![]() ![]() The walls of the trench crumbled and fell in, entombing them. The huge German mortar, designed to destroy concrete dugouts, exploded at the edge of the trench in a titanic detonation that must have been like a lightning strike. Fate had dealt 3 Company’s shell-shocked survivors a deadly hand. Instinctively every man ducked, but it was too late. They heard the whining moan of another falling mortar coming in. ![]() Their rifles were ready, leaning up against the trench wall and fire step. They had been huddled down behind the forward wall, facing east. Of the original 164 men, only 73 were still alive on the morning of June 23. But worse was to come for the men of 3 Company. Direct hits by mortars collapsed the trench walls and killed and maimed scores in an instant. Whole stretches of the trench were immolated by successive concussions. It was obvious the Germans were determined to kill them all. A series of bitter battles unfolded as the Germans chipped away at French defenses on the high ground on the east bank of the Meuse River.īy that time, the French battalions had been under fire for two solid weeks. French infantry comes under intense artillery fire as the Germans grind away at fortified enemy positions in spring 1916. ![]() More valiant defenders were blasted and shredded in an instant. Every day, deadly barrages fell on the French. There was no point in trying to see what was happening, and certainly it would be useless to shoot back with rifles. The explosions split their world with stunning noise that made their ears ring. Every blast seemed to be right on top of them. Towering fountains of dirt and flame erupted into the sky, turning the air into a haze of brown and gray dust and smoke. The ground around the huddled soldiers shook with dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of detonations. The Germans were beginning their prefatory bombardment, just as they had done in February when they had hammered the French positions with nearly a million shells. Then several dozen sharp bangs split the air. Shortly after sunrise a series of deep booms, like distant thunder rumbled over the quiet valley. Only God and luck would play a part in survival or slaughter. Ordered into the hastily dug trenches on June 10, the officers tried to place their companies to minimize the effects of a direct hit. They were very exposed on high ground, well within sight of German artillery in the woods east of the Meuse River. The Frenchmen all knew what concentrated heavy guns could do to an entrenched position. They had reliable Lebel 8mm rifles tipped with 20-inch bayonets, and they knew how to use them. They would fight every German who showed his pointed helmet to the 137th Infantry. These were French soldiers, sworn to defend their sacred homeland to the death against the vile Boche. Yet there was no talk of retreat or surrender. Two battalions of the 137th had been ordered to hold their lines against the German Fifth Army.īut there was little doubt that the soldiers, clad in the characteristic horizon blue jackets and trousers, helmets, and leather belts with ammo pouches, had no illusions about their ability to hold off a determined German infantry assault, especially those that carried flamethrowers and grenades. Their trench, wreathed in barbed wire and surrounded by shell craters was in a salient a short distance from what had once been the most heavily fortified bastion in France, Fort Douaumont. The stink of expended cordite, scorched wood, and rotten corpses permeated the air around them. Instead, the soldiers of 3 Company of the French 137th Infantry Regiment smelled only death on the wind. The weather was warm with breezes coming down from the north, but they did not carry the scent of wildflowers or grapevines. The morning of June 23, 1916, dawned over the broad crenellated valley of the Meuse River in northeastern France. ![]()
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