The Great War

“Bonjour!” I called out to the old man chopping firewood. The sun scorched man smiles at me and my three friends as we ride up to him. “Good evening, sir! Me and my fellow officers require lodging and feed for our horses!” I don’t bother politely asking. We are all contributing to the war effort.

“I got an old barn out back.” He offers a disgusting bit of spittle shooting out of his mouth.

I sigh, I was hoping for an actual bed tonight. We’ve been in the saddle for more than ten days, and an actual bed would have been heaven. “I suppose that will do.” I say with a pointed grimace. Completely missing my hints, he nods and leads us around the back of his property. ‘Old barn’ is perhaps a bit positive. This dilapidated structure is mostly rotted wood and peeling paint that must have been built 150 years ago. He leads us inside, not even offering to unsaddle our horses, muttering something about dinner being ready soon. I can only hope dinner will be in better shape than our sleeping quarters. The roof has so many holes it looks like the Germans have already shelled it.

“Ugh, another barn. You would think the locals would have more respect for the people who will be protecting them!” Andre grouses. “Why would I defend this barn from the Germans?” He asks no one in particular. “If we do come across them, I’ll give directions so they can realize this patch of France isn’t worth conquering!”

No one replies. Any reply will only be more fuel for the fire. After eight days of almost nonstop complaining no one is willing to offer any fuel.

Andre drones on as we take care of our horses first. I unsaddle my temperamental mare, thankful that she only tries to bite me twice. After I tie her to a rotten post that will probably give if she pulls back, I give her some oats and wipe her down with a handful of hay. It's more than the cantankerous beast deserves.

“Hey, Jean, what’s today’s date?” Our youngest and freshest cadet, Pierre, asks me.

“Still writing letters to your sweetheart?” I tease him.

“No sir, my mother and father. They made me promise I’d write home.” His answer is so sincere I actually believe him.

“August 21st, 1914.” I reply. Hard to believe we’ve been on the ride for twelve days and have hardly even skirmished German cavalry, much less seen a large force. When we left on our reconnaissance mission twelve days ago everyone at headquarters knew the Germans would be swarming this area of the Ardennes. I was skeptical about cavalry scouting a forest, but here we are.

I stack my lance in the moldy corner my men have stacked their lances and begin unfastening my cloth covered metal cuirass.

“What about you, Sir?” Andre asks me.

“Pardon?” I ask, as I set the heavy chest piece on the hay-covered floor.

“What will you do when this war is over?” Andre asks again

“Well, it's supposed to be over by Christmas right? So I’ll probably get my wife some chocolate and my little girl a doll. Perhaps when I earn a big promotion I’ll buy her a chateau in the country.” My men laugh at my joke. Though my comrades do not see it, my joke does expose some of my hope. Perhaps I can perform bravely on the battlefield and earn a few promotions. I could give both of my girls the lives they deserve. Perhaps even afford a butler or a maid. I am confident that France’s ferocity and fighting spirit will beat back the Germans by Christmas. I need only bravely perform my duty in this short window of opportunity I have been given.

“Thank you, Monsieur!” I smile at the old farmer as he leaves us a basket of food. “Boys, perhaps this farmer is trying to make up for the lack of accommodations.” I hold up a bottle of wine, much to everyone’s delight. We pass a happy night, the bottle of wine doing much to pacify our resentment at spending another night in a barn. We talk about how we will face the Germans. How their clumsy artillery will never be able to get the range on our cavalry. We were taught in training that we were always to attack, and if we meet any Germans tomorrow we’ll show them the true ferocity of France.

*

The next day as we ride towards the village of Rosignol I never even see the machine gun that shredded me, my men down and my stupid horse. There in the dirt I die for the glory of France.

Author’s note: I wrote this story to honor the 27,000 French men who died on August 22nd, 1914. I did my best to capture and express the French military doctrine of the day. The views that these men are expressing seem foolish to us but are historically (and tragically) the wide spread views of the day. In their own way, these men were courageous and I want that courage to be remembered.

Sources: Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History, Blue Print to Armageddon Episode 2

https://weaponsandwarfare.com/2020/10/28/french-cavalry-1914/