Paths of Glory

by Humphrey Cobb

  “If you stay here long enough you’ll get it.”

  “Somebody’s going to get it for this fiasco, that’s sure.”

  “Get what?”

  “Well, if you’re a general it’ll be a medal. They always get medals, no matter what happens. But if you’re a trooper you’ll get a kick in the face. And they get that, too, no matter what happens.”

  “There’s something queer going on. I can feel it. All this bustle to get us out of the line. And the officers, they don’t act natural. Hello! Dragoons . . .”

  The regiment had turned off the avenue of poplars to the right and was making for the woods, fifty metres or so away. They could see the nearest huts just beyond the line of the trees and, in front of the entrance to the camp, a group of mounted Dragoons. The cavalry had very much the look of a reception committee, but not an effusive one, it must be admitted.

  The column passed between the ranks of the Dragoons, who stared at them with a cold curiosity, then disappeared into the wood. They soon found out what the guard of honour was for when they lined up in their company areas before being dismissed to their billets. Company commanders read out the following order:The regiment is under collective arrest and will remain confined to quarters until further notice. The camp is under guard and any man attempting to leave it without a pass will be shot at sight.

  The presence of the Dragoons was Assolant’s fourth and retrospective reason for being satisfied with the Château de l’Aigle.

  Captain Pelletier finished his coffee at the Café du Carrefour and asked the old woman how much he owed her.

  “Five sous,” she said.

  Pelletier put the money down and lighted a cigarette.

  “Going on leave?” she said as she picked up the coins. It was the first purely conversational question she had asked anybody in several weeks.

  “Yes,” said Pelletier.

  “Ten days?” she said.

  “No, longer than that, I think,” said Pelletier, smiling half at her, half to himself. He looked very young, very tired, and very dirty. The old woman saw his pallor, the taut muscles around his mouth, the glassiness of his eyes. She noticed, too, that his movements and gestures began jerkily and ended listlessly.

  “Been in a long time?” she asked.

  “Too long,” he answered.

  “Have another coffee with some cognac in it,” she suggested.

  “No, thank you, I must be going.”

  “If you wait a half hour, the empty ammunition trucks will be passing on their way back to railhead.”

  “Thank you, but I think I’ll start walking. The exercise will do me good.”

  “It’s a bad day.”

  “It is indeed.”

  “Well, good luck to you, young man.”

  “Thank you, I shall need it. And the same to you.”

  “Au revoir, captain.”

  “Adieu, madame.”

  When General de Guerville, chief of staff of the Fifteenth Army, entered Assolant’s office at Divisional Headquarters shortly before noon, he had the feeling for a moment that he was interrupting a court martial, so much did the scene resemble one. He found General Assolant seated behind the long table which served him for a desk. On his left was the divisional chief of staff, Colonel Couderc, and on his right an empty chair. In front of the table stood a group of officers, in much the same attitude in which Assolant himself had stood two nights before to express his misgivings about the attack to the Army Commander. Whatever was being said was silenced by Assolant’s rising to greet de Guerville. Everyone clicked his heels and saluted.

  “Good morning, general. Good morning, gentlemen,” said Guerville affably as he advanced into the room towards the empty chair which Couderc was holding for him. “A nasty day. Please don’t let me interrupt you.”

  “Good morning, sir,” said Assolant. “Allow me to present these officers. Colonel Couderc, I think, is known to you. Colonel Dax, commanding the 181st Regiment of the line. Colonel Labouchère, one of my staff. Captain Herbillon, Colonel Dax’s adjutant.”

  There was more heel clicking and saluting, even by Saint-Auban and two other junior officers whom Assolant had not bothered to introduce.

  “Please don’t let me interrupt you,” said de Guerville. Dax took him at his word and addressing himself to Assolant, from whom he had received a nod, plunged right in again where he had been stopped.

  “I repeat, sir, I insist it was not mutiny.”

  “I order an attack and your troops refuse to attack. What’s that if it isn’t mutiny?”

  “My troops did attack, sir, but they could make no headway.”

  “Because they didn’t even try. I saw it myself you know, from the observation post. Three-quarters of the regiment never left the jumping-off positions.”

  “Two-thirds of the regiment was in support, sir. Not even in the front line.”

  “I mean battalion, of course. Please don’t quibble. By the way, where’s the battalion commander? He ought to be here.”

  “Major Vignon? He was killed. By our own barrage. Several shells fell short. I’m going to make a report of it as soon as I have time. That was another thing, sir . . .”

  “Will you please stick to the point, Dax, which is that your First Battalion failed to advance as ordered and that, as I’ve already repeated several times, I’m going to have one section from each company executed. I call that lenient. The whole battalion should by rights—”

  “Lenient, you cannot mean it, sir. And the men did advance. By God, we had almost fifty per cent casualties . . .”

  “Yes, in our own trenches, Dax. For that many we should have been on the other side of the Pimple.”

  “It seems to me, Assolant,” de Guerville put in, “that the casualties prove the fire was heavy, even if most of them happened in the jumping-off positions.”

  “Yes,” said Assolant, “but the point is that the men failed to advance. They should have gotten themselves killed outside the trenches instead of inside.”

  “They weren’t choosing where to be killed,” said Dax. “The Germans were doing that for them.”

  “They didn’t advance. Can’t you understand that?” said Assolant.

  “Yes, sir,” said Dax. “But you say they refused to advance and I say they couldn’t advance. It was physically impossible. In spite of that, many of them did manage to go a few metres. Some of them were literally blown back into their own trench.” Dax, thinking he had found an ally in de Guerville, had turned and finished his remarks to him.

  “Oh,” said de Guerville, hastily disclaiming the alliance, “we must have some examples.”

  “Absolutely,” Assolant agreed. “A section from each company.”

  “That’s somewhat excessive, I think, general,” said de Guerville.

  “Well, what do you suggest, sir,” said Assolant.

  “Oh, say ten men from each company. Forty.”

  “That’s practically a section,” said Dax, “with the strength of the battalion what it is now.”

  “Aren’t you exaggerating a bit, colonel,” said de Guerville, smiling pleasantly.

  “If it’s an example you want, sir,” Dax went on, “one man will do as well as a hundred. But I wouldn’t know how to choose him. I’d have to offer myself. After all, I’m the responsible officer.”

  “Come, come, colonel,” said de Guerville, “I think you’re overwrought. It isn’t a question of officers.”

  “Well, why shouldn’t it be?” Dax asked. He had noticed that de Guerville was disquieted by the suggestion, and he was pressing the point. De Guerville, in truth, didn’t like the turn the discussion was taking at all. He quickly decided on the paradoxical manœvre of retreating from and at the same time ignoring Dax’s attack. He turned to Assolant and said:

  “Suppose we make it a dozen. We won’t say it was mutiny. It would be just as well, I think, to keep that troublesome word out of it. Just cowardice in the face of the enemy.”

  “I was
talking about four sections,” said Assolant, “and here we are down to one squad already . . .”

  “I implore you, gentlemen,” Dax broke in, no longer wishing to restrain himself now that he felt he had de Guerville on the run. “A dozen men! A dozen men, like a dozen head of cattle. It’s monstrous! Either the whole battalion is guilty or I alone am. But think of our record, of our fourragères, of what we’ve just been through at Souchez. Of the condition of the men. Of the rain. And of the murderous Boche fire. The general sampled some of it himself, yesterday. If it’s an example you must have, will not one man do? But twelve men! Who knows which ones they will be? Where they come from? What connexions they may have? Poor devils, they tried to advance. It was impossible. On my honour, gentlemen, they weren’t cowards. Far from it. They were heroes . . .”

  De Guerville interrupted again. One of Dax’s remarks had struck his ear and had remained there: “Who knows what connexions they may have.” De Guerville did not like the possibilities evoked by that phrase. The chances were, he was forced to admit, that a dozen men would have more connexions than a lesser number. And those connexions would be more widely scattered too. Also, there were deputies in the ranks. An interpellation in the Chamber would . . .

  “I think on the whole, Assolant, that we’d better fix on one man from each company. That’ll make four.”

  “But, sir . . .” Assolant began.

  “No buts, general. My mind is made up.”

  “If you insist, sir, then I’m forced to yield. But only because you speak with higher authority.”

  “Yes, I must insist, Assolant. No more than four.”

  “Very well, then, I’ll have to content myself with four. A man from each company, Dax, to be shot tomorrow. Is that clear?”

  “But without trial, sir?”

  “Oh, no. The court martial will meet at the château at three this afternoon. That’ll be convenient for you, won’t it, Labouchère?”

  Dax turned to Labouchère who was standing near him, then back to Assolant.

  “I don’t quite understand, sir,” he said. “Am I relieved of my command? Colonel Labouchère . . . ?”

  “Not at all,” said Assolant. “Colonel Labouchère is to be president of the court martial, that’s all.”

  “Then I beg to protest formally,” said Dax, “and most emphatically against Colonel Labouchère serving on the court martial after having been present at this discussion.”

  “Let me remind you, Dax, that I’m giving orders . . .”

  “Yes, sir. But I respectfully submit that it is improper for you to do so to an officer who is going to serve in a judicial capacity . . .”

  “Silence, Name of God! No more observations!”

  “May I inquire, sir,” said Dax, speaking through clenched teeth and tight lips, “which four men you want executed?”

  “That’s immaterial to me. All I want is four, one from each company to give the others a lesson in obedience and duty.”

  “I have no candidates for the honour, sir.”

  “Then get somebody else to find them.”

  “But how? They’re all equally innocent . . .”

  “Name of God, colonel! Are you trying to obstruct me? If you are you’re putting yourself in a very bad position. Let the company commanders choose the—er—er—culprits. That’s an order, and it’s final. You may go gentlemen. General, I hope you can stay for lunch.”

  “I shall be glad to,” said de Guerville.

  A half hour later, during which time de Guerville had explained his reasons for reducing the number of executions to Assolant, the two men left the office. They were met in the hall by two captains who halted and saluted. One of them looked very young, very tired, and very dirty.

  “What d’you want?” said Assolant in a tone which lacked any invitation to express a want.

  “You ordered me to report to you here, sir,” began the one whose complexion was the most pallid, whose jaw muscles were still quite taut, and whose eyes were glassy. “Pelletier, battery commander of—”

  Assolant didn’t let him get any farther.

  “Yes, yes. I wanted to speak to you about some of your shells falling short. The colonel of the 181st Regiment has made an oral report of it, and it may be a case for court of inquiry. I haven’t time to go into it now. Report back to your command till further orders.”

  Assolant’s face was under perfect control and the expression on it did not encourage further conversation. Pelletier glanced at de Guerville, saw the Army staff band on his sleeve, and stood aside to let the generals pass.

  When they were out of earshot, de Guerville began:

  “That’s serious, firing on his own infantry. You must punish that sort of thing with the utmost severity, Assolant.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said Assolant. “And the worst punishment for him would be shelving. Say to Macedonia, or a colony. He’s an ambitious man and troublesome. I’ll put the order through at once. Will you see that it’s confirmed as soon as possible?”

  “Certainly, if you wish it. But what about the court of inquiry?”

  “Well, in cases of firing on your own troops I always try to avoid an inquiry. It gets around among the men and makes a very bad impression. Shelving will be the best discipline for him. I’ll send the order transferring him through today, and if you will be good enough to speed its confirmation . . .”

  “Just as you say, Assolant. You probably know more . . .”

  “Yes, sir, for the good of the service.”

  De Guerville noticed the gratuitous explanation, also that the general seemed unusually well acquainted with a mere artillery captain, but he made no comment.

  The men were talking. They were always talking. They even seemed to be talking when they were silent, as on a march, or on parade, or standing to in the trenches. That is, they seemed to be communicating. A look, the movement of a hand or of a foot, the expression on a face or the tilt of a head, the very angle at which the headgear was worn, often had an extraordinary implication of a conversation in progress. What did they talk about? Mostly themselves, of course, but also everything, everything in relation to themselves and vice versa. The talk was, inexplicably, always the same and always new. It seemed to be part of a larger conversation which had been begun way back in the past and was going to be continued monotonously into a future whose duration no one could guess. It had a strange quality of self-perpetuation which made one feel that, while men might die or go away, the talk never would, because other men would come to give it fuel, negligently and in passing.

  It had stopped raining and the men were gathered near the cookhouse, eating their noonday meal, standing.

  “. . . the Dragoons.”

  “A sour bunch, all right. You’d think we were Boche prisoners.”

  “Wish we were, then we’d be safe.”

  “We’re safe enough, except from the night bombers.”

  “That’s not what’s worrying me. It’s the officers. Are we safe from them?”

  “We always have been. What are you driving at anyway?”

  “There’s a rumour around there’s going to be some executions.”

  “Oh, balls! This isn’t a cinema.”

  “All right, balls then! But you’ll think different when you find out it’s rifle balls.”

  “He’s right. There’s something in the wind.”

  “Maybe somebody knocked over a latrine.”

  “Sure he’s right. Or why are we under arrest? The whole regiment. It’s unheard-of, a whole regiment.”

  “I suppose you think they’re going to shoot the whole regiment?”

  “Why not? They can do anything they want.”

  “Don’t talk crazy.”

  “What’s crazy about that?”

  “It’s just crazy, that’s all.”

  “I suppose it wasn’t crazy to send us into that attack then?”

  “That’s different—an attack.”

  “Well, anyway, I don
’t like it. It’s too quiet around here. There’s something dirty going on. There always is when it’s quiet.”

  “Yes, and where are all the officers? No inspections, no parades, nothing.”

  “They didn’t come to sample the soup, either.”

  “Just read the order and walked off.”

  “They’ve got their own soup, that’s why.”

  “And we’ll be in it, I’ll bet.”

  “One of the Dragoons said it was court martials.”

  “Field court martials mean field executions.”

  “Well, they haven’t ordered the grave-digging details out yet. That’s something.”

  “What’s the use of fooling yourself? I tell you . . .”

  Meyer, who had contributed nothing to this conversation but his attention, finished his meal and walked off towards his hut. He put his mess kit away without cleaning it, then stood in thought for a few minutes. His eyes, like his thoughts, began to rove. Pretty soon his body was in motion too, unhurried, purposeful. He got out his pocket-book and verified the contents: five francs and three obscene pictures. He got his knife and a bar of chocolate out of his haversack and put them in his pocket. He hunted for a pair of socks, but finding none in his own things, he searched the packs near him until he found a dry pair. He changed his socks, taking his time about it. His eye lighted on a tunic hanging from a nail half-way down the hut and he went to it and started to go through the pockets. He found a letter, which he began to read, but no money. A man came into the hut behind him and Meyer turned. He saw at a glance that the man had his tunic on so he went right on with what he was doing. Meyer was like that, cool. It was one trick he had to thank the army for teaching him. His drill sergeant had been profanely emphatic about it: “If you are out of order, hold it, keep still. Don’t draw attention to it by trying to retrieve yourself.” It was a good dodge and it worked. The man went out of the hut without giving Meyer a thought. Meyer finished the letter and went back to his own stuff. He wondered about taking his overcoat with him. It would come in handy for sleeping out in fields. Then he decided against it. So much more to carry, and it might make him conspicuous. Nobody was wearing coats now, except when it rained.