguration of the Verdun Memorial was about to begin.

Buffeted by the wind in his basket hanging below the baggy envelope of fabric that formed his observation balloon, second lieutenant Jean Tourtay scanned the battlefield. For several weeks he’d been spending hours hundreds of metres up in the air, providing news by telephone to the commanders of the general staff about progress on the front and guiding countless shots from the big guns.

Private Firmin Piérot shivered. Today, 13 May 1916, his battalion was heading to Verdun, a name that spoke volumes. Around him, the faces of his fellow soldiers of the 65th Infantry Battalion were grave. They knew the sector’s reputation only too well. They understood that many of them would never return.

It drew his attention immediately. In the distance, he could clearly see the Nieuport attacking one of his side’s aircraft. He didn’t hesitate for a second. He was a Knight of the Sky, who two months earlier had been awarded Germany’s highest honour, the Merit Cross.

Buffeted by the wind in his basket hanging below the baggy envelope of fabric that formed his observation balloon, second lieutenant Jean Tourtay scanned the battlefield. For several weeks he’d been spending hours hundreds of metres up in the air, providing news by telephone to the commanders of the general staff about progress on the front and guiding countless shots from the big guns.

Summer 1916. In the Verdun sector, a curious stage was set up, decorated in the colours of the French flag. It was called the “Front Theatre” and a man was standing next to it, supervising the work. He was the creator of the theatre, the artist Georges Scott, who had set out to organise shows to entertain the troops. But what would the entertainment be? There was no question in Georges’ mind.

The German doctor Benno Hallauer had been at Fort Douaumont for two days. He had arrived as back-up for the medical teams which, day and night, cared for the numerous wounded soldiers assembled in the passageways of the fort. Despite the rudimentary living conditions and standard of hygiene, the fort was a safe refuge like an unsinkable ship in a storm.

Second lieutenant Charles Koenig had already been on the front line for five days. He and his men of the 106th Infantry Regiment were in Horgne Ravine, below Fort Vaux. It was a lively sector, and on the night of 24 June 1916 they were all waiting for the same thing: to be relieved.

The German machine guns unleashed death on the men of the 74th Infantry Regiment as they advanced towards Fort Douaumont on that Monday, 22 May 1916. There was no cover to protect them other than “the depot”, a concrete structure standing near the fort. It was more than they could have hoped for, and their commander, Paul Lefèbvre-Dibon, fell on it immediately. But the building was already occupied.

Sergeant Marius Marly was on his way back from leave. It was May 1916, and his fellow soldiers of the 154th Infantry Regiment celebrated his return. But the festivities were short-lived, because the regiment was heading back up to the front line, and to a renowned sector: Le Mort-Homme.

Officer Cadet Buffet was leading. He, his company and a handful of other soldiers judged superfluous to the ongoing battle had to leave Fort Vaux. Under cover of darkness, they crossed the moat and continued away from the fort, with adrenaline pumping and fear in their hearts. They had to be completely silent, because German soldiers armed with machine guns were keeping watch above the fort. Despite the hazards, the group managed to get away.

“Verdun? Well that suits me. After all I’ve heard about how awful it is, I’ll be glad to see it.” This wasn’t a phrase you’d imagine hearing at the end of May 1916. And yet it was the reaction of a 23 year old from Béarn, Jean-Ernest Tucoo-Chala, a master gun-layer in the 14th Artillery Regiment who didn’t seem to be scared of anything, not even the hell of Verdun. But the young man’s bravery was to be severely tested, especially given that his battery was trained on Fort Douaumont.

It was Friday 23 June 1916, and the Germans were pouring out of the Bazil Ravine. As part of the decisive attack against Verdun, the men of the 103rd Division were charged with capturing Souville Fort. But before they could do that, they needed to take the rest of Vaux-Chapitre Woods, which their guns had been shelling for three days.

Franz Marc had spent several hours on horseback, looking for the best place for his artillery regiment’s ammunition column to pass.

The men of the garrison had spent three long days holed up in the depths of the Froideterre fortification, as the German artillery hammered down. The fort trembled, smoked and creaked under the heavy blows of the shells. Private Albert Neyton was convinced it would collapse on top of them.

Georges Gaudy was awoken violently on 7 May 1916. Rousing himself, he saw the grey mass that was advancing towards him and the men around him. One of them rushed towards him screaming “Gas! Put on your masks!” Everyone feared this deadly cloud; it promised a lingering and painful death. Automatically putting his hand to his belt, Georges felt a chill run through his body. Where was his mask?

Surrounded by his fellow soldiers, Corporal Moussa Dansako waited at the bottom of his sparsely fitted out trench for the order to go over the top. The autumn days on the plateau north of Verdun were freezing and the soldiers of the 36th Battalion of Senegalese Infantrymen felt the cold severely. What can these men from Senegal, Mali, Niger, Guinea, Burkina Faso or elsewhere have been thinking about? Their families? Their villages?

Early on the morning of Friday 2 June 1916, Lieutenant Rackow, together with twenty men, made it onto the top of Fort Vaux. The Germans had been on the slopes of the fort for several months. And Rackow was first to the top of the “mountain”.

That’s what drew the attention of the runner, dripping with sweat, his breath repeatedly snatched away by the explosions all around him. Eventually, he recognised the owner of the hand. It was poor Marche, whose mission had ended there, on Tuesday 1 August 1916, on the edge of a track zigzagging between the shell holes. Marche was tasked with taking a message to the colonel who had set up a command post a few hundred metres from the Thiaumont fortification where the Germans had been holding fast for more than five weeks.

The shelling drew nearer. The noise, the trembling and the smoke became more and more intense. It was impossible to stay inside the huts at the evacuation hospital in Dugny-sur-Meuse. Yolande de Baye, the young nurse in charge of the department, had plenty of experience of war. She had volunteered at the beginning of the conflict, and had seen countless men killed or wounded.

The Quatre Cheminées Shelter was swaying under the heavy German artillery fire falling into the Vignes Ravine west of Fleury. This was nothing unusual, but on this day, Tuesday 8 August 1916, the shelling was ferocious.

Standing in the doorway to their underground shelter, Marc Stéphane had suggested to his superior, Lieutenant Robin, two possible solutions to the critical situation in which they and seven other light infantrymen of the 59th Regiment found themselves.

It was several weeks since he’d answered her letters. Her last letter, of 18 March 1915, had been returned to her marked “Return to sender” and “Addressee could not be reached in good time”.

The shell-fire was intense and relentless. The two companies of the 347th Infantry Regiment commanded by second lieutenants Herduin and Millant were attempting to hold the Thiaumont Farm sector. It was 8 June 1916 and the front had just been pushed back on their right by a powerful German attack. There had been countless losses.

Fort Douaumont, which had fallen into the hands of the German army on 25 February 1916 absolutely had to be recaptured. In October 1916, this was one of the French general staff’s priorities. A grand plan was put together for the attack. Artillery firepower was scaled up and the best infantry regiments were mobilised. One of them was the Colonial Infantry Regiment of Morocco, which had received several decorations and was known for the pugnacity of its soldiers.

“I’d rather go back out under the shells than rot in this hell-hole.” Those were the thoughts of Lieutenant Benech, of the 321st Infantry Regiment, when he entered the Tavannes Tunnel. Although the tunnel offered good protection against the shelling, the dark, unhealthy atmosphere inside drove many men mad.

A red Nieuport plane was making its way back home towards the French lines above Sainte-Menehould. To begin with, the soldiers watched the flimsy biplane, wondering about its speed. Their curiosity gave way to concern when it headed abruptly for the ground.

He was not part of the garrison. And yet young Georges Weiss, an 18 year old sergeant, spent the first days of the battle at his post on top of Fort Moulainville, laying the artillery pieces. His unit had retreated but he hadn’t left the fort. Eventually, due to his youth and determination, Fort Moulainville’s new commander Captain Harispe had agreed that he could stay, under Harispe’s orders.