Paths of Glory: Impressions of War Written at and Near the FrontCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
History
Paths of Glory: Impressions of War Written at and Near the Front
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
World War, 1914-1918 -- Campaigns -- Western Front; World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives
Here again the trick of taking a message off the telephone and shouting
it forth from the mouth of a fox burrow was repeated. Whenever this
procedure came to pass a sergeant who had strained his vocal cords from
much giving of orders would swell out his chest and throw back his head
and shriek hoarsely with what was left of his voice, which wasn't much.
This meant a fury of noise resulting instantly and much white smoke to
follow. For a while the guns were fired singly and then they were fired
in salvos; and you might mark how the grass for fifty yards in front of
the muzzles would lie on the earth quite flat and then stand erect, and
how the guns, like shying bronchos, would leap backward upon their
carriages and then slide forward again as the air in the air cushions
took up the kick. Also we took note that the crews of the ten-
centimeters had built for themselves dugouts to sleep in and to live in,
and had covered the sod roofs over with straw and broken tree limbs. We
judged they would be very glad indeed to crawl into those same shelters
when night came, for they had been serving the guns all day and plainly
were about as weary as men could be. To burn powder hour after hour and
day after day and week after week at a foe who never sees you and whom
you never see; to go at this dreary, heavy trade of war with the sober,
uninspired earnestness of convicts building a prison wall about
themselves--the ghastly unreality of the proposition left me mentally
numbed.
Howsoever, we arrived not long after that at a field hospital--namely,
Field Hospital Number 36, and here was realism enough to satisfy the
lexicographer who first coined the word. This field hospital was
established in eight abandoned houses of the abandoned small French
village of Colligis, and all eight houses were crowded with wounded men
lying as closely as they could lie upon mattresses placed side by side
on the floors, with just room to step between the mattresses. Be it
remembered also that these were all men too seriously wounded to be
moved even to a point as close as Laon; those more lightly injured than
these were already carried back to the main hospitals.
We went into one room containing only men suffering from chest wounds,
who coughed and wheezed and constantly fought off the swarming flies
that assailed them, and into another room given over entirely to
brutally abbreviated human fragments--fractional parts of men who had
lost their arms or legs. On the far mattress against the wall lay a
little pale German with his legs gone below the knees, who smiled upward
at the ceiling and was quite chipper.
"A wonderful man, that little chap," said one of the surgeons to me.
"When they first brought him here two weeks ago I said to him: 'It's
hard on you that you should lose both your feet,' and he looked up at me
and grinned and said: 'Herr Doctor, it might have been worse. It might
have been my hands--and me a tailor by trade!'"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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