Firmin Piérot

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.

On the way, Firmin met a group that was anything but reassuring. A few dark silhouettes tottered towards him in the darkness. From head to toe, they were covered in mud. It was difficult to see their pallid faces under their dented steel helmets. He was convinced he was seeing zombies. In fact, they were troops returning from Verdun. What horrors had they suffered?

Firmin was about to find out. When he arrived on the front lines, in Haudromont Woods, the trenches had been pulverised. The fighting was terrible, the shelling was intense and the enemy was everywhere. The relief troops were late; Firmin and his group were completely isolated! Firmin couldn’t take any more. So hell does exist, he thought. It’s in Verdun!

Two weeks later, on 28 May, Firmin left the sector at last. He and his comrades were unrecognisable. A column of corpse-like figures, ashen-faced, covered in mud, traipsed back down the lines. They were exhausted and ravenously hungry. They had just experienced the hell of Verdun and prayed they wouldn’t have to go back.