The Great Departure

In Paris, the Gare de l'Est became a sea of humanity as reservists flooded toward trains bound for frontier garrisons. Marie Curie, observing from her laboratory window, noted: "They go singing, flowers in their rifle barrels, as if to a festival. The young embrace their sweethearts; the older men hold their children one last time. How many of these farewells are final?"

The efficiency was remarkable. France's railway system, nationalized for military purposes, moved 4,278 trains in the first two weeks of August. Each commune knew exactly which men to summon, which day they must report, which depot would receive them. Years of planning activated seamlessly—mobilization schedules refined since 1875 functioned like clockwork.

Yet beneath this mechanical precision lay profound human drama. In the village of Saint-Junien, Limousin, cobbler Pierre Rivière locked his shop, kissed his pregnant wife Céleste, and walked to the station. His neighbor, the schoolteacher Antonin Dussault—a pacifist who had taught his pupils international brotherhood—went too, torn between conviction and duty. The mayor's son, home from university, marched alongside farmhands he had never previously acknowledged as equals.

Rural France experienced mobilization differently than cities. In Lozère, one of France's poorest departments, entire villages emptied of young men. Harvests stood half-complete as farmers became soldiers. Women, children, and elderly men faced the urgent task of bringing in crops that would feed both army and nation. The curé of Nasbinals wrote: "The wheat stands golden in the fields, but the hands that should reap it grasp rifles instead. God help us all."