Victory

Friday 1st May 2015. We take the opportunity of a few dry hours in this drizzly, damp, grey day to explore some of the small, back streets of Verdun and find ourselves in the Place de la Libération which is behind the large Victory Statue.

We are more used to being at the bottom of the 73 steps which lead to the 30 metre column, with the statue of a soldier on top, from the main street through the centre of the city.  In the Place we are high up and behind the monument, which was built into the old ramparts.

The countryside is not far, indeed it wraps its arms around the ancient and modern buildings like a hug to comfort this small city which suffered so badly in the First World War. The Battle of Verdun began on February 21st 1916 (my mother’s 9th birthday) and was the bloodiest battle in the sad history of that terrible conflict. The motto of the French Army there was “They Shall Not Pass” and the soldiers lived and died by those words and the city of Verdun was battle-scarred but saved.

In the centre of the steps, on each of them, small fountains bubble and the water runs down, through the centre of a boulevard and to a fountain in the River Meuse - a statement on the joy of freedom.

Our first visit to the area was in 2005 and I wrote a poem in tribute to the 90th anniversary of the battle.  The thoughts apply to the 100th anniversary which will be marked next year.

The Battle of Verdun 1916

The mud, the mud, the stinking mud
that held them fast, sucked out their souls
The mud, the mud, the blood-soaked mud
between the hills. Both armies’ goals.
The stench, the stench, of rain-filled trench
The burrows underground
The squash, the squish of rotting flesh
as arms and legs were found.
The noise, the noise, no escape boys
from the whine and thud of shell
“What did you do in the war?”
“I fought and lived in hell.”
“Fight for the ridge! Fight for the hill!
It’s where we’ll see them best!”
Flattened the ridge, flattened the hill
O’er buried soldiers gone to rest.
Villages gone to tank and gun
Left – a bloodied battleground.
Forests - all trees gone, every one.
Then eerie silence – not a sound.

Now the rolling hills are green again
The fields are lush with growth
New forests house the birds again,
happy to play host
In this calm and peaceful scene
when you hear their joyous song
Sometimes, carried on the breeze,
joining in – a ghostly throng
As their voices rise from the well-kept graves
and from the blood-soaked earth
Thousands of voices, now in harmony, sing
“This is what our deaths were worth.”