The Poilus bore the weight of France's destiny

The Poilus are not simply those frozen silhouettes that we sometimes see in books, helmeted and silent. They were faces, voices, eyes fixed towards the East, towards home, towards peace. They knew the icy mud, the stubborn hunger, the endless bombardments, the biting cold, the nights of vigil where every breath could be the last. But they also knew camaraderie stronger than fear, laughter rising even from the depths of the trenches, the support of a mother's letter, and the stubborn, indestructible hope of one day seeing their village, their children, their country in peace again. They held on for France. They held on for us. And then came this November 11, 1918. At 11 o'clock, the bells rang in the villages of France. The cannons fell silent. An exhausted, bruised, but standing generation then understood that the unthinkable was coming to an end.

IN LA VALETTE IN LA VALETTE IN LA VALETTE IN LE LAVANDOU IN LE PRADET IN LE PRADET IN HYÈRES IN BORMES-LES-MIMOSAS