By Blood Spilt: Steele's Verdun

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Steele’s Verdun

By Ricky Balona

As always, this book is dedicated to my loving family.

Copyright 2015 Ricky Balona

Chapter 1

Lieutenant Pierre Lesboine trod wearily down the dusty road which in reality was nothing more than a twenty-foot-wide gravel path. Artillery rounds exploded up ahead pounding the French positions at Verdun. For months now the French had managed to hold back the German juggernaut unleashed by the Chief of General Staff, von Falkenhayn. He planned to bleed France dry. Unfortunately, for him, the Germans were dying in equal numbers. Verdun, a string of twenty major forts and forty smaller ones historically protected France’s eastern frontier. Drawn into a psychological as well as physical battle France knew the fall of Verdun would have a devastating effect on morale. Every Frenchman realised it would be a national humiliation if Verdun fell. They would defend the honour of France to the last man, the last drop of blood. A thin line of desperate, weary men was all that stood between the German army and Paris.

Operation Judgment began with a ten-hour bombardment by over eight hundred artillery guns firing over a million shells the morning of 21 February 1916. Fort Douamont fell to the advancing Germans a few days later. Reputed to be the world’s most impregnable fort it was garrisoned only by a few elderly Artillery reservists. Sheltering in the dark confines of the underground bunkers they had received no contact from the outside world for days. Ten combat engineers from the Brandenburg Regiment, led by Sergeant Kunze, managed to approach the fort undetected. Squeezing through an observation slit Sergeant Kunze unlocked a door allowing his patrol to enter. Armed with a bolt action rifle Sergeant Kunze searched the deserted corridors until he came across the Artillerymen. They were promptly locked up in one of the rooms. Shortly after German reinforcements poured into the fort.

Captain Pierre Lesboine and his company of new recruits were rushing to stem the German advance near the town of Douamont. Thrown haphazardly into the thick of battle by the French High Command their baptism of fire was about to be a shattering experience. The ground trembled as if it were a living thing, shells sounded like far-off thunder.

Looking down the line of his once eager infantry company, he noticed some of the men began to lose their reckless enthusiasm. Advancing down the Voie Sacree they came upon small groups of walking wounded stumbling toward the rear. Their faces bore testimony to the horrors of war. Skeletal figures shuffled despairingly; eyes sunk deep in their sockets. Pierre stared at an infantryman struggling to place one foot in front of the other so violently did his body shake and tremble. A haggard looking friend pulled on the man’s sleeve guiding him toward the distant medical station. For a moment, his eyes locked onto Pierre’s. Open mouthed the infantryman waved his arm in the direction of the front line. His eyes sparkled with a hint of madness, a silent indication of the horrors awaiting the company. Shells exploded ahead of them sending white hot shrapnel whizzing through the warm air.

Through the smoke-filled haze, a battered ambulance appeared speeding down the rutted road. Pierre shouted orders above the increasing reverberations of battle. His men darted off the road to avoid being run over by the ambulance driving like a bat out of hell. Drawing level with the head of the company the ambulance driver screamed, Don’t go down there! Slamming his foot down hard on the accelerator the cries of the wounded aboard were drowned out by the sound of the engine. A cloud of dust billowed behind the ambulance. Pierre shook his head appalled at the way the wounded were jostled around in the vehicle. It sped off down the dusty road passing the rear of the column of increasingly nervous men. A near hit by a heavy artillery shell reduced the ambulance to a flaming wreck careening off the road. The wounded trapped inside screamed, slowly burning alive. En avant! Pierre shouted knowing he had to get the company moving again. White dust clung to their uniforms, dried their mouths and stung their eyes. Shells rained down incessantly now exploding closer and closer. In the distance, Pierre spotted the remnants of a trench dug along the hill. Signalling for his men to follow he began running toward the dubious safety of the shallow trench.

They ran headlong into a sea of fire and flame. Shells exploded on all sides of the road. Airbursts showered the company with lethal fragments of steel. Looking back, Pierre saw a shell explode in the middle of his company. Wounded dropped, by the way, screaming in terror, writhing in pain. En avant! Close ranks. He felt the concussion of the blasts batter his body. Losing his hearing Pierre thought his eardrums had been perforated. His heart raced, adrenaline rushed through his body. Each step seemed to take a lifetime. His entire world had been violently changed rushing headlong into the Dantesque inferno. Dismembered bodies, screaming wounded and sheer terror assailed his mind. The area a few kilometres North East of Verdun had earned itself the name of The Bloody Triangle. It was here that Pierre Lesboine led his company through the gates of hell. Rushing over the pocked marked battleground Pierre skirted barbed wire entanglements, diving headlong into a shell hole. For a second he lay there uncomprehending. Body parts littered the crater. A nauseating stench of death and decay clung to his uniform already sweat soaked and filthy. Fighting the urge to vomit Pierre slithered to the rim of the shell hole clawing his way over the dead. Shrapnel continued to decimate his badly shaken troops. Avec moi, en avant! Leaping to his feet, he sprinted the remaining distance to the trench through a hail of artillery fire. This time, he checked before jumping into the shallow ditch thereby avoiding a young man sprawled on the trench floor. Pierre recoiled in shock. The young soldier’s eyes pleaded for help. He pressed a filthy rag to his face. Blood seeped through covering his trembling hands. Sergeant Bertrand slid into the trench amidst a shower of shell splinters bursting overhead. He took a few seconds to recover from his ordeal then turned to the wounded man. Pulling a dressing from his pocket Sergeant Bertrand wrestled the wounded man’s hands away from his face. He staggered back when he saw the man’s bottom jaw was missing. Unsure what to do Sergeant Bertrand glanced at Lieutenant Pierre Lesboine. Do what you can for the poor bastard. We have to get organised before the Boche attack. Exhausted men dropped or dived into the shallow trench, cowering on the muddy floor amid the debris of war. Slowly more men dropped into the trench. A few joined them in groups, others individually. Pierre set them to work on the breastworks immediately. German artillery had reduced the trench to a shambles of shattered dugouts, splintered support timbers and left gaps in the barbed wire to their front. Sergeant Bertrand, how many of the boys made it? He scanned the length of the trench hoping to see more of his men taking cover from the bombardment. Less than forty men are here Mon Lieutenant. Of those three are wounded, DuPont was hit in the stomach. Pierre shook his head despairingly. We have lost more than half our total effective strength Sergeant. How is DuPont doing? Nodding over to a battered dugout Sergeant Bertrand shook his head. I don’t think he will last an hour.

We have no communication with the rear. There is no ammunition supply and as for food, the devil knows where we are going to get some from. How is the water supply Sergeant? Pierre had known the answer before the sergeant replied. Each man had two canteens when they set off. He would be surprised to hear if anyone had any water left at all. Set up our defences as best we can. There is no question of going back. We have to stick it out until the relief gets here. Small arms fire cracked overhead. The bombardment crept further to the rear of the French lines targeting the supply columns moving up the road.

Pulling away a few shattered boards blocking the entrance to a dugout Pierre darted away from the opening. I heard something moving in there sergeant. Sergeant Bertrand drew a grenade from his pocket. Want me to grenade the bastards Mon Lieutenant? Pierre shook his head. They may be our men in the dugout Sergeant, He called out, covering the entrance with his revolver. Slowly a hand appeared at the entrance pushing away the wooden boards. A haggard soldier emerged shading his eyes from the sunlight. His uniform was covered in a thick layer of dried mud. I am Caporal Roland of the sixty-third infantry Mon Lieutenant. Are you the one taking over this sector? He struggled to speak. Sergeant Bertrand held out his water bottle. No mate, thank you. You are going to need every drop. He called out into the dugout. Three filthy figures emerged from the subterranean shelter. They looked more dead than alive. They were the epitome of the Poilu, the hairy ones literally speaking. It was an affectionate nickname from the Napoleonic era given to the French soldiers fighting in the trenches. Dirty field dressings, mud, encrusted filthy tattered uniforms. Their eyes are sunken, their nerves shattered the survivors of the sixty-third infantry pushed past Lieutenant Lesboine. Where is your commanding officer Caporal? Not bothering to turn around Caporal Roland waved his hand absent minded. Dead Mon Lieutenant, we are all that is left of the sixty-third. He pointed down the trench. It was then Lieutenant Lesboine noticed the dead. Blending in with the yellow mud, bodies lay strewn along the trench line. Suddenly cold, lifeless eyes stared out from the debris covering their bodies. Pierre looked at the top of the parapet shocked by the number of bodies lying amid the burst sand bags. Here an arm, there a leg. He jumped back realising that what he stood on was not a sandbag but the torso of some poor bastard.

See you in hell Mon Lieutenant. Caporal Roland shuffled over the top of the parapet preferring to crawl from shell hole to shell hole until he decided it was safe enough to stand upright. By the time they reached the relative safety of the rear, another two members of the sixty-third had met their fate in the perdition of Verdun.

How long are we supposed to hold our positions Mon Lieutenant? Pierre felt a chill run down his spine. Four days’ men, that is all. Now get to work on the trench and dugouts. I want everything ready to repel any Boche attacks. They began reconstructing the shelters under constant artillery bombardment. Hey mon Lieutenant, I can see the Boche positions. They are only about one hundred and fifty meters from us! Sergeant Bertrand grabbed the soldier by the back of his tunic pulling him roughly away from the parapet. Simultaneously a shot rang out from the German lines. The wounded man lay screaming on the ground holding the side of his face. Blood spurted between his fingers. He convulsed before losing consciousness. What the hell was he thinking? Pierre watched a fellow soldier apply a rough dressing to the wound. The bullet had grazed the wounded man’s head leaving a mangled mess where his ear had been. I want no more looking over the top! Is that clear? Pierre shouted at the top of his voice all the while conscious of the artillery bombardment rolling back toward their positions. Take cover in the dugouts at the double men! Looking at the derelict structures, Pierre wrinkled his nose in disgust. He lit a small piece of candle which he took from one of his pouches. Shells exploded ever closer shaking the earth. Dust and sand slipped through the wooden beams overhead spilling onto the floor of the dugout. Shells roared in, slamming with ferocious force on top of the French positions. Deadly geysers erupted, spitting fire and steel. Mounds of earth rose like some gigantic monster towering above the parapet. Pausing in mid-air for a fraction of a second, before it came crashing down on the exposed Poilus.

For what seemed an eternity the Poilus sheltered from the storm of fire and steel. Concussions from the blasts assailed their bodies as if they were being pounded by a fist. Some slipped into a trance connected with shock.

A sudden silence descended on the area immediately surrounding the French positions. Numbed by the hours of intense bombardment the men simply lay where they had taken cover expecting the German artillery to recommence their deadly symphony. Lieutenant Lesboine struggled to his feet. His instincts were to check on his men but he decided to risk a quick look at the German trench opposite.

Shadowy figures darted through no man’s land heading directly toward him. Alert the Boche is attacking! He screamed urging his men into their firing positions. Fire at will! Drawing his revolver Lieutenant Lesboine turned to a young soldier cowering against the trench wall. Don’t just lie there throw grenades at least! He heard the Chauchat begin to fire. Hoping against all odds that the notoriously unreliable machine gun would hold out long enough without a stoppage or overheating. He pushed some of the most reluctant troops up onto the firing steps. Tossing a half dozen grenades over the parapet the young shoulder lifted his head above the