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"Un Grand Jour..."
Being an account of an infantry skirmish outside of Dinant
by Kozure

The birds were singing brightly on this cool spring morning. As I stepped out of quarters I was greeted with the bright rays of a early April sun, which fell softly across the drill square, highlighting the fretwork of its tar-patched cracks. I slung my rifle over my shoulder, struck by the illusion that this was a day like any other, a day for a promenade, or a picnic on the banks of the nearby Meuse. The waking dream was short-lived, for the distant sounds of battle recalled me to the present.

Soldat Crasson was awake already, sitting on the porch of our little barrack. He looked up from the incessant polishing of his rifle and smiled at me brightly.

“Salut, Sergeant,” he exclaimed, snapping off a jauntily sharp mockery of a salute, “we carry the fight to the Bosche today, hien?”

“Enough with the saluting,” I quipped, “you keep that up, and I’ll have to wear gold braid like General Fontaine, and I’ll be dodging Mauser bullets all day.”

“No danger of that,” a voice from behind me said, “you have to put yourself in harm’s way for a promotion.”

It was Dacquierre, I had been introduced to him in passing a few days before, but we had not yet exchanged words. He set his helmet atop his head at a rakish angle and leaned on his rifle.

“Soldat Dacquierre, do you always address your superiors in such a fashion?”

“Only the ones I trust,” he grinned, “the others I tell to get stuffed.”

I could not help but smile. I thought I might like this Dacquierre. I turned and thumped down the steps to the drill square, checking my kit as I went. Nearby, I heard other members of our company making ready. As I waited for our motor transport to arrive, I went through the rifle drill, snapping the weapon to my shoulder, readying arms, presenting arms. I knew it was mindless, and utterly outmoded in this wonderous new age of tanks and aircraft, but I took comfort in its repetitious security.

Soldat Dacquierre stood off to the side of the square, watching me with a bemused air. Eventually, he began to ape my motions, but with a lazy, detached air that spoke of boredom, rather than practice. Suddenly, as he raised his rifle, it went off unexpectedly, causing a single bullet to whiz past my head. Dacquierre seemed as shocked as I, and lowered his weapon in disbelief. I had, as an instinct from training, dropped to the hard macadam of the drill square, and had raised my own weapon in defence. I realized it had been a mistake; opening my mouth to begin yelling, when the tinny horn of a Renault truck echoed out of the garage behind me.

A light truck rolled out of the motorpool and shuddered to a stop only feet from where I lay.

“Get off the ground, Sergeant - no time to lay about. The Bosche are soiling our hallowed native ground as we speak!”

It was our driver, Torgenne. He had obviously not seen the little drama, and was looking down from the cab with a wondering but amused smile. I stood, dusting myself off, and glared at Dacquierre for a moment before slinging myself into the rear of the truck. Accidents happen, and this was no time for a disciplinary review. I pulled Crasson into the cargo area with me, and finally Dacquierre too was in the truck.

I thumped on the rear of the cab, and the truck creaked forward for a moment before Torgenne remembered to put it in gear. Some of the new equipment was a bit unfamiliar to us. It lurched forward with a jolt as grinding gear teeth caught, and we were off.

I gazed out of the rear of the truck, watching the verdant countryside slip by. Torgenne was an enthusiastic driver. Perhaps too enthusiastic.

“Where to?” asked Crasson, trying to peek around the front of the cab and up the road.

I tapped out a Gauloise from its pack and hung it on my lip as I turned to look.

“Lieutenant Sixieme and Sergeant Ouiselle have encountered what appears to be a reconnaissance unit just outside of Dinant here. Just up the road,” I shrugged, lighting the thin, unfiltered cigarette.

“They requested some infantry support.”

Crasson stood to try to get a better view, “They’re terribly close already. How do these Allemagnes move so fast and - sàcre co--!”

Crasson swore as we were jarred by a sudden bump which sent him sprawling. The Renault had swerved suddenly, skipped over the drainage ditch, and flung itself high into the air. It landed with the sickening snap of a broken axle, and rolled, crumpling the cab.

The engine was still running when I came to a moment later. Looking around, I realized the truck was overturned, laying on its back like a upended turtle. Miraculously I was unhurt, save for a few scratches and bumps.

“Crasson?” I whispered hoarsely.

“Here, Sergeant. I am unhurt.”

“Dacquierre?”

“What - what has happened?”

I looked around, sheltered under the bulk of the Renault, my face in shadow. Images of a death by burning flashed through my mind.

“We have crashed. Get out as quick as you can! Vite! Vite!”

We scrambled out from underneath the wreck of the Renault. Scattering a good fifty feet away, we flung ourselves to the ground and looked back. The twisted remains of the truck lay inert and lifeless, but not aflame. I breathed a sigh of relief and crawled back toward the cab. I peered inside, expecting the worst. Torgenne lay within, balled up with his legs tucked at an awkward angle, but otherwise unbloodied. He appeared as a child stuck half-way through a somersault, uncomfortable, but also mildy comedic.

“Merde,” he said simply.

“Are you alright, mon ami?”

“I think - I think so. Only my pride, comme on dit.”

He painfully extracted himself from the steering column and pulled himself through the window, which he had luckily kept rolled down.

“Damn Char,” he said, as he stooped, checking his limbs cautiously.

“What?” I asked in confusion.

He pointed past the still spinning wheels of the upended Renault to the road. Parked square in the middle of it was a Char B1. Just behind it were the twisted wheel ruts of our truck where it had careened off the road and into the field. Torgenne, in his Le Mans racing zeal, hadn’t seen the Char until he crested the hill, and by then it had been too late.

“Damn Char,” I echoed.

Even as I spoke, the upper turret spat a tiny gout of flame, and a round flew eastwards towards targets unknown.

Torgenne smiled painfully, “You go on and lead your little escadrille...I’ll hobble back to base and find us a new ride.”

I gripped his shoulder, “Will you be alright?”

“Sure, sure,” he winced, “just don’t let the story of my little crack-up get around back in the mess, d’accord?”

I nodded, and watched as he stumbled back in the direction of Dinant.

The sharp crack of another cannon round reminded me of my place, and I belly-crawled behind the truck to see what was going on. To my astonishment, Crasson was standing up, in full view of any enemy forces, while Dacquierre knelt on one knee, scanning the trees and fields ahead.

“Get down, you fools!” I shouted.

Crasson looked back at me with an air of confusion. I stood, ran to where they were, and dove to the ground once more.

“Get into cover,” I cried. Neither moved.

Grunting with impatience, I looked down the road. Moving in a copse of trees was the grey and menacing form of a German panzer, though at this distance, it was unrecognizable. As I squinted and looked closer I noted a solitary figure crouch out from behind the tank, scurrying toward a small clump of bushes. Shots rang out from my two companions.

I raised my rifle and aimed carefully down the iron sights. Squeezing the trigger, my shot kicked up a small geyser of dirt in front of the figure. I had lead too much. I worked the bolt mechanically, the action made smooth by constant drill and familiarity. I aimed again and fired. Other shots cracked almost simultaneously. The figure dropped, but from my fire or that of my companions, I did not know. I hesitated a moment, realizing the momentousness of what we had done. The distant figure, barely more than a finger width in height at that range, was a man, likely with a girlfriend, or wife, who had woke up to the same beautiful spring morning as I. I stared at the collapsed form for an instant, and then shook myself. I stood and ran to the shelter of some trees nearby. Looking back, I noted that neither Crasson nor Dacquierre had moved.

“Perhaps you gentlemen would care to join me in cover?!” I shouted across the field to them.

Both looked up, as if woken from a dream, and began to walk toward me.

“Run!” I cried again, beginning to sound like my physical training instructor back in basic training.

Dacquierre realized his delay, and sprinted to a ditch beside me. Crasson hesitated for a moment.

“Pick up one foot and place it in front of the other, Crasson! It’s just like walking, only faster!”

Crasson dashed to where I huddled beneath the branches of a low shrub, and knelt. We watched as the Panzer rolled backwards and retreated back over the hill. The obstacle Char trundled off over the hill in pursuit, and we were left in silence.

We waited together, the three of us, for Torgenne to return with a vehicle. After what seemed an eternity, we heard the sound of a truck engine approaching. We smiled as Torgenne approached in yet another Renault. Clambering aboard, I popped my head through the window of the cab.

“A little slower this time, hien?”

Torgenne nodded, red-faced, and engaged the clutch as he shifted into first. As the four of us roared off over the hill, I smiled at what further adventures awaited us.

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