gnovel Chapter 52 A Day in the Life of Soldier DuPont
Chapter 52 A Day in the Life of Soldier DuPont
On August 18, 1870, French positions were located five kilometers south of Verdun on the west bank of the Meuse River.
At 4:30 a.m., before dawn, Private Jean Dupont was awakened by the cold.
The private was huddled in a pit that had just been dug half a meter deep, covered with a military overcoat stained with mud and blood, which he had taken from his comrade who had died three days earlier from an infected wound.
The August night should have been sweltering, but the night wind along the Meuse River, carrying the dampness of the river, was chillingly cold against DuPont's skin.
DuPont, who had just woken up from the cold, shivered and reached out to wrap his coat tighter, but he still couldn't stop the chill from seeping in through the hole and climbing up his spine.
The living conditions in the Sharon (Shalon) camp were not too bad, but the Sharon army had been working on the west bank of the Meuse River for several days to build fortifications along the riverbank.
These past few days, DuPont has been sleeping under the stars. His right index and middle fingers are swollen like bloated carrots, a result of the blisters from wielding a shovel all day yesterday becoming infected and suppurating.
The wound was burning with pain; even the slightest curl of my finger was excruciating.
DuPont gasped in pain at the slightest attempt to move his wrist, smacking his lips and tasting only a bitter, rusty flavor.
"woke up?"
Hearing the commotion DuPont made, and hearing the hoarse voice beside him, DuPont didn't bother to look; he knew it was the veteran Louis.
Louis, a Brittany man in his forties who had participated in the Franco-Italian-Austrian War, slowly turned his aching body, and Dupont looked at Louis.
The veteran, who was about ten years older than himself, sat calmly by the pit, wiping his Chasebo rifle with a worn-out rag. The rifle was rusted and had a deep knife mark on the stock.
DuPont knew that it was left behind by a Prussian cavalryman's saber during the Battle of Wolverhampton.
"Um."
Responding to Louis's question, DuPont struggled to sit up, his stomach making a very unpleasant rumbling sound.
Last night he only got half a piece of hard, tooth-crushing black bread, and now his stomach is so empty it hurts, like there's a hand twisting inside.
Louis, who was cleaning his gun, was slightly taken aback when he heard the noise. He then took out something wrapped in oiled paper from his pocket and handed it to Dupont. Louis still felt sympathy for the private whose comrade had died and thought he could help in any way he could.
"Here, I hid it when I was dividing the bread yesterday."
DuPont, who had already become acquainted with Louis, did not refuse. He took the oil paper package, opened it, and found a small, hard piece of cheese inside. It was indeed a small piece, only the size of DuPont's fingernail.
However, DuPont was reluctant to eat this small snack, which would have been acceptable to each other in the past. He hesitated for a moment and felt that he should not eat such a good thing.
"You can eat it yourself, Uncle Louis."
"My old bones can hold up against hunger, but you're young. You still have to dig trenches all day, so don't give up."
Since Louis had said so, DuPont was deeply moved and no longer refused. He put the cheese in his mouth, but dared not swallow it directly, so he chewed it slowly.
The cheese was salty and bitter, with almost no milky flavor, but for the time being, it was a rare delicacy.
DuPont chewed the piece of cheese, about the size of a fingernail, for a full minute, until it was completely melted in his mouth, before reluctantly swallowing it in one gulp.
Perhaps it was just a placebo effect, but after eating a small piece of cheese, DuPont really felt that the burning fire in his stomach had subsided a little.
At six o'clock in the morning, the piercing assembly whistle broke the silence of dawn. In the still unfinished fortifications, soldiers dragged their leaden legs out of the pits and stood in crooked rows.
After several days of hard work, the soldiers' appearances were even worse; their originally blue and white uniforms were stained dark brown by gunpowder and mud.
The areas most affected by physical labor, such as the knees and elbows, have worn large holes in some military uniforms, revealing the skin that has turned purple from the cold after working at night.
The soldiers who emerged were almost all wrapped in bandages, some of which had turned black and hardened, with the oozing blood forming dark brown scabs.
There weren't that many injuries from the previous war; most of the injuries were minor cuts and bruises that inevitably appeared on everyone's bodies during the recent repair work.
As the troops assembled, the company commander walked to the front of the formation, holding a chipped tin megaphone. His voice was also hoarse and strained.
"Listen up, everyone! This trench must be dug two meters deep today. Marshal Bazan has already engaged the Prussian army at the front, and the main Prussian force will arrive in a few days. Anyone who slacks off at this time will face military law."
After hearing the company commander's order, the soldiers mechanically picked up the tools leaning against the earthen slope and headed to their respective work sites.
DuPont held a shovel. After several days of torment, the blade of the shovel had become wavy, and a long crack had appeared in the wooden handle. It was barely usable with wire. DuPont's company was responsible for building a 300-meter-long main trench.
According to the engineering manual, trenches should be dug to a depth of two meters and a width of one and a half meters, with breastworks built on both sides and covered with logs and soil to withstand artillery shells.
However, they don't even have the most basic conditions right now. Out of the 120-plus people in the company, there are only 37 intact shovels. The rest of them can only use bayonets, entrenching tools, or even their bare hands to dig the soil.
The entire Xialong Legion is indeed quite large, with 13 French troops currently repairing fortifications on the west bank of the Meuse River.
However, compared to their numbers, they were responsible for a much larger area. As for mobilizing the public to participate in the construction of the fortifications, McMahon rejected this approach, preferring instead to involve the public in the transportation of supplies to alleviate the pressure on France's fragile railway lines as much as possible.
Most French civilians had never received formal fortification training, which resulted in many digging trenches with such steep slopes that they would collapse at the slightest step. This was also why McMahon was unwilling to involve civilians in the emergency repair of frontline defensive fortifications.
With time of the essence and no concept of shift work, DuPont, who was not allowed to leave the front line despite minor injuries, could only grit his teeth and wield his shovel.
With each shovel strike, DuPont felt a tearing pain in the wound on his hand, and pus and blood flowed down between his fingers, sticking to the handle of the shovel.
The soil on the west bank of the Meuse River was sticky and hard, mixed with fist-sized stones and tangled tree roots. After digging only a dozen times, sweat from DuPont's forehead flowed into his eyes, making them sting and difficult to open.
"Hey DuPont, dig slower."
Louis, who was also working nearby, tried to persuade DuPont. Unlike DuPont, who was holding a shovel, Louis was holding a bayonet and was struggling to pry open a rock.
"We can't finish digging anyway, so there's no point in working ourselves to death."
"No, if the Prussian army comes, we won't even have a place to hide."
"So what if we hide? Each of our artillery shells has less than fifty rounds, and each rifle has an average of only twenty bullets. If a real battle breaks out, we'll just be targets for Krupp cannons."