Gladiator

by Philip Wylie

  XV

  Now the streets of Paris were assailed by the colour of olive drab, thetwang of Yankee accents, the music of Broadway songs. Hugo watched thefirst parade with eyes somewhat proud and not a little sombre. Eachshuffling step seemed to ask a rhythmic question. Who would not returnto Paris? Who would return once and not again? Who would be blind? Whowould be hideous? Who would be armless, legless, who would wear silverplates and leather props for his declining years? Hugo wondered, and,looking into those sometimes stern and sometimes ribald faces, he sawthat they had not yet commenced to wonder.

  They did not know the hammer and shock of falling shells and the jellyand putty which men became. They chafed and bantered and stormed everycafe and cocotte impartially, recklessly. Even the Legion had been moregrim and better prepared for the iron feet of war. They fell upon Hugowith their atrocious French--two young men who wanted a drink and couldnot make the bar-tender understand.

  "Hey, _fransay_," they called to him, "_comment dire que nous voulez deschoses boire?_"

  Hugo smiled. "What do you birds want to drink?"

  "God Almighty! Here's a Frog that speaks United States. Get the gang.What's your name, bo?"

  "Danner."

  "Come on an' have a flock of drinks on us. You're probably dying onFrench pay. You order for the gang and we'll treat." Eager, grinningAmerican faces. "Can you get whisky in this God-forsaken dump?"

  "Straight or highball?"

  "That's the talk. Straight, Dan. We're in the army now."

  Hugo drank with them. Only for one moment did they remember they were inthe army to fight: "Say, Dan, the war really isn't as tough as theyclaim, is it?"

  "I don't know how tough they claim it is."

  "Well, you seen much fightin'?"

  "Three years."

  "Is it true that the Heinies--?" His hands indicated his question.

  "Sometimes. Accidentally, more or less. You can't help it."

  "And do them machine guns really mow 'em down?"

  Hugo shrugged. "There are only four men in service now who started withmy company."

  "Ouch! _Garcon! Encore!_ An' tell him to make it double--no,triple--Dan, old man. It may be my last." To Hugo: "Well, it's abouttime we got here an' took the war off your shoulders. You guys sure havehad a bellyful. An' I'm goin' to get me one right here and now. Bottomsup, you guys."

  Hugo was transferred to an American unit. The officers belittled therecommendations that came with him. They put him in the ranks. He servedbehind the lines for a week. Then his regiment moved up. As soon as theguns began to rumble, a nervous second lieutenant edged toward thedemoted private. "Say, Danner, you've been in this before. Do you thinkit's all right to keep on along this road the way we are?"

  "I'm sure I couldn't say. You're taking a chance. Plane strafing andshells."

  "Well, what else are we to do? These are our orders."

  "Nothing," Hugo said.

  When the first shells fell among them, however, Danner forgot that histransference had cost his commission and sadly bereft Captain Crouan andhis command. He forgot his repressed anger at the stupidity of Americanheadquarters and their bland assumption of knowledge superior to thatgained by three years of actual fighting. He virtually took charge ofhis company, ignoring the bickering of a lieutenant who swore andshouted and accomplished nothing and who was presently beheaded for hislack of caution. A month later, with troops that had some feeling ofrespect for the enemy--a feeling gained through close and goryassociation--Hugo was returned his commission.

  Slowly at first, and with increasing momentum, the war was pushed up outof the trenches and the Germans retreated. The summer that filled thewindows of American homes with gold stars passed. Hugo worked like aslave out beyond the front trenches, scouting, spying, destroying,salvaging, bending his heart and shoulders to a task that had long sincebecome an acid routine. September. October. November. The end of thatholocaust was very near.

  Then there came a day warmer than the rest and less rainy. Hugo wasriding toward the lines on a _camion_. He rode as much as possible now.He had not slept for two days. His eyes were red and twitching. He felttired--tired as if his fatigue were the beginning of death--tired sothat nothing counted or mattered--tired of killing, of hating, ofsuffering--tired even of an ideal that had tarnished through longweathering. The _camion_ was steel and it rattled and bumped as it movedover the road. Hugo lay flat in it, trying to close his eyes.

  After a time, moving between the stumps of a row of poplars, they cameabreast of a regiment returning from the battle. They walked slowly anddazedly. Each individual was still amazed at being alive after thethings he had witnessed. Hugo raised himself and looked at them. Thesame expression had often been on the faces of the French. The long lineof the regiment ended. Then there was an empty place on the road, andthe speed of the truck increased.

  Finally it stopped with a sharp jar, and the driver shouted that hecould go no farther. Hugo clambered to the ground. He estimated that thebattery toward which he was travelling was a mile farther. He began towalk. There was none of the former lunge and stride in his steps. Hetrudged, rather, his head bent forward. A little file of men approachedhim, and, even at a distance, he did not need a second glance toidentify them. Walking wounded.

  By ones and twos they began to pass him. He paid scant attention. Theirfield dressings were stained with the blood that their progress cost.They cursed and muttered. Someone had given them cigarettes, and a dozenwisps of smoke rose from each group. It was not until he reached the endof the straggling line that he looked up. Then he saw one man whose armswere both under bandage walking with another whose eyes were covered andwhose hand, resting on his companion's shoulder, guided his stumblingfeet.

  Hugo viewed them as they came on and presently heard their conversation."Christ, it hurts," one of them said.

  "The devil with hurting, boy," the blinded man answered. "So do I, forthat matter. I feel like there was a hot poker in my brains."

  "Want another butt?"

  "No, thanks. Makes me kind of sick to drag on them. Wish I had a drink,though."

  "Who doesn't?"

  Hugo heard his voice. "Hey, you guys," it said. "Here's some water. Anda shot of cognac, too."

  The first man stopped and the blind man ran into him, bumping his head.He gasped with pain, but his lips smiled. "Damn nice of you, whoever youare."

  They took the canteen and swallowed. "Go on," Hugo said, and permittedhimself a small lie. "I can get more in a couple of hours." He producedhis flask. "And finish off on a shot of this."

  He held the containers for the armless man and handed them to the other.Their clothes were ragged and stained. Their shoes were in pieces. Sweathad soaked under the blind man's armpits and stained his tunic. As Hugowatched him swallow thirstily, he started. The chin and the hair werefamiliar. His mind spun. He knew the voice, although its tenor was sadlychanged.

  "Good God," he said involuntarily, "it's Lefty!"

  Lefty stiffened. "Who are you?"

  "Hugo Danner."

  "Hugo Danner?" The tortured brain reflected.

  "Hugo! Good old Hugo! What, in the name of Jesus, are you doing here?"

  "Same thing you are."

  An odd silence fell. The man with the shattered arms broke it. "Knowthis fellow?"

  "Do I know him! Gee! He was at college with me. One of my buddies.Gosh!" His hand reached out. "Put it there, Hugo."

  They shook hands. "Got it bad, Lefty?"

  The bound head shook. "Not so bad. I guess--I kind of feel that I won'tbe able to see much any more. Eyes all washed out. Got mustard gas in'em. But I'll be all right, you know. A little thing like that'snothing. Glad to be alive. Still have my sex appeal, anyhow. Still gotthe old appetite. But--listen--what happened to you? Why in hell did youquit? Woodman nearly went crazy looking for you."

  "Oh--" Hugo's thoughts went back a distance that seemed infinite, intoanother epoch and another world--"oh, I just couldn't stick it. Say, youguy
s, wait a minute." He turned. His _camion_-driver was lingering inthe distance. "Wait here." He rushed back. The armless man whistled.

  "God in heaven! Your friend there can sure cover the ground."

  "Yeah," Lefty said absently. "He always could."

  In a moment Hugo returned. "I got it all fixed up for you two to ridein. No limousine, but it'll carry you."

  Lefty's lip trembled. "Gee--Jesus Christ--" he amended stubbornly;"that's decent. I don't feel so dusty to-day. Damn it, if I had anyeyes, I guess I'd cry. Must be the cognac."

  "Nothing at all, Lefty old kid. Here, I'll give you a hand." He tookLefty's arm over his shoulder, encircled him with his own, and carriedhim rapidly over the broken road.

  "Still got the old fight," Lefty murmured as he felt himself rushedforward.

  "Still."

  "Been in this mess long?"

  "Since the beginning."

  "I should have thought of that. I often wondered what became of you.Iris used to wonder, too."

  "How is she?"

  "All right."

  They reached the truck. Lefty sat down on the metal bottom with a sigh."Thanks, old bean. I was just about _kaputt_. Tough going, this war. Isaw my first shell fall yesterday. Never saw a single German at all. Oneof those squdgy things came across, and before I knew it, there wasonion in my eye for a goal." The truck motor roared. The armless mancame alongside and was lifted beside Lefty. "Well, Hugo, so long. Yousure were a friend in need. Never forget it. And look me up when theKrauts are all dead, will you?" The gears clashed. "Thanks again--andfor the cognac, too." He waved airily. "See you later."

  Hugo stalked back on the road. Once he looked over his shoulder. Thetruck was a blur of dust. "See you later. See you later. See you later."Lefty would never see him later--never see anyone ever.

  That night he sat in a quiet stupor, all thought of great ideal, of fineabandon, of the fury of justice, and all flagrant phrases brought to anabrupt end by the immediate claims of his own sorrow. Tom Shayne wasblasted to death. The stinging horror of mustard had fallen into Lefty'seyes. All the young men were dying. The friendships he had made, thehuman things that gave in memory root to the earth were ripped up andshrivelled. That seemed grossly wrong and patently ignoble. He discardedhis personal travail. It was nothing. His life had been comprised ofattempt and failure, of disappointment and misunderstanding; he wasaccustomed to witness the blunting of the edge of his hopes and thedulling of his desires when they were enacted.

  Even his great sacrifice had been vain. It was always thus. His deedsfrightened men or made them jealous. When he conceived a fine thing, themasses, individually or collectively, transformed it into somethingcheap. His fort in the forest had been branded a hoax. His effort tosend himself through college and to rescue Charlotte from an unpleasantlife had ended in vulgar comedy. Even that had been her triumph, herhour, and an incongruous strain of greatness had filtered through herpersonality rather than his. Now his years in the war were reduced tono grandeur, to a mere outlet for his savage instinct to destroy. Aftersuch a life, he reflected, he could no longer visualize himself engagedin any search for a comprehension of real values.

  His mind was thorny with doubts. Seeing himself as a man madehypocritical by his gifts and the narrowness of the world, discardinghis own problem as tragically solved, Hugo then looked upon the war asthe same sort of colossal error. A waste. Useless, hopeless, gainingnothing but the temporal power which it so blatantly disavowed, it hadexacted the price of its tawdry excitement in lives, and, now that itwas almost finished, mankind was ready to emerge blank-faced andpanting, no better off than before.

  His heart ached as he thought of the toil, the effort, the energy andhope and courage that had been spilled over those mucky fields tosatisfy the lusts and foolish hates of the demagogues. He was no longerangry. The memory of Lefty sitting smilingly on the van and calling thathe would see him later was too sharp an emotion to permit brain stormsand pyrotechnics.

  If he could but have ended the war single-handed, it might have beendifferent. But he was not great enough for that. He had been a thousandmen, perhaps ten thousand, but he could not be millions. He could notwrap his arms around a continent and squeeze it into submission. Therewere too many people and they were too stupid to do more than fear himand hate him. Sitting there, he realized that his naive faith inhimself and the universe had foundered. The war was only another warthat future generations would find romantic to contemplate and dull tostudy. He was only a species of genius who had missed his mark by acosmic margin.

  When he considered his failure, he believed that he was not thinkingabout himself. There he was, entrusted with special missions which heaccomplished no one knew how, and no one questioned in those hecticdays. Those who had seen him escape machine-gun fire, carry tons, leap ahundred yards, kill scores, still clung to their original concepts ofmankind and discredited the miracle their own eyes had witnessed. Toomany strange things happened in that blasting carnival of destructionfor one strange sight or one strange man to leave a great mark. Personalsecurity was at too great a premium to leave much room for interest andspeculation. Even Captain Crouan believed he was only a man of freakstrength and Major Ingalls in his present situation was too busy to domore than note that Hugo was capable and nod his head when Hugo reportedanother signal victory, ascribing it to his long experience in the warrather than to his peculiar abilities.

  As he sat empty-eyed in the darkness, smoking cigarettes and breathingin his own and the world's tragic futility, his own and the world'sabysmal sorrow, that stubborn ancestral courage and determination thatwas in him still continued to lash his reason. "Even if the war is notworth while," it whispered, "you have committed yourself to it. You arebound and pledged to see it to the bitter end. You cannot finish it on adeclining note. To-night, to-morrow, you must begin again." At the sametime his lust for carnage stirred within him like a long-subdued demon.Now he recognized it and knew that it must be mastered. But it combinedwith his conscience to quicken his sinews anew.

  It was a cold night, but Hugo perspired. Was he to go again into theholocaust to avenge a friend? Was he to live over those crimson secondsthat followed the death of Shayne, all because he had helped a blindfriend into a _camion_? He knew that he was not. Never again could hisinstinct so triumph over his reason. That was the greatest danger inbeing Hugo Danner. That, he commenced to see, was the explanation of allhis suffering in the past. The idea warmed and encouraged him.Henceforth his emotions and sentiments would be buried even deeper thanhis first inbred caution had buried them. He would be a creature ofintelligence, master of his caprice as well as of the power he possessedto carry out that caprice.

  He lit a fresh cigarette and planned what he would do. On the next nighthe would prepare himself very carefully. He would eat enormously,provide himself with food and water, rest as much as he could, and thenstart south and east in a plane. He would drive it far into Germany.When its petrol failed, he would crash it. Stepping from the ruins, hewould hasten on in the darkness, on, on, like Pheidippides, till hereached the centre of the enemy government. There, crashing through thepetty human barriers, he would perform his last feat, strangling theEmperor, slaying the generals, pulling the buildings apart with hisSamsonian arms, and disrupting the control of the war.

  He had dreamed of such an enterprise even before he had enlisted. But hehad known that he lacked sufficient stamina without a great internalcause, and no rage, no blood-madness, was great enough to drive him tothat effort. With amazement he realized that a clenched determinationdepending on the brain rather than the emotions was a greater catalystthan any passion. He knew that he could do such a thing. In the warmthof that knowledge he completed his plan tranquilly and retired. Fortwelve hours, by order undisturbed, Hugo slept.

  In the bright morning, he girded himself. He requisitioned the plane heneeded through Major Ingalls. He explained that requirement by sayingthat he was going to bomb a battery of big guns. The plane offered wasan old one
. Hugo had seen enough of flying in his French service tounderstand its navigation. He ate the huge meal he had planned. Andthen, a cool and grim man, he made his way to the hangar. In fifteenminutes his last adventure would have commenced. But a dispatch rider,charging on to the field in a roaring motor cycle, announced thesigning of the Armistice and the end of the war.

  Hugo stood near his plane when he heard the news. Two men at his sidebegan to cry, one repeating over and over: "And I'm still alive, so helpme God. I wish I was dead, like Joey." Hugo was rigid. His first gesturewas to lift his clenched fist and search for an object to smash with it.The fist lingered in the air. His rage passed--rage that would haverequired a giant vent had it occurred two days sooner. He relaxed. Hisarm fell. He ruffled his black hair; his blacker eyes stared and thentwinkled. His lips smiled for the first time in many months. His greatshoulders sagged. "I should have guessed it," he said to himself, andentered the rejoicing with a fervour that was unexpected.