Anna

by Norman Collins

  “Why did we ever begin this war?” he asked himself, for the thousandth time. “Why was the question of a new King of Spain more important to us than our lives and our homes? If the Prussians wanted a German King in Spain, wouldn’t the sensible thing have been to let them have him, and then re-arm and re-arm and re-arm so that we should have been found ready and not like this? Why should we have begun the war when we weren’t properly prepared?”

  And every time this question formed itself inside Charles Latourette’s brain, France’s hope of victory grew that much the slighter.

  The pain in his right foot, and the conviction that the Emperor had somehow muddled things, had become Charles’s two most pressing miseries. The mere sensation of marching, even of marching with the overwhelming equipment of an infantryman, had grown natural to him. He was tired always; he woke tired, lived tired, slept tired. And still he marched.

  But his foot now moved in a bath of blood and watery pus. The sole of his boot had abruptly collapsed, and the whole of this sub-contractor’s contraption of cardboard and cheap rubbish was turning its nails upwards into his instep. The flesh was already sodden and swollen, and every time he lifted his foot the sole came away from the inside of the boot with the sound of a smacking, sticky kiss.

  The march was not broken until they reached Rezonville. When the order came to halt, the whole army, like a winded animal, collapsed. It was evening now and they had been marching through the long August day. The smell of sweat, which had been mercifully dissipated while they were moving, now filled the air. They stank under each other’s nostrils. And while the sergeants were striding hither and thither marking-off sites for the latrines, the men, unable any longer to resist the urge that came from sudden relaxation, were at their business along the entire length of the road. The drains all ran into the little stream that watered the encampment, and soon there was not a pint of safe drinking-water in Rezonville.

  And hunger—the awful sickening hunger of men whose last morsel of food has been shaken out of their stomachs by marching— began to assail them. They had eaten in Metz, going into shops and coming away with whatever they could carry. Charles himself had feasted on two stale Madeleines and a bunch of grapes. But food, real food, was what was now craved for. The men looked about in vain for the field-kitchens that were lost somewhere in the distant rear.

  The order had gone round the camp against showing any naked lights. But this did not prevent two troopers who had trodden on a baby rabbit as it was crouching in the grass, from lighting a fire of sticks in the entrance to a disused drain and roasting it. When the glow of their oven was seen, and an irate officer came over to investigate, they smothered the flame with earth before his arrival and ate their prize greedily and bloodily. The rabbit was still half-raw.

  And there were sights, too, that came up suddenly out of hell to occupy idle eyes. Three wagon-loads of wounded were brought in, their drivers searching fruitlessly for a base hospital that was supposed to be somewhere in the neighbourhood. No one knew where it was, and the drivers got down and stretched themselves, begging for a drink or a cigarette. All the time they were talking, the groans of the wounded inside could be heard. Finally, the curtains of one of the wagons were pulled aside, and a blood-stained turban looked out. Then the turban turned, and a face the colour of a dirty shirt confronted them. But the face lacked its lower jaw. The bandages had slipped down into a scarlet ruff, and below the eyes there was a gaping pocket of flesh with the remains of a tongue still hanging there.…

  It was this face that Charles remembered when their officer addressed them in the morning in the name of the Emperor, and told them that at last they would have the opportunity of adding one more glory to the annals of France.

  II

  It was a bright, pearly morning, with the trees rising out of the mist like pagodas. The larks and ortolans were singing, and nature for a moment seemed to have relapsed from summer into spring. The noise of bugles sounding a reveille seemed an intrusion from a coarser world. Every man woke with the consciousness of the hour upon him.

  As he was rebuckling his belt, Charles found himself praying. The words of the Hail Mary came to him from nowhere, and he repeated them. He had a premonition, that he kept telling himself was only the effect of a disordered stomach, that before nightfall he would be in the arms of his Creator.

  And almost immediately a singular and ominous event occurred. No sooner was the army upon the road than a body of cavalry cantered up, and the officer with the flat of his sabre proceeded to clear a passage through the massed files of men. It was rumoured that guns of the heaviest calibre were being brought up. And, for a moment, every one envied these artillerymen, who could destroy infantry formations as though they were lines of sheep. But instead of artillery, through the gap which the cavalry had cleared there appeared a coach. It was drawn by four horses and closely protected by outriders. As it swept into view the crest on the side could be seen. It was the Imperial crest. And inside the coach, leaning back against the cushions, sat the Emperor. Invisible for most of the time, he was nevertheless flung so far forward every time the coach passed over a rut of more than usual depth that his subjects could see him. He was still wearing the uniform of a General of the Imperial Army, but his face was pale, and he did not acknowledge the salutes of the soldiers whom he was passing. When at last it was seen that it was the Etain road that he was taking, the truth broke suddenly and unpleasantly upon the waiting men. The Emperor was deserting. His command surrendered to Bazaine, he was now making off. The men remained stunned and a little shocked by this vision of departing royalty.

  But the business of the day was steadily drawing nearer. The army lay stretched out in a great arc facing the oncoming Germans. The arc, however, was not yet completed; somewhere on the right flank was a dangerous-looking gap which reserve forces were hurriedly being called upon to fill.

  The fact that the battle had begun was announced with startling suddenness. At one moment the cavalry camp at Vionville was a peaceful military depot. The endless work of brushing down and adjusting girths was in progress. And the officers were joking together with the slightly forced jocularity of men who are talking to keep their minds off immediately impending events. Then, with no warning, except for the scream of the shell, a sergeant and three horses that he was inspecting, disappeared in the scarlet blast of an explosion. The camp was under fire.

  The morning mist had still not entirely cleared away and, from the sight of the gun flashes on the opposing hill, it seemed as though the very heavens themselves had opened fire on them. Riderless horses cantered madly off in all directions. And those men who were already in the saddle sought desperately to keep some kind of control over their mounts. Meanwhile, the German battery, satisfied that the sighting shell was on its mark, now opened fire with every piece that was unlimbered. The shell bursts mingled and converged. And the camp ceased to exist.

  When the cavalry finally came to rest, and re-formed themselves in what they judged to be safety, they were behind the infantry lines at Rezonville. The head of the army had suddenly turned tail.

  The infantry meanwhile had continued to spread out its arms ready to embrace the invader. The Gorze ravine up which the Germans already were attempting to press was to be held at all costs. The whole strategy of the day demanded it.

  All that Charles could see of this strategic position was a narrow strip of stony ground between two pine trees behind which he was crouching. The ground in front of him dropped away sharply. And far below, partly obscured by bushes, lay the road. The ground at his feet was soft with pine-needles and fragrant; and through the trees a pleasant breeze was blowing. It seemed that all that a man had to do was to lie comfortably on his stomach, protected on all sides by the trees, and pick off any of the enemy who were foolhardy enough to attempt to use the road.

  The officer who was with them rubbed his hands with satisfaction at their position. The road, he said, was as perfectly enfiladed as in a
text-book. And the officer’s confidence was infectious. The men realised that this time they had nothing to fear, that their company was a rock against which any attack would break itself. Some of them even lay flat on their backs gazing up into the branches overhead, or threw fir cones at squirrels. But a burst of heavy gunfire from the west summoned every one abruptly to the alert. And above the rumble of guns could be heard the reports of rifle shots. As each shot echoed and re-echoed across the ravine the sound which reached their ears was multiplied and exaggerated. But, on any showing, it was unpleasantly near. Over a bluff in the ravine pale puffs of grey smoke could be seen rising.

  To satisfy himself that his position was as perfect as it had seemed to be, the officer now ordered two of the crack sharpshooters of the regiment to leave the cover of the wood and install themselves among the rocks, right on the cliff edge of the ravine. The men wormed themselves forward on their bellies as cautiously as though they were actually under fire already, and then hid among the boulders. Once out of sight, they were entirely forgotten as the rifle fire above the bluff came in increasing bursts. Moreover, the noise of the heavy guns sounded nearer. It was as though new batteries close at hand were now opening up.

  Charles was now aware of a strange tingling excitement which ran right through his body. A pulse that he had never noticed before —it was somewhere behind his knee—had started throbbing. But to his relief he was not frightened. The Germans were actually advancing upon his regiment, and he was calm and self-possessed. He was pleased with himself.

  And it was evident that it would now be only a matter of minutes before the real test came. The rifle shots up the ravine were nearer. Charles saw one of the two sharpshooters on the cliff edge raise himself on to one knee and take careful aim at something. The man was a baker in everyday life. He had won half a dozen shooting contests, and his drawing-room was crowded with vases and trophies that he had carried off at local fairs. Charles watched him with the keen pleasure of an amateur looking at a professional.

  “Nothing hurried,” he said to himself. “The right arm level with the shoulder and the cheek well down to the butt. Soon there will be one German the less—one German who was expecting nothing.”

  At that moment the rock behind the sharpshooter suddenly showed a tiny white spot like a medal and a small volcano of splintered stone spurted outwards. The sharp shooter dropped the rifle that he had been sighting and raised his two hands to the back of his neck. He stood like that for a moment, motionless. Then in the manner of a man at a swimming regatta, he bent his knees as if about to spring off in some graceful swallow dive—but instead he folded up feebly and slid over the crest of the rock into space.

  There were evidently, Charles told himself, crack sharpshooters on both sides.

  The next reminder that the enemy knew all about them was a shell which exploded right among the trees. It was a pine tree that it struck. And, when the dust at last cleared away, all that remained of the tree was a low, jagged stump. Some of its topmost branches were now lodged among the neighbouring trees. No one was hurt —for all the damage that the shell had done, it might never have been fired—but no one liked the direction from which it had come. There was the uncomfortable feeling that, while they had been sitting there guarding the road, the Germans had been steadily working up behind them.

  The Captain, a little shaken in his confidence by now, began reorganising his position: he set up a defensive line at right angles to the road and posted two scouts among the bushes. The instructions given to these scouts was that at the first sight of the enemy they were to fire three shots in rapid succession to warn the main body, and then retire. The Captain watched them go and congratulated himself upon his prudence.

  But the three shots rang out almost before the scouts had been lost to sight. And they were immediately succeeded by a furious volley that went tearing through the pine trees with the noise of whips. A moment later one of the scouts came darting back from one piece of cover to another and flung himself flat beside a boulder. He was pale and completely winded. All that he could do was to point into the depths of the wood in front of him and say the one word, “Germans.”

  At the same moment the wood in front of them seemed to come to life—a grey, moving life that flickered and vanished among the pine trunks. A second volley, fired low, swept through them, and Charles heard the cry, like a baby’s, of a man who had been shot. Their own fire, when they returned the volley, sounded thinner and oddly unreassuring.

  And the shooting from the German ranks was now continuous. The Captain immediately re-drew his whole line. He recalled all the men who had been enfilading the road, and set them to defending their own flank. The volume of fire which they were able to return was now as intense as the German. It brought an end to the activity among the trees in front of them. There was no longer anything to be seen. And the shots that came were single bullets, sniper’s bullets.

  The Captain loosened the collar of his tunic and sweated. This was his first experience of independent command, and he was faced by the most desperate dilemma of all warfare—whether to maintain his stand and allow the enemy to improve his position or to attack and risk annihilation. While he was cogitating, the German field gun which had operated earlier began firing again. This time it was more than dead trees that it hit. The first shell exploded immediately in front of a low rock behind which three men were lying. When the smoke cleared the rock was no longer there. Nor were the men. And, encouraged by this proof of support in their rear, the Germans now began advancing again. They were too rash, however, and a group of men who tried to rush a small clearing were caught by fire from all sides and destroyed. But the fact remained that the main body—nobody knew how strong—was now some thirty yards nearer. And the heavy shell bursts of the German field-gun made it impossible for the French Captain to preserve his lines. The men scattered out in every direction all round him.

  Charles himself was still somewhere in the second line of defence. There were others of his own countrymen between him and the Germans. Or rather, there would have been if the German commander, putting to practical demonstration his Potsdam lectures on outflanking, had not again managed to work up behind them.

  The sixth sense of the soldier warned Charles, and he turned. Through a gap in the pine trees he saw huge helmeted figures running. He opened fire, wildly and badly. Nevertheless, he saw one of the figures stop, and falter and fall over backwards. And in a wild mixture of exultation and fear—for he was frightened by now—he fired again. Fired, and went on firing.

  The fact that the Germans were behind him had utterly destroyed all confidence he had in anyone but himself. It seemed in the suspense of the moment that his officers had betrayed him. A bullet buried itself in the tree just in front of him, and the sickening realisation came to him that he was being fired at. Fired at, not blindly, but as an individual human being to be hit and hurt and finally destroyed.

  The whole woodland was now full of single elemental combats. Men had marked down other men and were intent, like hunters, upon getting them. In front of him, Charles saw his man, the second man that he was going to kill. He was a big Prussian and, under the shadow of the trees, he appeared a giant. Charles saw him flatten himself on a tree trunk and raise his rifle. As he aimed he exposed the whole of his fat, drooping shoulder. Charles held his breath and fired.

  It seemed as he did so that the report and the pain were simutaneous. A sudden tongue of flame burned right through him and he fell backwards. He tried to raise his arm, but it was useless. His head, too, when he attempted to turn it, seemed fixed. It grated and jarred, and he abandoned the effort. And all the time the pain within him, the red-hot agony that had suddenly arrived there, kept leaping and mounting. He fainted.

  III

  Anna took the glass stopper from the phial of perfume on her dressing-table and ran it backwards and forwards across the letter that she had just written.

  “Some of it will linger,” she told hersel
f. “It will still be clinging to the letter when it reaches him, and it will make him happy. He will remember it.”

  The room, the whole apartment, was silent, it was so late. Anna looked at her watch and saw that it was after midnight. She was tired, and her hand ached from writing. It had been a long letter: into it she had crowded everything that it was safe to say. And now that she had finished it, her energy had departed suddenly, leaving her limp and weary.

  She got up and went over to the mirror, and removed the pins from her hair. The heavy plaits fell over her shoulders and she began to unbind them.

  “It is now the fortieth day since I saw him,” she told herself. “But I must be brave. I must go on being brave. It is only by being brave and enduring everything that I shall be able to start my life with him afresh when he returns.

  She returned and took up the pages of the letter. Propping them against the mirror, in between the two candlesticks, she re-read them as she brushed out her hair. The brush made a soft hissing sound as it passed through the tresses, and this slight sound made the rest of the silent apartment seem more silent still. It seemed for a moment that she was alone again with Charles.

  “…I feel that you are near me, and I know that you are safe, my darling,” she read. “Something tells me that you are safe and that I shall soon see you. Be careful always. My life and yours are one. I live for the moment when you take me in your arms, and I pray every night to the Virgin to watch over you.”

  She raised the letter and kissed it and then sealed it in its envelope,

  Then she began brushing out the pale gold masses of her hair again.

  IV

  At the foot of a tree a man is lying. His head is in a little hollow. He is on his back, as though staring at the sky through the branches. His uniform is torn and discoloured, and from a hole in his shoulder the blood has flowed, making the red earth redder. He has been crying, and the tears have dried on his cheeks mingling with the sweat that has formed there. There are flies on his face too, but he is too weak to brush them away. It is only his eyes that flicker sometimes to show that he is still alive.