It takes him some time to work out what it is.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he gradually sees what is in front of him: a pair of huge lips oozing some viscous liquid, great yellow teeth, huge blue-gray eyes that seem to melt . . .
A horse’s head, enormous, repulsive, a monstrous thing.
Albert cannot help but shrink back. His head slams into the roof of his cave, which collapses in a muddy shower around his neck. He arches his shoulders to protect himself, then waits, unmoving, not even daring to breathe. The seconds tick past.
As it buried itself in the ground, the shell had unearthed one of the countless old nags rotting on the battlefield and had served the head up to Albert. Face-to-face, the young man and the dead horse are so close they could almost kiss. The collapsing soil has freed Albert’s hands, but the soil weighs heavily on him, crushing his rib cage. He begins to breathe again in short, shallow bursts; his lungs are already fit to burst. He feels tears begin to well, but manages to hold back. To cry now, he thinks, would mean accepting death.
He might as well give up, because it will not be long now.
It is not true that at the moment of death our whole life flashes before our eyes in an instant. But there are a few flickering images. Pictures from his childhood. His father’s face, so stark, so clear that Albert could swear that he is with him here, beneath the earth. Perhaps because that is where they are destined to meet again. Albert sees him as a young man, as young as he is now. A little over thirty, obviously, but it is that “little” that counts. He is dressed in the uniform he wears at the museum; his mustache is carefully waxed, as in the photograph on the chest of drawers at home; he is unsmiling. Albert is beginning to suffocate. His lungs ache, and his body is convulsed with spasms. He would like to think calmly. It is no use: a crippling dread overtakes him; the terrible fear of death gnaws at his guts. The tears begin to flow in spite of himself. Mme Maillard gives him a disapproving look. That Albert, he will never learn—falling into a hole, I ask you!—because to die when the war is almost over is one thing, it’s foolish, but these things happen, but to be buried alive like a man already dead! This is Albert all over, couldn’t just be like everyone else, never quite up to scratch. And anyway, if he didn’t die in the war, who knows what would have become of the boy? Mme Maillard finally smiles. With Albert dead, at least she will have a hero in the family, so it is not so bad.
Albert’s face is almost blue; his temples are pounding at an unimaginable rate as though every vein is about to burst. He calls Cécile. He wishes he were trapped between her thighs with her squeezing as hard as possible, but Cécile’s features do not come, as though she is too far away to reach him, and this is what hurts most, not being able to picture her in this moment, not having her with him. There is only her name, Cécile, because in the world into which he is slowly sinking there are no bodies, only words. He wants to beg her to come with him, he is terribly afraid to die. But it is futile; he will die alone, without her.
And so good-bye, good-bye till up there, Cécile, a long time from now.
Then even the name Cécile fades, giving way to the face of Lieutenant Pradelle with his insufferable smile.
Albert thrashes around. He can barely fill his lungs now, they wheeze as he strains. He starts to cough. He grips his stomach. No air.
He clutches the horse’s head, manages to grasp the slimy lips but the flesh gives way beneath his fingers. He grabs the huge yellow teeth and, with superhuman effort, pries open the mouth, which belches fetid air that Albert gulps down, filling his lungs. In doing so he gains a few scant seconds, his stomach churns, he vomits. Once again his whole body begins to tremble; he struggles to turn over, desperately seeking a mouthful of air, but it is hopeless.
The soil above is heavy, the light has almost faded, there is nothing now but the shudder of the earth as above him the shells continues to rain down; then there is nothing more. Nothing but a death rattle.
He feels a great peace flooding through him. He closes his eyes.
He feels faint, his heart fails, his mind flickers out, he founders.
Albert Maillard, soldat, has just died.
2
Lieutenant d’Aulnay-Pradelle, a determined, brutish, primitive man, was running across the battlefield toward the enemy lines with the single-mindedness of a charging bull. It was impressive, his utter lack of fear. In truth, there was little courage involved, much less than one might think. He was not especially heroic, but he had become convinced that he would not die here. This war, he was certain, was destined not to kill him but to offer him opportunities.
In this rash assault on Hill 113, however, his fierce determination stemmed from the fact that he nursed a boundless hatred of the Germans, a hatred that was almost metaphysical, and also from the fact that they were nearing the end of the war and there was not much time left to profit from the opportunities such an exemplary conflict could offer a man like him.
Albert and the other soldiers had sensed this: the guy behaved like a country squire from a washed-up family. In the three previous generations, the Aulnay-Pradelles had been cleaned out by a series of bankruptcies and failures. Of his former ancestral glory, all that remained was a crumbling family home, la Sallevière, the prestige inherent in his name, a few distant ancestors, a couple of vague relations, and a determination bordering on fury to make a place for himself in the world. His perilous situation he considered a grave injustice, and his sole ambition, the consuming passion for which he was prepared to sacrifice everything, was to regain his position in the aristocracy. His father had shot himself through the heart in a seedy provincial hotel after squandering what little fortune remained. Legend had it that his mother, who passed away a year later, had died of a broken heart, though the rumor had no basis in fact. Having no brothers or sisters, the lieutenant was now the only Aulnay-Pradelle, and being “the last of his line” lent an urgency to his obsession. After him, there was nothing. His father’s inexorable decline had long since persuaded him that the restoration of the family fortunes rested squarely on his shoulders, and he knew that he had the will and the talent necessary to succeed.
Add to this the fact that he was passably handsome, if one found bland beauty attractive. Nonetheless, women desired him, men envied him; the signs were unmistakable. Anyone will tell you that a man in possession of such good looks and such a name must be in want of a fortune. This was certainly the lieutenant’s view, and indeed his only concern.
It is not difficult to understand why he had gone to such lengths to set up the charge that Général Morieux so ardently desired. To the top brass, Hill 113 was like a wart, a tiny blemish on the map that daily plagued them, the sort of fixation that becomes all consuming.
Lieutenant Pradelle was not prone to such fixations, but he too wanted to take Hill 113, because he was on the bottom rung of the hierarchical ladder, and because the war was almost over and in a few short weeks it would be too late to distinguish himself. That he had risen to the rank of lieutenant in three years was not bad. A grand gesture now and the matter would be sealed: he would be demobilized as capitaine.
Pradelle was pretty pleased with himself. For having goaded his men into launching an assault on Hill113, for persuading them that the Boches had gunned down two of their comrades in cold blood, knowing it would spark a glorious wave of vengeful fury. It had been a masterstroke.
When the attack was launched, he had tasked one of his adjudants with leading the first charge. He had deliberately lagged a little behind . . . he had a few things to attend to before rejoining the unit. Once they were settled, he could race toward the enemy lines, overtake his men thanks to his natural athleticism, and be among the first to get there and slaughter as many Boches as God allowed.
At the first blast of his whistle, as the men went over the top, he had taken up a position on the right to prevent the soldiers from wandering in the wrong direction. He felt his blood boil when he saw one of his men—what was his nam
e again? the guy with the miserable face and mournful eyes who constantly looked as though he was about burst into tears, Maillard, that was it—suddenly stop dead, over to the right. Pradelle wondered how the stupid fucker had ended up there.
Pradelle had watched the soldier stop, retrace his steps, kneel down, and turn over the body of old Grisonnier.
The lieutenant had been keeping an eye on that particular corpse from the moment he launched the attack, because he needed to deal with it, needed to make it disappear as soon as possible. In fact, this was why he had brought up the rear. To make sure . . .
And now this stupid fucking soldier stops and looks at the bodies of the old man and the kid.
In an instant, Pradelle charged—like a bull, as I said. Albert Maillard was just getting to his feet again. He looked shaken by what he had just discovered. Seeing Pradelle bearing down on him, he panicked and tried to run, but his fear was no match for his lieutenant’s rage. By the time he had realized what was happening, Pradelle was already upon him. A hard blow to the chest, and the soldier toppled into a shell crater and rolled to the bottom. Granted, it is no more than six feet deep, but it will be difficult to climb out, it will take energy, and before he can do so Pradelle will have dealt with the matter.
Afterward, there will be nothing to say, since there will be no problem.
Pradelle stands on the lip of the muddy crater and stares down at the soldier, hesitating over the best way of tackling the problem, but he feels calmer now, knowing that he has the time he needs. He turns away and takes a few steps back.
Old Grisonnier is lying on the ground, a stubborn look on his face. The advantage of the situation is that, in turning him over, Maillard has moved him closer to young Louis Thérieux, which will make the task easier. Pradelle glances around to ensure that no one is watching, and he sees the extent of the carnage. At this point it is clear that the assault will cost him dearly in terms of men. But this is a war, and he is not here to philosophize. Lieutenant Pradelle pulls the pin from his grenade and carefully sets it down between the corpses. He just has time to retreat to a safe distance and clap his hands over his ears before he feels the explosion that obliterates the bodies of the two dead soldiers.
Two fewer fatalities in the Great War.
Two more missing in action.
Now he needs to go and deal with the soldier in the bottom of the crater. Pradelle takes out a second grenade. He knows his stuff: two months ago, he herded a dozen Boches who had just surrendered into a tight circle. The prisoners stared at each other, mystified; no one understood what was happening. With a flick of the wrist, he threw a grenade into the circle two seconds before it exploded. An expert toss. Four years practice playing pétanque. Impeccable precision. By the time the Boche prisoners realized what had landed at their feet, they were already on their way to Valhalla. The bastards can go and play around with some Valkyries.
This is his last grenade. He will have nothing now to toss into the German trenches. Pity, but there it is.
At that moment, a shell explodes, and a vast wave of earth rises, crests, and breaks. Pradelle stands on tiptoe, the better to watch. The shell crater is completely covered.
Perfect timing. The guy is buried under all that mud. Stupid fuck.
The bonus for Pradelle is that he did not have to squander his last grenade.
Suddenly fired up again, he begins to run toward the front line. He feels an urgent need to tell the Boches a few home truths. To give them a little parting gift.
3
Péricourt was mown down as he ran. The bullet had shattered his leg. He howled like a wild animal and crumpled into the mud; the pain was unbearable. As he writhed and screamed on the ground, his hands gripping his thigh, he had a sudden fear that a piece of shrapnel might have severed it completely. By sheer force of will, he managed to struggle to his feet and, in spite of the terrible shooting pains, felt a surge of relief: his leg was still attached; it was still in one piece—he could see the foot at the end of it. The damage was just below the knee. It was pissing blood. He could still move his foot a little, it hurt like hell, but it moved. In spite of the thunderous roar, the shriek of bullets and shrapnel, at least I’ve got my leg, he thought. He felt reassured, because he did not like the thought of going home with one leg.
He was often jokingly referred to as “petit Péricourt” because, for a child born in 1895, he was extremely tall—in those days six feet was exceptional. Especially since he was not simply tall, but scrawny. He had reached his full height by the age of fifteen. At his private school, his classmates called him “the giant”—and not always affectionately; he was not especially well liked.
Édouard Péricourt, the kind of guy fortune smiled on.
At the schools he attended, all the boys were like him, rich brats from noble families, born into a world of absolute certainties, gifted with an arrogant self-assurance inherited from generations of moneyed forebears. In Édouard, such traits seemed even more objectionable since, to add insult to injury, he was blessed with good luck. And a man may be forgiven anything—his wealth, even his talent—but not good luck, which seems too unfair.
In fact, Édouard Péricourt’s good luck stemmed mostly from a keen sense of self-preservation. Whenever danger threatened, whenever events conspired against him, he would sense it; he had a keen intuition, and he would do whatever it took to carry on without getting his fingers burned. Obviously, seeing Édouard Péricourt sprawled in the mud on November 2, 1918, with one leg blasted to a pulp, one might reasonably think his luck had changed, and not for the better. But no, not quite; he will keep his leg. Though he will walk with a limp for the rest of his days, he will still have both his legs.
He took off his belt and fashioned a makeshift tourniquet, pulling it tight to stop the bleeding. Then, exhausted from the effort, he lay down again. The pain subsided a little. He could have been blown to pieces by an exploding shell, or suffered a worse fate . . . At the time, there were frequent rumors that at night the Germans would crawl out of their trenches and hack the wounded to death.
To ease the tension in his muscles, Édouard tilted his head back into the mud, savoring the coolness of the soil. From this angle, everything is upside down. As though he were lying beneath a tree out in the countryside. With a girl. This is something he has never done, not with a girl. His only experience of women were those who worked in the whorehouses along the rue des Beaux-Arts.
He had little time to stroll down memory lane before he spotted the stiff figure of Lieutenant Pradelle. Moments earlier, as he was rolling around in agony and trying to fashion his tourniquet, Édouard had left his comrades racing toward the enemy lines yet here, thirty-three feet behind him, Lieutenant Pradelle was standing motionless, as though the battle were already over.
Viewed upside down and in profile, the lieutenant stands with his thumbs hooked into his belt, staring at his boots, looking for all the world like an entomologist studying an anthill. In the midst of the chaos he is imperturbable. Olympian. Then, as though he has completed his study or has suddenly lost interest, he vanishes. It is so astonishing to witness an officer stopping in the middle of a charge and staring at his feet that, for a moment, Édouard forgets his pain. Something strange is going on. That Édouard should wind up with a broken leg is strange enough; he has come through the war until now without so much as a scratch, so there is something odd about finding himself sprawled on the ground with one leg smashed to a pulp, but this is war, and for a man to be injured is in the nature of things. But for an officer to stop amid the hail of shells and stare down at his feet . . .
Péricourt relaxes and allows himself to fall back, tries to catch his breath, his hands clasped around his knee above the makeshift tourniquet. Some minutes later, curiosity gets the better of him and he arches himself again and stares toward the spot where Lieutenant Pradelle was standing moments earlier . . . Nothing. The officer has disappeared. The front line has moved forward, the explosions are now f
arther away. Édouard could dismiss the thought, concentrate on his injury. He might, for example, consider whether it is better to wait for help to come to him or to try to make it back to his own lines; instead, he lies there, his body arched like a fish out of water, still staring at the spot.
Finally, he comes to a decision. Now the difficult work begins. Still lying on his back, he heaves himself up on his elbows and awkwardly begins to crawl. His right leg now useless, he inches backward using all the strength in his forearms, his left foot providing traction, dragging his other limb through the mud like a dead thing. Every yard requires a grueling effort. And Péricourt does not quite understand his actions, he would be incapable of explaining, but for the fact that there is something disturbing about Lieutenant Pradelle. No one in the unit can stand him. Pradelle is living confirmation of the old cliché that the real threat to a soldier is not the enemy, but his commanding officer. Though Édouard is not sufficiently politicized to argue that it is the nature of the system, his thoughts tend in that direction.
Abruptly, he is stopped dead. Hardly has he crawled twenty-five feet when a shell of unimaginable caliber explodes, pinning him to the ground. Perhaps being so close to the ground amplifies the blast. Péricourt’s whole body immediately stiffens; even his right leg cannot resist the impulse. He looks like an epileptic in the throes of a fit. He is still staring at the place where Pradelle was standing moments before when a vast spray of earth shoots up, a powerful, violent wave that curls into the air. It seems so close that Édouard is terrified of being buried alive, but it falls back with a horrible thud, a muffled sound like an ogre’s sigh. The exploding shells, the whistling bullets, the flares blossoming in the sky are as nothing compared to this wall of earth crumpling all around. He squeezes his eyes shut, paralyzed by fear, the ground beneath him shudders. He curls into a ball and holds his breath. When finally he dares to reemerge and realizes he is still alive, it seems like a miracle.
The Great Swindle Page 3