The reception he received was exactly the one he’d expected. In the time that had elapsed since his first arrival, he had simply become someone who’d come to reclaim his place at the table and play his part in the common fight. His comrades introduced him to the latest arrivals: Narbonne, who had replaced Deschamps, and the cadet-observer Michel. Jean learned that Neuville had been awarded the Croix de Guerre, and then almost immediately recalled back to the Ministry, that Brûlard had been wounded in action and that Florence in Jonchery was suspected of espionage.
The day went by quickly, to the rhythm of the usual habits which Jean self-satisfyingly slid back into by rote. He arranged some new fabrics in his room which he’d purchased while on leave, unpacked some books, went out to the field, paid a visit to the NCOs, and settled back into the life he would lead for the next four months: that is unless an accident—which was highly likely, despite his refusal to admit it—put an early end to it.
When Jean, wearing his clogs, worn-out sweater and an old jacket, went to lean on the bar, which was being tended to by the new rookie, his first conversation with Marbot came flooding back into his mind, and he admitted that the pudgy observer had been right all along. What really mattered at the squadron wasn’t how many missions one flew, nor one’s acts of bravery, fear, nor even the deaths: it was comforts, and the art of making them happen.
While Jean was smoking with a glass of port in front of him, a familiarly nervous hand touched him.
“You’re drinking on your own, my unkind crewman, you haven’t yet found a moment to speak with me,” Maury exclaimed.
Herbillon made a vague gesture, but his friend’s remark filled him with shame. He had in fact avoided being alone with Maury at all costs, and this seemed to him strikingly cowardly. Seeing how Jean owed him a clear-cut explanation, why was he going about it so poorly?
Jean answered: “I’ll postpone our conversation to this evening.”
His voice betrayed the effort that enduring Maury’s gaze cost him, as well as the grave, sombre task he’d settled on accomplishing. Maury noticed all this but, being well aware of how unhealthily obsessive and occasionally misleading his sensitivity could be, he refused to pay it any heed.
Some of their comrades entered the mess hall, bringing with them that unfussy cheerfulness that characterized that large room which housed the squadron’s sonorous soul. Assailed by jokes on all sides, Jean turned away from Maury.
Once the table had been cleared, Thélis asked him: “Are you going to play bridge with us tonight, Jean?”
The officer cadet hesitated. Maury had directed his supplicating gaze towards him. Was he going to further delay the hour of his confession? Already gladdened by the prospect of yet another deferral, Jean didn’t want to give in to his weakness.
“Not tonight, Captain, I’m going to turn in early.”
His response prompted a number of flattering taunts about how he’d spent his time on leave, but Jean had in the meanwhile already started walking down the corridor.
Despite Claude’s impatience, which Jean had tremblingly guessed, the former didn’t say a word until they’d reached Claude’s room, as though he couldn’t bear the idea of confessing his emotions outside unfamiliar walls. However, as soon as the door had shut behind them, and before the officer cadet had had the chance to compose himself and steel his resolve, Maury asked him: “So, what did you think of Hélène? Did she talk about me a lot?”
Faced with Maury’s wide eyes, and that tense body of his, which was so frail that a carelessly placed word might shatter it at any moment, the young man thought he would never muster the impossible strength he would need to speak. His voice was refusing to utter the words that had sounded so noble and natural when he’d been on his own. No, in the face of such love it was better to lie, to lie with tenacity, guile and perseverance, to lie like a desperate woman, rather than let the truth leak out drop by drop.
He suddenly realized how impalpable those long silences were, which he’d previously looked on ignominiously. Jean’s heart filled with immense contempt and a bitter sadness at life as he began to talk verbosely about Madame Maury’s virtues and the love she bore her husband, his mannerisms betraying an angry, almost intoxicated kind of self-loathing.
When he’d finished, Claude’s attentive gaze was full of surprise. “She really loves me?” he asked.
“It’s just like I’ve told you,” Jean exclaimed.
Claude was struck by the harshness of Jean’s tone, and he realized that the officer cadet’s words hadn’t filled him with joy in the way he’d rightfully expected them to. Jean detected a strange disbelief taking root in Claude.
While they couldn’t truly glimpse into each other’s emotions, those hours spent flying together hadn’t been in vain since they had given them the secret power of mutual insights.
Almost absent-mindedly, Claude murmured: “You’re not keeping anything from me?”
Herbillon was seized by a furious desire to come clean. It was too late: his absolute certainty that he lacked the necessary strength to speak candidly to Claude had already taken hold.
“So your unhealthy scepticism extends to me too?” he asked, forcing a smile.
No other line of argument would have worked. Yet Claude held Herbillon’s honesty and friendship in such high regard that he was suddenly cheerful again.
“Now, why don’t you tell me about your friend?” he asked affectionately.
Jean stood up abruptly. He had been able to construct a vague, abstract portrait of Hélène Maury in his remarks, yet juxtaposing it with the image of Denise, which was still so alive—and warm with betrayal and lust—was completely beyond his powers.
“Forgive me,” he said, “I’m truly exhausted.”
He rushed out of the room, and Maury felt suddenly cold.
CHAPTER III
“WE NEED ANOTHER place setting!” Herbillon shouted.
Officer cadet Michel, his junior, who was setting the table, continued to arrange the champagne glasses.
“A special guest?” Jean asked him.
“Captain’s orders. I don’t know anything,” Michel answered.
“So let’s have a glass while we wait.”
They drank and Michel asked: “Do you want to know the reason behind all this fuss?”
“But you don’t know either.”
“Not at all, it’s just that Thélis ordered me to keep my mouth shut.”
“A surprise?”
“For some.”
A shy silhouette filled the door frame; a southern accent greeted the young men. It was Virense. “The captain asked for me,” he said.
“You’re dining with us,” Michel answered.
Herbillon and the pilot looked at him with the same astonishment. The NCOs always ate in their own mess hall. Nevertheless, Michel carried on, impassively: “The captain recommended I double the portions. It appears you’ve got a robust stomach, old chap.”
Having just entered the room, Thélis overheard him. “Leave that boy alone,” he exclaimed. “Virense is like a rosy-cheeked girl. Pour us some port in some large glasses. Herbillon’s buying.”
“You’ve been running around mysteriously all morning, Captain,” the young man said.
Thélis made no reply other than to slap his shoulder. The room gradually filled up and Jean thought he could detect a cheerful conspiracy on all the assembled faces, except for Claude’s, which was still missing.
“Let’s have a proper quadrille!” Thélis exclaimed.
While the burlesque rhythm made the boots and clogs pound the floorboards, Jean reminisced about the first dance he’d seen on his arrival. Half of the people present in the room at the time were gone. This realization dawned on him without any melancholy. Quite the contrary, it actually allowed him to savour the happiness that enlivened all those bodies all the more, and since Marbot was begging for mercy, having run out of breath, Jean called for another dance.
Then the meal began. It wa
s the hour when everyone loved one another. Having left the dangerous skies behind them, the airmen, with their shiny teeth, healthy appetites and merry sounds, had brought back a hunger for food and laughter, a need for friendship, and a hearty zest for life that infected everyone at the table with happiness while they feasted and yelled.
The captain sat Virense next to him and placed Maury, who was now the most senior pilot, next to Herbillon. The squadron’s cellars had a few fine vintages in store. Thélis ordered them to be brought up, one by one.
“So who do we owe all this to?” Jean asked.
“Drink!” was the only answer he obtained.
Glasses were drained amidst all the hubbub. The alcohol kindled the usual cheer. Jean felt as though everyone was looking at him, Claude and Virense with a sardonic tenderness. This intrigued him because he couldn’t help himself from thinking that Thélis had planned some big practical joke at his expense, but all the cries, wine and cheerfulness, all of which were even more exhilarated than usual, left him neither the time nor the means to try to guess what was going on.
When the bubbling champagne had filled the cups, the cacophony suddenly died. Everyone’s eyes turned to the captain, who stood up and exclaimed: “Maury, Herbillon, Virense, come here, and bring your glasses.”
They obeyed.
“Let’s drink,” Thélis said.
Setting his drained cup down on the table, Thélis pulled three sheets of paper out of his pocket, picked one out randomly and read it out loud:
“Army Corps Citation: Officer Cadet Observer Jean Pierre Herbillon, Squadron 39. On 15 March, under heavy fire from anti-aircraft artillery batteries, successfully photographed a target. On 26 March, together with his pilot, he shot down a Drachen. On 2 April, he was attacked by two fighters, repelled their offensive and successfully carried out his mission.”
Thélis had barely finished reading the sheet when Marbot yelled out: “Come on you lot, let’s have a round of applause, and let’s bring the roof down!”
While the crockery and dinnerware clanged, the captain clumsily pinned the Croix onto Jean’s jacket, pricking him painfully on his chest as he did so, prompting Jean to think: “This is the most pain I’ve felt through out the entire process.”
Thélis then began reading out Virense’s citation and Jean sat back down. In a state of torpor, he looked on as his comrades came to clink their cups against his. He replied to their congratulations mechanically, as though completely detached from the friendly group of men around him, isolated by a strange feeling of loneliness.
So this was what he’d dreamed of—what a wonderful reward! This was what he had looked on with religious desire when he’d seen it pinned to other people’s uniforms! Yet now that Thélis, whom he idolized and was his commanding officer, had just pinned the same medal to his chest, Jean felt no excitement or pride whatsoever! Had the surprise killed the joy even though it should have increased it?
A moment’s self-reflection provided him with the reason for his astonishing indifference: he hadn’t deserved that Croix in the slightest, or at least he hadn’t accomplished anything spectacular enough to earn it. He remembered the words of the citation. Of course, they were based on real events, but they presumed that he’d played a decisive role, and that he’d made an active display of courage when he actually hadn’t. After he’d weighed these thoughts, he felt like a fraud.
He had successfully photographed a target when he’d been wrapped in such thick black smoke that he could have almost touched it, but it had all seemed so harmless that he hadn’t even been bothered by it. He and Maury had indeed shot down a Drachen balloon, but the sky at the time had been so devoid of enemy aircraft that it had felt like target practice. He had also been shot at by two German fighter planes, but they’d missed so spectacularly that they’d probably given up the chase in frustration, thus allowing him to complete his reconnaissance mission.
On each of those occasions, Jean had been impervious to fear, and had shrugged those shells and bullets off, but each and every one of his comrades along that vast front had done the exact same thing whenever they’d gone out on their own missions. Thus, on that basis, shouldn’t everyone get a medal every day for their own efforts? What unique, worthy feat had he achieved? What striking act had he been singled out for? He turned his anxious eyes towards those familiar faces, searching for an explanation, and yet saw nothing but calm affection in them.
At that moment, Claude returned to his seat with his own medal, and Jean detected the same painful indifference in the latter’s features. Jean thought to himself: “He doesn’t know either.”
He had never felt as close to Claude since his return from Paris as he did then, nor as powerless to confide in him. Noticing this, Maury hoped that this incomprehensible awkwardness, which had grown more intense with each passing day, might finally melt away on this occasion, when they had brought honour and acclaim to their squadron in the presence of their assembled comrades.
“The only worth I attach to this medal,” he said in a hushed whisper, “is that I received it beside you.”
Before the young man could reply, Thélis shouted: “Maury, Herbillon! Have you no shame? You forgot to make a toast! Besides, when crewmen are awarded a medal together they’re also expected to hug!”
Maury leaned towards Herbillon, every fibre of his lanky, sickly being pulsing with friendship for Herbillon. Yet the young man didn’t budge an inch.
Even if he’d wanted to, the gesture Thélis had called for was simply impossible. His arms refused to obey him. He would not give Maury that Judas kiss while the captain and his comrades looked on. He wouldn’t allow his cowardice to stoop so low.
“Are you awake?” Thélis asked.
Herbillon stubbornly kept his gaze fixed on the table.
But Claude had arched his back away, avoiding contact with the young man. Forcing a smile, he said: “Please don’t insist, Captain. Jean hates public displays of affection.”
“My word! The boy’s crazy!” Thélis mumbled.
Then, noticing the awkwardness the incident had created, he exclaimed: “The meeting’s adjourned! Now who’s going to come with me to the new battery of the 105?”
“I will,” Jean exclaimed, the fear of being left alone with Maury dispelling his dreadful torpor.
“So the baby’s finally woken up! So the baby wants to show off his medal to the artillerymen. Fine, since I can’t refuse you anything today, I’ll take you there.”
Having thrown a goatskin over his shoulders, Jean sat next to Thélis.
“Keep your cool,” the captain told him. “I’m more dangerous behind the wheel of a car than when I’m flying.” The violent air closed in around them, while the car danced along the potholed road. Speed, which always left Jean feeling intoxicated, chased his troubled memories and regrets away. As always, Thélis’s joie de vivre proved infectious.
Experiencing a bizarre change in mood, Jean was finally able to savour the pleasure of having been awarded a medal. His imagination, which enjoyed conjuring theatrical visions, painted that crazy car race—where the two brave, young, elegant pilots raced towards the front—in the most glorious of colours. To ensure others would see it, he puffed up his chest to proudly display where his medal was pinned.
Paying no heed to the craters hollowed out by the shells, the rickety bridges and the deadly twists and turns, the captain pushed the car’s engine to the limits. Jonchery, which still clung to life, and Cormicy, which had been completely destroyed, faded fast in the distance. Once they reached a crossroads, Herbillon went hurtling against the windscreen. Thélis hit the brakes.
An arrhythmic stomping animated the camouflaged path that led to the nearby trenches.
“The next shift,” the captain said.
The soldiers slowly trudged past them. Their misshapen boots were barely touching the hard ground. Their backs were bent under the weight of their equipment. Every single one of their faces, no matter how different, all b
ore the same expression, one might even say the same grisly, brotherly make-up. The same huge eyes poked out of the same scraggly beards that made their skin itch.
Herbillon saw them cast jealous, hateful glances at their car, their fur coats, and their calm, well-fed, well-groomed faces. He spared a quick thought to the meal he’d just consumed, and all that champagne… Afraid that Thélis would notice him, Jean imperceptibly moved his clenched hand and covered up his new, shiny medal.
CHAPTER IV
THEY SIMULTANEOUSLY jumped out of the plane, which had come to a halt next to the hangars. Seeing their bodies shake from head to toe, in such a way that even the safety of the hard ground beneath their feet didn’t quite dispel, Marbot immediately understood what had happened.
“You took a hard hit?” he asked.
“This time I really think I got scared,” Herbillon said.
“Nothing to brag about,” the fat man calmly muttered.
Jean and Maury started speaking simultaneously. They’d been surprised by the arrival of two fighter planes that had proven uniquely skilled and tenacious. Claude’s machine gun had jammed on a bullet, while Jean’s had been useless since the planes kept flying underneath them. Both had heard the red-hot bullets whistle past them and it had been a sheer miracle that they hadn’t caught fire.
Marbot approached their plane.
“You got a nice skimming ladle there,” he remarked. “Twenty-eight holes in the fuselage.”
“My arm’s sore,” Maury suddenly said.
Herbillon wanted to help him out of his flight suit, but hesitated. The sleeve was torn in the spot Claude had pointed out and there was a patch of bloodied fur.
The Crew Page 9