An Officer’s Obligation
“‘An officer,’ he said to me, ’literally must give all his existence, all his life-blood to his country; he must not spare a drop; less than any other is he allowed to invoke the relief of the “slightly wounded,” which permits him to go to some luxurious hospital in the Côte d’Azur and there appeal to the tender hearts of the Sisters of Charity. Wounded, sick, limping, he must be able to say to his soldiers who are complaining, “But do I not march, too?” Then they will follow him.’
“On the morning of October 4, 1914, the 41st attacked near Monchy-le-Preux.... All went well at first. From time to time, whenever the ground was uneven, they rushed forward; a few unlucky ones are dropped out on the way. With the rest, Lemordant, although himself wounded in the hand, reached the enemy trench and carried it.
“A second bullet at this moment grazes his right temple; a third, a little while after, wounds him on the top of his skull. It is now broad day, but it is northern weather, gray, cheerless, dark, uncertain. In the four great stages of his military life this painter soldier knew different climates; he has run the tone-scale from the burning blue of Charleroi to the bottomless night of Craonnelle, with the clear starlit heaven of the Marne between.
“Is it of that he thinks, if it be that, in such a moment, he can think of anything except the safety of his men?
“Confused movement on the plain—on his right frantic silhouettes which stand bolt upright, whirl about, collapse; another section of his company engaged on the same side is caught on the flank by machine guns set up in a sort of blockhouse behind a mound, in front of a pile of ruined huts. Without hesitating, with the firmness of decision which never abandons him in the most critical circumstances, Lemordant gets his men together, rallies the fugitives, and throws himself on the blockhouse—the battery of machine guns is put out of action. But Lemordant, climbing the slope, receives a bullet pointblank which goes through his right knee.
“It is his fourth wound of the day, and his men wish to carry him off; he refuses, feeling that his presence is more necessary than ever. In spite of the pain he merely had his leg set in splints, then, fortifying the positions on the side toward the enemy, he sends a runner to Major Bernard to keep him in touch with his advance and to call for supports. The man is killed on the way. Another meets the same fate, and in the interim the German counter-attack breaks loose.
“It is launched by a whole company, and it is terrifying to see this gray wave rolling over the plain, rising, sinking, rising again, and growing at each rush which brings it nearer the mound. Lemordant, by rigid demand, compels his men not to fire, to control their nerves. The charge gets within twenty meters of the mound, where it gathers itself up to come over in a single mass with the cry ‘Vorwärts!’
“‘... Rapid fire—fire at will!’ roars Lemordant.
“The charge vacillates, stops. Our men leap out of the trench to charge in turn. Lemordant, though wounded in the hand, in the forehead, on the head, and in the knee, charges with them, supported by a young soldier of his section. Chance brings him face to face with the Oberst-leutnant, who commands the counter-attack and whom he seizes by the throat; just then a fifth bullet strikes him over the right eye, breaking the frontal bone. It seems to him that his head has burst and that his eyes have spurted out into space. He falls heavily. It is all over!”