The regiment is stationed on the Maginot Line—on the edge of the Ardennes—two leagues from the Belgian border. We are bivouacked under canvas and they put us to work digging trenches. All day we are digging trenches—a maze of stupid trenches. In the evenings we sit around in our tents playing cards, drinking cheap wine and reminiscing about our homes, our families, and our former lives. This doesn’t make us feel better, but it does remind us why we are here.
When our captains decide the trenches are ready, High Command comes down to inspect them. There are meetings at Battalion headquarters with parades and inspections—all the usual bullshit. First they make us dig through a mountain of mud, and then they expect us to get all cleaned up for inspection. I tell you, Padrig, the military has some stupid ideas about how to win a war.
But after all that, it turns out they don’t like our trenches, or our position for that matter. The official word is we are too vulnerable. So they pull us back to the next hill and we start over. They pull this shit three times—it’s like they want us to dig a fucking trench all the way back to Paris. But for me, the worst part is the planes. All the time we’re digging, enemy spy planes fly over us, watching us—it’s eerie. But does anyone try to shoot them down or chase them off? Nann! That would be too easy.
Then it begins! Suddenly, there are no more spy planes. Now the air is filled with Stukas raking our positions with machine-gun fire. Then their artillery starts—the sky is black with shells and mortars. The bombardment lasts for two days—we just sit in our trenches with our heads down. On the second day the regimental headquarters takes a direct hit, killing our colonel and his second-in-command.
When we hear about that, my sergeant says that’s the end of us as a fighting machine. He says they were the only officers we had who knew what they were doing. According to him the rest of the staff officers got their commissions from political pandering—whatever that means; and our field officers, he says, are a joke—just kids—wet behind the ears.
On the third day comes the big push—wave upon wave of tanks, with infantry battalions moving in behind them. We try to hold ’em off, but it’s like trying to hold back the tide—men are dying all around me. But it’s the noise that really wears us down. The crash of guns; the screams of the wounded—you can’t hear yourself think.
The sergeant receives word from field HQ: “Begin withdrawing your men in an orderly fashion!” Who do they think they’re kidding? There’s nothing orderly about being in Hell. Some men throw down their rifles and start running. When I see that, I want to run too—I’m just as scared as they are—but I’m in the same trench as the sergeant. But when he climbs out of the hole to try to stop the stampede, he’s cut to pieces by machine-gun fire and his body falls back in the trench on top of me.
That’s it. I’m out of there. We’re all out of there. I heave his body to one side, scramble out of the hole and start running. I tell you, Padrig, I never ran so far or so fast in my life. But when the cannon roar fades and the carnage is far behind, I collapse on the outskirts of a forest hamlet and lie on the ground gasping for air. Some fifteen minutes later, when my body stops heaving and I pull myself to my feet, I discover to my shame and chagrin that my face and coat are covered with my sergeant’s blood.
There’s another soldier from my regiment skulking in the woods nearby, and together we head into the village, slinking between the houses like a couple of thieves. And beside the square, another man I know calls to me from one of the houses. Now there are three of us in this bombed-out settlement not knowing what to do or where to go.
Then the shelling starts afresh and the soldier from the house leads us back inside, and we take cover in the cellar. And for the first time that week I begin to feel safe—the rock walls are dense and substantial. But we’re all exhausted, so we agree to stay there and rest up until dark and then try to make our way back to our lines—wherever the hell they are.
There we are, three Breton peasants sitting in the cellar of a house in an abandoned village in the middle of the Ardenne forest. Shells are flying overhead, and we have no idea where the Germans are, where the French are, or where we are. I am sitting on the floor with my back against a stone wall. Sitting beside me is Joseph Le Bris, a farm laborer from the Black Mountains.
Across from us is Marcel Guillou, a miller’s son from Malestroit, on the Lanvaux Heath, north-east of Vannes. He is the first among us to shake off his fear, and he is soon restless, getting to his feet and poking around, testing the doors and peering into the cabinets.
“Aha!” he says, as he holds up a key, seemingly oblivious to the inferno outside. “This is more like it.” He returns to the only locked door, swings it open and disappears inside.
Joseph turns a contorted and frightened face toward me: “What?” says he.
“Search me,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. But our eyes are on the doorway. Where has he gone? What is he doing?
Marcel reappears with three bottles under his arm. “This’ll make the day go better,” he says.
We are suddenly very thirsty, and we jump to our feet.
“Is it cider?” asks Joseph, doubtfully.
“No. They don’t make cider around here,” says Marcel. “It’s wine, red wine!”
He passes out the bottles, and I seize mine and pick at the cork with my bayonet. It refuses to budge. I jab at it but only succeed in stabbing my fingers. Frustrated, I shove the damn thing down into the bottle. At last it is mine. My lone victory in this crazy war. I hold my captive up by its neck:
“May Hitler rot in Hell,” I say. “Ar Breizh!” I’m not being patriotic; I am railing at a God that allows the blind ambition of a fascist lunatic to put the world at peril.
“Ar Breizh,” they echo, and we take long pulls at our bottles, none of us knowing whether we will ever see our homeland again.
The wine is rich and dry. It rolls down my throat and through my body, embracing and warming me as it passes, numbing my senses. The hell outside begins to fade as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and stumble against the wall. Marcel is standing in the middle of the room, savoring a mouthful. But it is Joseph, shell-shocked and frightened Joseph, who captures the moment. He is sitting back on the floor leaning against the wall and gazing reverently at his bottle:
“Jesus!” he says. “That’ll settle your fucking nerves.”
We say nothing more until our bottles are empty. By this time I am back on the floor next to Joseph, and we are both watching Marcel, who is rocking gently back and forth with his eyes closed. Then another shell lands, just missing the house, but the impact throws him to the ground. He picks himself back up, curses the air, and hurls his flagon at the wall.
“Those Nazi pigs,” he says indignantly. “Don’t they know it’s the cocktail hour?” He dusts himself off. “Shall we have another?” he asks, as an impish grin lights up his war-torn and filthy face.
This seems like a good idea to me, but Joseph is not so sure: “I don’t know, Marcel,” he cautions. “We don’t want to get drunk.”
“Why the hell not?” says Marcel. “We could be dead any moment. Let’s go out with a bang. Tell him, Yann.”
“Just one more bottle, Joseph,” I say. “It will keep our spirits up while we wait for it to get dark. Don’t worry, my friend. We won’t leave you down here.”
Marcel
