“Soldat Maillard,” he enunciates slowly.
Albert should say “Yes, sir” or something of the kind, but slow though the général is, he is too fast for Albert.
“I have in front of me a report . . . ,” he continues. “During an action carried out by your unit on November 2, you deliberately attempted to shirk your duty.”
This is something Albert has not expected. He has imagined various scenarios, but not this. The général reads aloud:
“You ‘took shelter in a shell crater in a cowardly attempt to avoid your obligations’ . . . Thirty-eight of your valiant comrades gave their lives during that attack. For their country. But you are a scoundrel, Soldat Maillard. In fact, in my personal opinion you are a bastard!”
Albert’s heart is so heavy he could almost weep. Weeks and weeks he has been waiting for this war to be over; so this is how it will end . . .
Général Morieux is still staring at him. He finds this cowardice utterly deplorable. Furious at the moral degeneracy this pathetic soldier represents, he concludes:
“But desertion does not fall within my remit. I deal with war. You will be dealt with by the military tribunal, Soldat Maillard, the court-martial.”
Albert is no longer at attention. His hands by his sides begin to tremble. This means death. Everyone has heard of cases of desertion, of fellows shooting themselves to get away from the front lines. It is nothing new. There was much talk of courts-martial, especially in 1917, when Pétain was called in to put the shambles in order. Many were sent to their deaths; on the matter of desertion, the tribunal made no concessions. Very few faced the firing squad, but all of them were executed. And quickly. Speed in execution is part of the execution. Albert has three days left to live. At best.
He needs to explain; this is a misunderstanding. But Pradelle’s expression as he stares him down leaves no room for a misunderstanding.
This is the second time he has sent Albert to his death. With luck—a lot of luck—a man might survive being buried alive, but not a court-martial . . .
Sweat trickles between his shoulder blades, down his forehead, blurring his vision. His trembling gets steadily worse, and slowly, as he stands there, he starts to piss himself. The général and the lieutenant watch as the stain spreads from his zipper toward his boots.
Say something. Albert racks his brain but can think of nothing. The général goes on the offensive again; going on the offensive is something he knows about, being a général.
“Lieutenant d’Aulnay-Pradelle is positive. He personally saw you throwing yourself into the mud. Is that not so, Pradelle?”
“Absolutely, sir. With my own eyes, sir.”
“Well, Soldat Maillard?”
It is not for want of searching for words that Albert cannot utter a single one. Eventually he mutters:
“It wasn’t like that . . .”
The général frowns.
“What do you mean ‘wasn’t like that’? Did you fight with your unit to the end?”
“Er . . . no.”
He should say “No, sir,” but in such situations it is difficult to think of everything.
“You did not take part in the assault,” the général roars, pounding the desk with his fist, “because you were in a shell crater, am I correct?”
It is difficult to explain. All the more so since the général pounds the desk again.
“Yes or no, Soldat Maillard?”
The lamp, the inkwell, the desk blotter hover in the air. Pradelle is staring at Albert’s boots, where piss has spread to stain the threadbare carpet.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Of course I’m right! Lieutenant Pradelle saw you, did you not, Pradelle?”
“With my own eyes, sir.”
“But your cowardice was not rewarded, was it, Soldat Maillard?”
The général wags a vengeful finger.
“In fact your cowardice almost cost you your life . . . And a good thing too!”
In life, there are certain moments of truth. Granted, they are rare. In the life of Albert Maillard, the next second will be one such moment. It hangs on three words that encapsulate all his faith.
“It’s not fair.”
Had he uttered some grandiloquent phrase, some attempt at self-justification, Général Morieux would have dismissed it with a petulant wave, but this . . . The général glances down. Seems to be thinking. Pradelle is now staring at the bead of sweat poised on the end of Albert’s nose, which, given he is standing to attention, he cannot wipe away. The droplet dangles miserably, wavers, grows longer, but still it does not fall. Albert snuffles loudly. The droplet trembles but clings fast. But it is enough to rouse the général from his cogitation.
“Thing is, your service record is not bad . . . ,” he says, giving a helpless shrug. “Can’t get my head around it.”
Something has just happened, but what?
“Camp de Mailly,” the général reads aloud, “La Marne, mm-hmm . . .”
He is bent over his papers. Albert can see only the général’s white hair, balding to reveal his pink pate.
“Wounded at the Somme . . . mm-hmm . . . And again at the Battle of the Aisne! Stretcher bearer . . . mm-hmm . . .”
He shakes his head like a half-drowned parrot.
The droplet on the end of Albert’s nose finally decides to fall, and as it bursts on the carpet, it triggers a revelation: this is all horseshit.
The général is bluffing.
Albert’s neurons survey the terrain, the report, the facts, the situation. When the général looks up at him, he knows, he understands; the response does not come as a surprise.
“I am prepared to take your service record into account, Maillard.”
Albert sniffles. Pradelle is crestfallen. In filing a complaint with the général, he was trying his luck. If it worked, he would be rid of Albert Maillard, an embarrassing witness. But he made the wrong choice: at this stage of the war, no one is being shot. But Pradelle is a good loser. He bows his head and champs at the bit.
“You had a fine year in ’17,” the général carries on, “But now . . .” He shrugs again, saddened by the whole affair. It is obvious he thinks the world is going to hell in a handcart. For a military man, there is nothing worse than the end of a war. The général has done his best, cudgeled his brains, but he has to face the facts; though this is a flagrant case of desertion, it would be impossible to justify a firing squad a few days before the armistice. It is simply not done. No one would support his decision. Indeed, it would be seen as counterproductive.
Albert’s life hung by a thread: he will not be shot, because, this month, firing squads are passé.
“Thank you, sir,” he babbles.
Morieux greets these words with stoic resignation. At any other time, to thank a général would almost be an insult, but these days . . .
The matter is settled. Morieux shoos them away with a disgruntled wave. Dismissed!
What has got into Albert? Who knows? He has come within a hair’s breadth of facing the firing squad, but apparently that is not enough.
“I have a request I’d like to make, sir,” he says.
“Really? Well go on, go on . . .”
Curiously, the général is pleased at the thought of this request. It means he is still useful. He raises a questioning eyebrow to encourage the soldier. He waits. Standing next to Albert, Pradelle stiffens and looks grave.
“I’d like to request an investigation, sir,” Albert says.
“Oh, you would, would you? And what would be the subject of this investigation, dammit?”
Because much as he appreciates requests, the général has no time for investigations. He is a military man.
“Two soldiers, sir.”
“And what’s the problem with these soldiers?”
“They’re dead, sir. And it would be good to know how they died.”
Morieux knits his brow. He does not like suspicious deaths. In war, people want deaths that are c
lean, heroic, and conclusive, which is why, though the wounded are tolerated, no one really likes them.
“Hold your horses . . .” The général’s voice quavers. “First of all, who exactly are these men?”
“Soldat Gaston Grisonnier and Soldat Louis Thérieux, sir. People want to know how they died.”
The objective “people” is a stroke of genius; it just came to him. Albert is more resourceful than he appears.
Morieux shoots Pradelle a questioning look.
“The two men reported missing in action on Hill 113, sir,” snaps the lieutenant.
Albert is dumbfounded.
He saw them on the battlefield, they were dead, but very much present. He even rolled the old man over; he can still see the bullet wounds in his back.
“That’s impossible . . .”
“Good God, man, the lieutenant here has just told you they are missing in action! . . . Isn’t that so, Pradelle?”
“Missing In Action, sir. No question, sir.”
“Horsefeathers,” the old man snarls. “You’re not going to come in here and create a ruckus over a couple of missing soldiers.”
This is not a question, it is an order. He is livid.
“What is this damned foolishness?” he mutters to himself.
But he needs a little support.
“Well, Pradelle?”
He is calling him as witness.
“Absolutely, sir. We can’t have people kicking up a stink over a couple of MIAs.”
“You see!” the général barks, glaring at Albert.
Pradelle is staring at him, too. Is that a flicker of a smile he can see on the bastard’s lips?
Albert gives up. All he wants now is for the war to end so he can go back to Paris. In one piece, if possible. Which thought brings him back to Édouard. He hardly takes the time to give the old fogey a cursory salute (he does not click his heels; he casually brings one finger to his temple like a laborer finishing his shift and heading home), then, avoiding the lieutenant’s gaze, he takes to his heels, running through the hallways, seized by the sort of intuition parents have. He is out of breath and panting as he flings open the door of the room.
Édouard has not shifted, but he wakes when he hears Albert approach. He points weakly toward the window beside his bed. It’s true the room reeks to high heaven. Albert opens the window a little. Édouard watches intently. “More,” the injured man insists, his fingers signaling “a little more,” or “a little less.” Albert complies, opens the window a little wider and, by the time he realizes, it is too late. Having struggled to say something and found he could produce only a gurgling sound, Édouard needed to know. Now he can see his reflection in the windowpane.
The exploding shell ripped away his lower jaw; below his nose is a gaping void; his throat, his palate, his upper teeth are visible, beneath them is a pulp of crimson flesh and something deep within that must be his epiglottis. There is no tongue; his gullet is a red-raw hole . . .
Édouard Péricourt is twenty-three years old.
He blacks out.
6
The following morning at about 4:00 a.m., just as Albert loosened his restraints so he could change the sheets, Édouard tried to throw himself out of the window. But as he got out of bed, finding his right leg could no longer support his weight, he lost his balance and collapsed on the floor. By an immense effort of will he managed to get to his feet; he looked like a ghost. He lumbered heavily toward the window, eyes bulging from their sockets, arms outstretched, howling in grief and pain. Albert took him in his arms and stroked the back of his head, sobbing, too. Albert felt a maternal tenderness toward Édouard. He chattered away to fill the silence.
“Général Morieux is a stupid cunt,” he would say. “I mean, he’s a général. And he was happy to have me court-martialed. And Pradelle fucking standing there, the bastard . . .”
Albert talked and talked, but Édouard’s eyes were so vacant that it was impossible to tell whether he understood what was being said. The reduction in the doses of morphine left him awake for longer and longer periods, meaning Albert did not have the time to try and get news of the transfer, which had still not arrived. When Édouard started to groan, he did not stop; his voice grew louder and louder until finally a nurse would come and give him another injection.
Early the following afternoon, having come back empty handed—it was impossible to find out whether the ambulance had been requested—he found Édouard screaming in terrible pain, his gaping throat red-raw and mottled here and there with oozing pus; the stench was increasingly unbearable.
Albert ran out of the room to the nurses station. No one. He shouted down the hallway, “Anyone here?” No one. He was running again; then suddenly he stopped, retraced his steps. Surely he wouldn’t dare. Would he? He glanced left and right along the corridor, the howls of his comrade still ringing in his ears urged him on, he stepped into the room, he knew where everything was kept. He took the key from the right-hand drawer, opened the glass cabinet. A syringe, rubbing alcohol, a few ampoules of morphine. If he was caught, he would be finished: theft of military materials, he could see Général Morieux’s ugly mug looming and behind him the baleful figure of Lieutenant Pradelle . . . Who would take care of Édouard, he wondered anxiously. But no one came. Albert emerged from the nurses station bathed in sweat, hugging the spoils of his raid. He did not know whether he was doing the right thing, but Édouard’s pain was unbearable.
The first injection was an adventure in itself. Albert had often helped the nurses, but when it came to actually doing it . . . First the bedsheets, then the stink, now the injections . . . As if stopping a man from throwing himself out the window isn’t enough, he thought as he prepared the syringe, wiping his ass, breathing his stench, giving his injections . . . what had he got himself into?
He had pushed a chair against the door to avoid any unexpected arrivals. It did not go too badly. Albert had carefully calculated the dose; it would tide Édouard over until the next injection from the nurse.
“Just give it a minute, you’ll feel a lot better, you’ll see.”
And it was true, Édouard relaxed and fell asleep. Even while he was asleep, Albert kept talking to him. Kept brooding over the matter of the phantom transfer. He came to the conclusion that he would have to go to the source: the personnel office.
“I hate to do this when you’re calm,” he explained, “But I can’t be sure that you’ll be sensible . . .”
Reluctantly, he strapped Édouard to the bed and left.
Outside the room, hugging the walls, ever on the alert, he ran as fast as possible so that he would not be gone too long.
“Well, that’s the best one I’ve heard all year!” the officer said.
His name was Grosjean. The personnel unit was a cramped office with a tiny window and shelves groaning under the weight of bulging files. Behind a desk piled high with documents, lists, reports, Caporal Grosjean looked overwhelmed.
He opened a huge ledger, ran a nicotine-stained finger down the columns, mumbling to himself:
“I tell you, the number of wounded we’ve had through here, you can’t imagine . . .”
“I can.”
“You what?”
“I can imagine.”
Grosjean looked up from the register and stared at him. Albert realized he had made a mistake, tried to think of some way to make amends, but Grosjean had already gone back to his search.
“Shit . . . I recognize the name . . .”
“Obviously,” Albert said.
“Of course, obviously, the point is where the fuck . . .”
Suddenly he yelped.
“Here we go!”
It was clear that he had won a great victory.
“Péricourt, Édouard! I knew it! I knew I’d seen it somewhere!”
He turned the book around toward Albert, the stubby index finger jabbing at the bottom of the page. He was determined to prove he had been right.
“So?” Albert was
confused.
“So, your friend has been registered.”
He emphasized the word “registered.” From his lips it had a ring of triumph.
“You see, didn’t I tell you I remembered the name? I’m not soft in the head just yet, damn it.”
“So what?”
The guy squeezed his eyes closed with sheer pleasure. He opened them again.
“He was registered here” (he tapped the ledger with his finger). “Once that’s done, we write out a transfer slip.”
“And where does it go, this transfer slip?”
“The logistics unit. They’re the ones who make the decisions about vehicles . . .”
Albert would have to go back to the logistics unit. He had already been there twice and they had no memo, no transfer slip, no document relating to Édouard Péricourt . . . it was enough to drive one mad. He checked his watch. He would have to leave it for now, he had to get back to Édouard, give him something to drink, the doctor had recommended that he drink a lot. He turned on his heel, then changed his mind. Shit . . . , he thought.
“So you the deliver the transfer slips yourself?”
“Yep,” Grosjean said, “or someone comes to collect them, it depends.”
“You don’t remember who collected the slip for Péricourt?”
Albert already knew the answer.
“Affirmative. A lieutenant, I don’t know his name.”
“Tall, thin man . . .”
“Exactly.”
“. . . with blue eyes?”
“That’s the one.”
“The fucker . . .”
“I can’t comment on that . . .”
“So, how long does it take to issue a new slip?”
“A duplicate, they call it.”
“All right, a duplicate, how long does it take?”
Grosjean was in his element now. He pulled the inkwell toward him, picked up a pen, and waved it high.
The Great Swindle Page 6