Volpatte offers philosophy on the rude intrusion of a passing fatigue party: “The private gets along on the back of his pals. When you spin your yarns in front of a fatigue gang, or when you take the best bit or the best place, it’s the others that suffer.”
“I’ve often,” says Lamuse, “put up dodges so as not to go into the trenches, and it’s come off no end of times. I own up to that. But when my pals are in danger, I’m not a dodger any more. I forget discipline and everything else. I see men, and I go. But otherwise, my boy, I look after my little self.”
Lamuse’s claims are not idle words. He is an admitted expert at loafing, but all the same he has brought wounded in under fire and saved their lives. Without any brag, he relates the deed—
“We were all lying on the grass, and having a hot time. Crack, crack! Whizz, whizz! When I saw them downed, I got up, thought they yelled at me, ‘Get down!’ Couldn’t leave ’em like that. Nothing to make a song about seeing I couldn’t do anything else.”
Nearly all the boys of the squad have some high deed of arms to their credit, and the Croix de Guerre has been successively set upon their breasts.
“I haven’t saved any Frenchmen,” says Biquet, “but I’ve given some Boches the bitter pill.” In the May attacks, he ran off in advance and was seen to disappear in the distance, but came back with four fine fellows in helmets.
“I, too,” says Tulacque, “I’ve killed some.” Two months ago, with quaint vanity, he laid out nine in a straight row, in front of the taken trench. “But,” he adds, “it’s always the Boche officer that I’m after.”
“Ah, the beasts!” The curse comes from several men at once and from the bottom of their hearts.
“Ah, mate,” says Tirloir, “we talk about the dirty Boche race; but as for the common soldier, I don’t know if it’s true or whether we’re codded about that as well, and if at bottom they’re not men pretty much like us.”
“Probably they’re men like us,” says Eudore.
“Perhaps!” cries Cocon, “and perhaps not.”
“Anyway,” Tirloir goes on, “we’ve not got a dead set on the men, but on the German officers; no, no, no, they’re not men, they’re monsters. I tell you, they’re really a specially filthy sort of vermin. One might say that they’re the microbes of the war. You ought to see them close to—the infernal great stiff-backs, thin as nails, though they’ve got calf-heads.”
“And snouts like snakes.”
Tirloir continues: “I saw one once, a prisoner, as I came back from liaison. The beastly bastard! A Prussian colonel, that wore a prince’s crown, so they told me, and a gold coat-of-arms. He was mad because we took leave to graze against him when they were bringing him back along the communication trench, and he looked down on everybody—like that. I said to myself, ‘Wait a bit, old cock, I’ll make you rattle directly!’ I took my time and squared up behind him, and kicked into his arse with all my might. I tell you, he fell down half-strangled.”
“Strangled?”
“Yes, with rage, when it dawned on him that the rump of an officer and nobleman had been bust in by the hob-nailed socks of a poor private! He went of chattering like a woman and wriggling like an epileptic——”
“I’m not spiteful myself,” says Blaire, “I’ve got kiddies. And it worries me, too, at home, when I’ve got to kill a pig that I know—but those, I shall run ’em through—Bing!—full in the linen-cupboard.”
“I, too.”
“Not to mention,” says Pépin, “that they’ve got silver hats, and pistols that you can get four quid for whenever you like, and field-glasses that simply haven’t got a price. Ah, bad luck, what a lot of chances I let slip in the early part of the campaign! I was too much of a beginner then, and it serves me right. But don’t worry, I shall get a silver hat. Mark my words, I swear I’ll have one. I must have not only the skin of one of Wilhelm’s red-tabs, but his togs as well. Don’t fret yourself; I’ll fasten on to that before the war ends.”
“You think it’ll have an end, then?” asks some one.
“Don’t worry!” replies the other.
Meanwhile, a hubbub has arisen to the right of us, and suddenly a moving and buzzing group appears, in which dark and bright forms mingle.
“What’s all that?”
Biquet has ventured on a reconaissance, and returns contemptuously pointing with his thumb towards the motley mass: “Eh, boys! Come and have a squint at them! Some people!”
“Some people?”
“Yes, some gentlemen, look you. Civvies, with Staff officers.”
“Civilians! Let’s hope they’ll stick it!”*
It is the sacramental saying and evokes laughter, although we have heard it a hundred times and although the soldier has rightly or wrongly perverted the original meaning and regards it as an ironical reflection on his life of privations and peril.
Two Somebodies come up; two Somebodies with overcoats and canes. Another is dressed in a sporting suit, adorned with a plush hat and binoculars. Pale blue tunics, with shining belts of fawn colour or patent leather, follow and steer the civilians.
With an arm where a brassard glitters in gold-edged silk and golden ornament, a captain indicates the firing-step in front of an old emplacement and invites the visitors to get up and try it. The gentleman in the touring suit clambers up with the aid of his umbrella.
Says Barque, “You’ve seen the station-master at the Gare du Nord, all in his Sunday best, and opening the door of a first-class compartment for a rich sportsman on the first day of the shooting? With his ‘Here you are, sir!’—you know, when the toffs are all togged up in brand-new outfits and leathers and ironmongery, and showing off with all their paraphernalia for killing poor little animals!”
Three or four poilus who were quite without their accoutrements have disappeared underground. The others sit as though paralysed. Even the pipes go out, and nothing is heard but the babble of talk exchanged by the officers and their guests.
“French tourists,” says Barque in an undertone, and then louder—“This way, ladies and gentlemen”—in the manner of the moment.
“Chuck it!” whispers Farfadet, fearing that Barque’s malicious tongue will draw the attention of the potent personages.
Some heads in the group are now turned our way. One gentleman who detaches himself and comes up wears a soft hat and a loose tie. He has a white billy-goat beard, and might be an artist. Another follows him, wearing a black overcoat, a black bowler hat, a black beard, a white tie and an eyeglass.
“Ah, ah! There are some poilus,” says the first gentleman. “These are real poilus, indeed.”
He comes up to our party a little timidly, as though in the Zoological Gardens, and offers his hand to the one who is nearest to him—not without awkwardness, as one offers a piece of bread to the elephant.
“He, he! They are drinking coffee,” he remarks.
“They call it ‘the juice,’” corrects the magpie-man.
“Is it good, my friends?” The soldier, abashed in his turn by this alien and unusual visitation, grunts, giggles, and reddens, and the gentleman says, “He, he!” Then, with a slight motion of the head, he withdraws backwards.
The assemblage, with its neutral shades of civilian cloth and its sprinkling of bright military hues—like geraniums and hortensias in the dark soil of a flower-bed—oscillates, then passes, and moves off the opposite way it came. One of the officers was heard to say, “We have yet much to see, gentlemen of the Press.”
When the radiant spectacle has faded away, we look at each other. Those who had fled into the funk-holes now gradually and head first disinter themselves. The group recovers itself and shrugs its shoulders.
“They’re journalists,” says Tirette.
“Journalists?”
“Why yes, the individuals that lay the newspapers. You don’t seem to catch on, fathead. Newspapers must have chaps to write ’em.”
“Then it’s those that stuff up our craniums?” says Marthere
au.
Barque assumes a shrill treble, and pretending that he has a newspaper in front of his nose, recites—
“‘The Crown Prince is mad, after having been killed at the beginning of the campaign, and meanwhile he has all the diseases you can name. William will die this evening, and again to-morrow. The Germans have no more munitions and are chewing wood. They cannot hold out, according to the most authoritative calculations, beyond the end of the week. We can have them when we like, with their rifles slung. If one can wait a few days longer, there will be no desire to forsake the life of the trenches. One is so comfortable there, with water and gas laid on, and shower-baths at every step. The only drawback is that it is rather too hot in winter. As for the Austrians, they gave in a long time since and are only pretending.’ For fifteen months now it’s been like that, and you can hear the editor saying to his scribes, ‘Now, boys, get into it! Find some way of brushing that up again for me in five secs, and make it spin out all over those four damned white sheets that we’ve got to mucky.’”
“Ah, yes!” says Fouillade.
“Look here, corporal; you’re making fun of it—isn’t it true what I said?”
“There’s a little truth in it, but you’re too slashing on the poor boys, and you’d be the first to make a song about it if you had to go without papers. Yes, when the paper-man’s going by, why do you all shout, ‘Here, here’?”
“And what good can you get out of them all?” cries Papa Blaire. “Read ’em by the tubful if you like, but do the same as me—don’t believe ’em!”
“Yes, yes, that’s enough about them. Turn the page over, donkey-nose.”
The conversation is breaking up; interest in it follows suit and is scattered. Four poilus join in a game of manille, that will last until night blacks out the cards. Volpatte is trying to catch a leaf of cigarette paper that has escaped his fingers and goes hopping and dodging in the wind along the wall of the trench like a fragile butterfly.
Cocon and Tirette are recalling their memories of barrack-life. The impressions left upon their minds by those years of military training are ineffaceable. Into that fund of abundant souvenirs, of abiding colour and instant service, they have been wont to dip for their subjects of conversation for ten, fifteen, or twenty years. So that they still frequent it, even after a year and a half of actual war in all its forms.
I can hear some of the talk and guess the rest of it. For it is everlastingly the same sort of tale that they get out of their military past;—the narrator once shut up a bad-tempered N.C.O. with words of extreme appropriateness and daring. He wasn’t afraid, he spoke out loud and strong! Some scraps of it reach my ears—
“Well, then, d’you think I flinched when Nenœil said that to me? Not a bit, my boy. All the pals kept their jaws shut but me; I spoke up, ‘Adjutant,’ I says, ‘it’s possible, but——’” A sentence follows that I cannot secure—“You know, just like that, I said it. He didn’t get shirty; ‘Good, that’s good,’ he says as he hops it, and afterwards he was as good as all that, with me.”
“Just like me, with Dodore, ’jutant of the 13th, when I was on leave—a mongrel. Now he’s at the Panthéon, as caretaker. He’d got it in for me, so——”
So each unpacks his own little load of historical anecdote. They are all alike, and not one of them but says, “As for me, I am not like the others.”
The post-orderly! He is a tall and broad man with fat calves; comfortable looking, and as neat and tidy as a policeman. He is in a bad temper. There are new orders, and now he has to go every day as far as Battalion Headquarters. He abuses the order as if it had been directed exclusively against himself; and he continues to complain even while he calls up the corporals for the post and maintains his customary chat en passant with this man and that. And in spite of his spleen he does not keep to himself all the information with which he comes provided. While removing the string from the letter-packets he dispenses his verbal news, and announces first, that according to rumour, there is a very explicit ban on the wearing of hoods.
“Hear that?” says Tirette to Tirloir. “Got to chuck your fine hood away!”
“Not likely! I’m not on. That’s nothing to do with me,” replies the hooded one, whose pride no less than his comfort is at stake.
“Order of the General Commanding the Army.”
“Then let the General give an order that it’s not to rain any more. I want to know nothing about it.”
The majority of Orders, even when less peculiar than this one are always received in this way—and then carried out.
“There’s a reported order as well,” says the man of letters, “that beards have got to be trimmed and hair got to be clipped close.”
“Talk on, my lad,” says Barque, on whose head the threatened order directly falls; “you didn’t see me! You can draw the curtains!”
“I’m telling you. Do it or don’t do it—doesn’t matter a damn to me.”
Besides what is real and written, there is bigger news, but still more dubious and imaginative—the division is going to be relieved, and sent either to rest—real rest, for six weeks—or to Morocco, or perhaps to Egypt.
Divers exclamations. They listen, and let themselves be tempted by the fascination of the new, the wonderful.
But some one questions the post-orderly: “Who told you that?”
“The adjutant commanding the Territorial detachment that fatigues for the H.Q. of the A.C.”
“For the what?”
“For Headquarters of the Army Corps, and he’s not the only one that says it. There’s—you know him—I’ve forgotten his name—he’s like Galle, but he isn’t Galle—there’s some one in his family who is Some One. Anyway, he knows all about it.”
“Then what?” With hungry eyes they form a circle around the story-teller.
“Egypt, you say, we shall go to? Don’t know it. I know there were Pharaohs there at the time when I was a kid and went to school, but since——”
“To Egypt!” The idea finds unconscious anchorage in their minds.
“No, no,” says Blaire, “for I get sea-sick. Still, it doesn’t last, sea-sickness. Yes, but what would my good lady say?”
“What about it? She’ll get used to it. You see niggers, and streets full of big birds, like we see sparrows here.”
“But haven’t we to go to Alsace?”
“Yes,” says the post-orderly, “there are some who think so at the Pay-office.”
“That’d do me well enough.”
But common sense and acquired experience regain the upper hand and put the visions to flight. We have been told so often that we were going a long way off, so often have we believed it, so often been undeceived! So, as if at a moment arranged, we wake up.
“It’s all my eye—they’ve done it on us too often. Wait before believing—and don’t count a crumb’s-worth on it.”
We reoccupy our corner. Here and there a man bears in his hand the light momentous burden of a letter.
“Ah,” says Tirloir, “I must be writing. Can’t go eight days without writing.”
“Me too,” says Eudore, “I must write to my little woman.”
“Is she all right, Mariette?”
“Oh, yes don’t fret about Mariette.”
A few have already settled themselves for correspondence. Barque is standing up. He stoops over a sheet of paper flattened on a note-book upon a jutting crag in the trench wall. Apparently in the grip of an inspiration, he writes on and on, with his eyes in bondage and the concentrated expression of a horseman at full gallop.
When once Lamuse—who lacks imagination—has sat down, placed his little writing-block on the padded summit of his knees, and moistened his copying-ink pencil, he passes the time in reading again the last letters received, in wondering what he can say that he has not already said, and in fostering a grim determination to say something else.
A sentimental gentleness seems to have overspread little Eudore, who is curled up in a sort of niche in the
ground. He is lost in meditation, pencil in hand, eyes on paper. Dreaming, he looks and stares and sees. It is another sky that lends him light, another to which his vision reaches. He has gone home.
In this time of letter-writing, the men reveal the most and the best that they ever were. Several others surrender to the past, and its first expression is to talk once more of fleshly comforts.
Through their outer crust of coarseness and concealment, other hearts venture upon murmured memories, and the rekindling of bygone brightness: the summer morning, when the green freshness of the garden steals in upon the purity of the country bedroom; or when the wind in the wheat of the level land sets it slowly stirring or deeply waving, and shakes the square of oats hard by into quick little feminine tremors; or the winter evening, with women and their gentleness around the shaded lustre of the lamp.
But Papa Blaire resumes work upon the ring he has begun. He has threaded the still formless disc of aluminium over a bit of rounded wood, and rubs it with the file. As he applies himself to the job, two wrinkles of mighty meditation deepen upon his forehead. Anon he stops, straightens himself, and looks tenderly at the trifle, as though she also were looking at it.
“You know,” he said to me once, speaking of another ring, “it’s not a question of doing it well or not well. The point is that I’ve done it for my wife, d’you see? When I had nothing to do but scratch myself, I used to have a look at this photo”—he showed me a photograph of a big, chubby-faced woman—“and then it was quite easy to set about this damned ring. You might say that we’ve made it together, see? The proof of that is that it was company for me, and that I said good-bye to it when I sent it off to Mother Blaire.”
Under Fire Page 4