Mummy, I’m Afraid!

« Mother, I’m in pain. They carried me on a stretcher to this bed. A doctor examined me, but he didn’t operate on me. He gave me medicine and had me placed at the back of the room. Why, Mother? Am I going to die? You, who are already with the Lord, you must know. Mother, I’m afraid! I’m twenty years and five days old on this July 16th, 1915. I have my whole life ahead of me.

We were at the Trench of Calonne, between Hattonchâtel and Verdun, when the Germans tried to take back the ground. First they shelled the area before sending in the troops. I saw boys no older than myself torn apart by artillery shells. The noise of the bombs, the cries of pain from my comrades, the screams of terror invade my nights. I’m hurting, Mother! I don’t know what happened to me. Like the others, I was defending this piece of land that wasn’t even mine. Mother, I want to go home! I fell, and I woke up only in this makeshift hospital. Mother, they have just stitched me up, but I’m still losing blood. I don’t want to die.

We were only men wearing different uniforms, under different flags, but the fear and the suffering were the same! Why war, Mother? On the other side of the front, there must be a man like me speaking to his mother, who understands no more than I do. I am a patriot. I do not want my homeland to be invaded, but were there no other solutions? Perhaps now you know, my dear Mother.

Mother, you left this earth in February at the age of forty-five. Eugène, my little brother born in December 1914, followed you in May. I hid myself to cry over your loss and over the loss of that baby I never had the chance to know. I’m thinking of you. Watch over me, help me, I do not want to die. It has been almost three days now, and I’m growing weaker. Why didn’t the doctors operate on me? I know, Mother… I’m going to die. I’m thinking of Father, of Charles, who thankfully is only sixteen, of my sisters, my grandparents, and all the family. I can see them; I can enjoy these moments. The pain is leaving me. I’m going to die, Mother. I will soon be with you. I love you, Mother. »

Édouard Courageux (1895–1915) died on July 20th, 1915, at the age of twenty years and nine days. He was the son of Édouard Courageux (1865–1940) and Victorine Clément, wife of Édouard Courageux (1870–1915). He was the brother of Charles Courageux (1899–1957), my grandfather.

The words spoken by Édouard are my own; they reflect my feelings and imagination. I am French and proud to be so, and I truly do not know how I would have reacted in such circumstances.