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Exploring a World War I Battlefield 100 Years Later Exploring a World War I Battlefield 100 Years Later
(4 days later)
MERCY-LE-HAUT, France — Most of the buildings in this tiny village in northeastern France are hidden behind trees that were not here a century ago. But the bell tower of the 150-year-old church of St. Salvin is still visible from a gentle rise about a half-mile away, where more than 6,000 German soldiers aimed their guns across a wheat field on the morning of Aug. 22, 1914. MERCY-LE-HAUT, France — Most of the buildings in this tiny village in northeastern France are hidden behind trees that were not here a century ago. But the bell tower of the 150-year-old church of St. Salvin is still visible from a gentle rise about a half-mile away, where more than 6,000 German soldiers aimed their guns across a wheat field on the morning of Aug. 22, 1914.
My grandfather was one of them.My grandfather was one of them.
I cannot say precisely what it was that I had hoped to find here. But I thought that by walking through the same beech forests and rutted tractor paths that he had, collecting the same tawny mud on my boots, I might bring to life a place, just three hours’ journey by train and car from my home in Paris, that I had first learned of months earlier and still had trouble locating on a map.I cannot say precisely what it was that I had hoped to find here. But I thought that by walking through the same beech forests and rutted tractor paths that he had, collecting the same tawny mud on my boots, I might bring to life a place, just three hours’ journey by train and car from my home in Paris, that I had first learned of months earlier and still had trouble locating on a map.
I was searching for landmarks and mementos, for some kind of touchstone from a largely forgotten moment in the first weeks of what became a grinding, horrendous war — a war in which my grandfather and his countrymen were the aggressors and which they ultimately lost, at a cost of millions of lives.I was searching for landmarks and mementos, for some kind of touchstone from a largely forgotten moment in the first weeks of what became a grinding, horrendous war — a war in which my grandfather and his countrymen were the aggressors and which they ultimately lost, at a cost of millions of lives.
What happened 100 years ago in this pastoral corner of Lorraine gets barely a mention in most histories of the Great War. Mercy-le-Haut was but a dot along a 300-mile front where two million-man armies faced off for more than two weeks that August in what became known as the Battle of the Frontiers. But Aug. 22, 1914, is a significant date in at least one gruesome respect: 27,000 French soldiers died that day, the single most deadly in France’s long military history.What happened 100 years ago in this pastoral corner of Lorraine gets barely a mention in most histories of the Great War. Mercy-le-Haut was but a dot along a 300-mile front where two million-man armies faced off for more than two weeks that August in what became known as the Battle of the Frontiers. But Aug. 22, 1914, is a significant date in at least one gruesome respect: 27,000 French soldiers died that day, the single most deadly in France’s long military history.
Germany, too, suffered heavily — estimates of the number of dead that day range from 10,000 to 14,000.Germany, too, suffered heavily — estimates of the number of dead that day range from 10,000 to 14,000.
My maternal grandfather, Johann Lennefer, was not yet 21 when Germany declared war on France on Aug. 3, 1914. Johann — Hans to his friends, “Opa” to me — was a slight but athletic man then, whose blond hair had already begun to recede above his pale blue eyes. He had left his job at an insurance company in Cologne 10 months earlier to start his mandatory two-year military service with the 173rd Infantry Regiment in Saint-Avold in Lorraine, which became part of Germany’s Fifth Army.My maternal grandfather, Johann Lennefer, was not yet 21 when Germany declared war on France on Aug. 3, 1914. Johann — Hans to his friends, “Opa” to me — was a slight but athletic man then, whose blond hair had already begun to recede above his pale blue eyes. He had left his job at an insurance company in Cologne 10 months earlier to start his mandatory two-year military service with the 173rd Infantry Regiment in Saint-Avold in Lorraine, which became part of Germany’s Fifth Army.
I remember as a child lifting translucent leaves of onionskin from the albums of sepia photos where Opa — impossibly young — looked out from behind rimless glasses, alone or posing with groups of unfamiliar men in their gray Imperial Army uniforms. But I do not recall that he ever spoke of those years, and what scraps of his stories my mother recalls were not enough to piece together anything resembling a coherent narrative of his war experience.I remember as a child lifting translucent leaves of onionskin from the albums of sepia photos where Opa — impossibly young — looked out from behind rimless glasses, alone or posing with groups of unfamiliar men in their gray Imperial Army uniforms. But I do not recall that he ever spoke of those years, and what scraps of his stories my mother recalls were not enough to piece together anything resembling a coherent narrative of his war experience.
I have his yellowed service record, a single page filled out in purple ink by the meticulous hand of some unknown clerk, probably around the time he was discharged, with the rank of staff sergeant, in December 1918. It makes perfunctory reference to the various — and miraculously light — wounds he sustained, and takes note of some of the more significant battlefields he crossed: Argonne, Verdun, Arras. But my grandfather seems to have distinguished himself mainly by not becoming one of the two million German soldiers who died in the course of the war.I have his yellowed service record, a single page filled out in purple ink by the meticulous hand of some unknown clerk, probably around the time he was discharged, with the rank of staff sergeant, in December 1918. It makes perfunctory reference to the various — and miraculously light — wounds he sustained, and takes note of some of the more significant battlefields he crossed: Argonne, Verdun, Arras. But my grandfather seems to have distinguished himself mainly by not becoming one of the two million German soldiers who died in the course of the war.
Last summer, my mother, who now lives in Oregon, came across a thin gold-embossed volume among a hodgepodge of Opa’s old things: An official diary, published after the war, of his 173rd Regiment’s battles from August through September of 1914.Last summer, my mother, who now lives in Oregon, came across a thin gold-embossed volume among a hodgepodge of Opa’s old things: An official diary, published after the war, of his 173rd Regiment’s battles from August through September of 1914.
I asked my mother to bring it along during a visit to Paris over Christmas and struggled at first to make my way through its Fraktur gothic font. But I soon was engrossed in the spare tales it contained of days that began with tense marches before dawn and ended with the digging of graves.I asked my mother to bring it along during a visit to Paris over Christmas and struggled at first to make my way through its Fraktur gothic font. But I soon was engrossed in the spare tales it contained of days that began with tense marches before dawn and ended with the digging of graves.
Before long, I was scouring maps in search of the small towns and hamlets through which my grandfather had passed and trawling the Internet for alternative versions — from the opposing French forces, from civilians who were there — that might corroborate and flesh out the diary’s economical account.Before long, I was scouring maps in search of the small towns and hamlets through which my grandfather had passed and trawling the Internet for alternative versions — from the opposing French forces, from civilians who were there — that might corroborate and flesh out the diary’s economical account.
My investigations led me fairly quickly to a man named Hubert Lebrun, whose family’s ties to Mercy-le-Haut — the site of the first battle mentioned in the diary — date back four centuries. Mr. Lebrun, 72, happens to be the grandson of Albert Lebrun, who was the last president of France’s Third Republic. Hubert Lebrun had also, it turned out, been on a quest to unearth details of the day my grandfather’s regiment came to town, and the four years of German occupation that followed.My investigations led me fairly quickly to a man named Hubert Lebrun, whose family’s ties to Mercy-le-Haut — the site of the first battle mentioned in the diary — date back four centuries. Mr. Lebrun, 72, happens to be the grandson of Albert Lebrun, who was the last president of France’s Third Republic. Hubert Lebrun had also, it turned out, been on a quest to unearth details of the day my grandfather’s regiment came to town, and the four years of German occupation that followed.
As we compared notes via email, it was soon evident that Mr. Lebrun had already amassed a dense catalog of documents related to my search. I was astonished to learn he had set up a dedicated website to house the fruits of more than three years of research. Before I could even ask, Mr. Lebrun, who lives in Picardy, offered to meet me in Mercy-le-Haut and give me a guided tour of the fields and forest paths that he knows intimately from boyhood summers spent in the modest home the family still keeps here.As we compared notes via email, it was soon evident that Mr. Lebrun had already amassed a dense catalog of documents related to my search. I was astonished to learn he had set up a dedicated website to house the fruits of more than three years of research. Before I could even ask, Mr. Lebrun, who lives in Picardy, offered to meet me in Mercy-le-Haut and give me a guided tour of the fields and forest paths that he knows intimately from boyhood summers spent in the modest home the family still keeps here.
He met me at the house, which Albert Lebrun had built in 1905. Over tea, we pored over old maps and photos. As we wandered the dimly lit rooms, he stopped to show me two portraits hanging in a book-lined study. The paintings, of his great-great grandparents, had each been pierced repeatedly by the bayonets of soldiers from a German infantry regiment that had entered Mercy-le-Haut the night of Aug. 22. (My grandfather’s unit had camped in the fields until the next morning.)He met me at the house, which Albert Lebrun had built in 1905. Over tea, we pored over old maps and photos. As we wandered the dimly lit rooms, he stopped to show me two portraits hanging in a book-lined study. The paintings, of his great-great grandparents, had each been pierced repeatedly by the bayonets of soldiers from a German infantry regiment that had entered Mercy-le-Haut the night of Aug. 22. (My grandfather’s unit had camped in the fields until the next morning.)
“You are lucky,” Mr. Lebrun said, probably only half in jest. “If this had been the work of your grandfather’s regiment, we would not be speaking today.”“You are lucky,” Mr. Lebrun said, probably only half in jest. “If this had been the work of your grandfather’s regiment, we would not be speaking today.”
He introduced me to Marthe Mandy, 90, who lives in a house down the street. Ms. Mandy’s mother, Lydie, was the housekeeper in the Lebrun family home during the war, and when Marthe Mandy recounted her mother’s tales of those years, it was as if she had lived it all herself. Her eyes welled up as she told me of an uncle she never met who was executed by the Germans that night.He introduced me to Marthe Mandy, 90, who lives in a house down the street. Ms. Mandy’s mother, Lydie, was the housekeeper in the Lebrun family home during the war, and when Marthe Mandy recounted her mother’s tales of those years, it was as if she had lived it all herself. Her eyes welled up as she told me of an uncle she never met who was executed by the Germans that night.
The uncle, Léon Mandy, was 17. He had been ordered to gather the bodies of nine of his neighbors who died as the Germans stormed the village and to bury them in a mass grave. When Léon had finished his grim task shortly before dawn, he was shot.The uncle, Léon Mandy, was 17. He had been ordered to gather the bodies of nine of his neighbors who died as the Germans stormed the village and to bury them in a mass grave. When Léon had finished his grim task shortly before dawn, he was shot.
I spent a long moment contemplating the names of Léon Mandy and the other civilian victims of Aug. 22, 1914, that are etched in the polished granite of Mercy’s “monument aux morts” — one of nearly 40,000 such memorials across France. They had been old men and women, mostly. One family lost members from three generations, including a 3-year-old girl.I spent a long moment contemplating the names of Léon Mandy and the other civilian victims of Aug. 22, 1914, that are etched in the polished granite of Mercy’s “monument aux morts” — one of nearly 40,000 such memorials across France. They had been old men and women, mostly. One family lost members from three generations, including a 3-year-old girl.
As the hour neared for my trip back to Paris, I took a final walk alone, past the tiny village cemetery and looked out across fields that, on the day my grandfather crossed them, had been a waist-high expanse of uncut grain. I looked around for something tangible that I could take home from this place when my eyes settled on a lone vermilion poppy.As the hour neared for my trip back to Paris, I took a final walk alone, past the tiny village cemetery and looked out across fields that, on the day my grandfather crossed them, had been a waist-high expanse of uncut grain. I looked around for something tangible that I could take home from this place when my eyes settled on a lone vermilion poppy.
Hubert Lebrun frowned when I returned with the flower in my hand, and for a moment I worried he disapproved of my taking a souvenir.Hubert Lebrun frowned when I returned with the flower in my hand, and for a moment I worried he disapproved of my taking a souvenir.
“That won’t travel well,” he said.“That won’t travel well,” he said.
He was right. The poppy wilted almost instantly on the warm dashboard of my rental car.He was right. The poppy wilted almost instantly on the warm dashboard of my rental car.