“This is no laughing matter, men,” said Jonnart, and the slight tone of kindliness in his voice awoke uneasiness in more than one of his audience. “In fact it’s very serious. You all know what a summary court martial means. It means one of you is going to leave this hut with only a short time left to live . . .”
“Which one?”
“They’re mad!”
“I don’t believe it.”
“I was no coward!”
“It’s a joke.”
“And not a funny one, either.”
“Which one?”
“Silence! Silence everybody!” Jonnart shouted. “How can I tell you which one unless you stop this noise? Now listen to me. I’ve gone over the company roster carefully and all you men who are in this hut were in the attacking wave this morning. All those of our company not in the hut were on special duties or at the regimental train—”
“I wasn’t in the attack . . .”
“Who’s that? Come up here. Where were you then?”
“Don’t you remember, chief, you yourself sent me down to the dump to get detonators for that case of bombs we found didn’t have any?”
“That’s right. You can go then.”
“I think I’ll stick around and watch the fun.”
“Get out, you bastard, before I change my mind and keep you here for the draw . . .”
“Jesus! He’s going to draw lots.”
“Draw lots . . .”
“I won’t draw any lots . . .”
“Me neither.”
“They have no right . . .”
“Married men should be exempt.”
“Men with mothers . . .”
“Certainly with widowed mothers.”
“Or sisters . . .”
“I was the farthest one in front.”
“Only those who lagged behind . . .”
“My three brothers have already been killed.”
“I was no coward. I won’t draw.”
“Ha, ha. Watch the shirkers step up . . .”
“There were no cowards.”
“The colonel doesn’t agree with you.”
“Where are the corporals? Are they any . . .”
“I have four children . . .”
“I’ve been cited in Divisional and Army Orders. . . .”
“That’s enough, men!” Jonnart cut in. “Silence, I say! Everyone has a good reason for not wanting to die. Orders are orders and one of you has got to be the victim. So you’re going to draw lots. There are one hundred and eleven of you in this room. I’m going to make one hundred and eleven pieces of paper. One of them will be marked with a cross. The man who draws it will go before the court martial. I’m giving orders here, but since it’s a serious matter, I’m willing to hear any objections anybody may have to this method.”
“Yes, I object. The paper’s thin and we’ll see through it if it’s marked.”
“That’s stupid. The slips are going to be folded up and put in my cap. Each man will be blindfolded before he comes up to draw.”
“A blindfold never prevented anyone from looking down his nose.”
“Besides which, the fellow who gets it might erase the mark, or substitute another piece of paper for it. We most of us carry some of it around. It’s thin and comes in handy for . . .”
“All right then,” Jonnart conceded. “We’ll do it this way, though it will take longer . . .”
“We aren’t in any hurry, chief . . .”
“We’ll write out two sets of numbers from one to one hundred and eleven. One set will go in my hat, the other in Sergeant Darde’s. Each man will come up in alphabetical order, draw a number and open it at once. It will be entered against his name. When all are drawn, Sergeant Darde will draw one number from his hat. The man who has the corresponding number will be the one chosen. Yes, that’s better. All the papers will have markings on them and the unlucky man cannot be known until after all the numbers are drawn.”
“Unlucky is right . . .”
“All right, Darde. Here’s some paper and a pencil. Tear each sheet into four equal pieces and write the numbers on them, from one to a hundred and eleven. Print them carefully, but don’t fold them up until I tell you.”
It took Sergeant Darde about twelve minutes to do the numbers, while Jonnart needed an extra five. The men watched them in silence, fascinated by the work.
“Finished, Darde?” Jonnart asked when he was himself through. “Now, as I count each number, you pick it up, call it, and fold it and put it in your cap. I’ll do the same with mine. One.”
“One,” said Darde.
“Two.”
“Two . . .”
“Say, chief, can I have number thirteen?”
“No, you cannot,” said Jonnart, “unless you draw it. Sixty-two.”
“Sixty-two . . .”
“I’d like number one,” said a voice.
“Why one?”
“Because I never heard of number one being drawn in any lottery.”
“You’re a wise one! I’ll take one hundred, then . . .”
“You’ll take what you get, all of you,” said Jonnart. “One hundred and three.”
“One hundred and three . . .”
“Say, chief, can I go out for a smoke?”
“One hundred and eleven.”
“One hundred and eleven.”
“. . . and finish,” said Jonnart. “No. No smoking, and no going out. Nobody leaves the hut until this business is over. Now let me see, where’s the nominal roll? Ah, yes. First, Aboville. Step up, Aboville. Not so fast. Wait till I’ve finished mixing them up. Now, now draw a number out of my cap here. Be careful not to pick up two. What is it? Let me see it. Twenty-two.
“Aboville, twenty-two. Got it, Darde? Enter it there, right in front of his name. Next. Who’s next? Ajalbert. Come on, step lively. Don’t pick up more than one. Let me see it.
“Ajalbert, fifty-nine . . .
“Lalance, one hundred and three . . .
“Be careful, they stick to your fingers. Langlois, seventy-six . . .
“Ravary, forty-seven.
“Richet . . . Richet . . .” Jonnart hesitated over this number, realizing suddenly that he had overlooked something—something which might turn out to be troublesome. “Merde!” he said to himself. “If I’d only written them instead of printing them so carefully! But it may come out all right if I can keep my memory of the numbers already drawn working quickly and correctly.
“Richet, six . . .”
One by one the men came up to draw their numbers and to have them recorded against their names. One by one they joked, swaggered, whined, argued, affected unconcern, or acted as if they were picking hot coals. They were all doing just what they were told, but each one felt that this was one time when he could allow his mannerisms to be seen in his obedience to an order. There was not one of them who did not have an increased sense of self-dramatization, of individuality—above all, perhaps, of power, that curious feeling of power that a man has when he votes.
The drawing and recording of the numbers took, in all, about three-quarters of an hour. When it was ended, Sergeant-Major Jonnart checked the list and read it over out loud. So far his memory had served him well.
“Now, Darde,” he said, “mix the slips in your cap thoroughly and then turn your back and draw one.”
“If you don’t mind, chief, I’d rather not be the one to . . .”
“Do as I tell you!”
“All right, but I don’t relish the job.”
“Who d’you think does relish this job? Get busy.”
Darde mixed the pieces of paper in his cap. He mixed them with both hands, as if he were inspecting grain. He mixed and mixed and mixed....
“For God’s sake, draw!” said a strangulated voice from the crowd.
Darde stopped mixing. He did so with reluctance.
“Turn your back to the men,” said Jonnart, “and put your hand behind you.”
There wa
s absolute quiet in the hut, that intensified quiet which seems to prevail over a body of silent and motionless and expectant men. Darde turned and looked at the wall of the hut. He found a nail there and rested his gaze upon it. Jonnart took the sergeant’s cap and pushed it up so that Darde’s hand was plunged into the pieces of paper. Darde looked at the nail and felt the paper all around his hand. He moved his fingers, took hold of one piece of paper, let it go, took hold of another and let that go too....
“Draw, for the love of Christ, draw!”
It was the same strangulated voice.
The sergeant’s fingers closed on some paper. He felt two pieces and he released one. He pulled the other out and held it over his head.
Jonnart took the slip from Darde’s hand, unfolded it and flattened it out on the table with his palm.
“Sixty-eight,” he said.
He turned to the company roster, but even before the name was announced a man was pushing his way through to the table.
“Fasquelle.”
There was a sound of many breaths being released in the hut.
Fasquelle, in front of the table, looked at the slip of paper, then looked at Jonnart.
“What makes you think that number’s sixty-eight, sergeant-major?” he asked quietly.
“Look at it. Can’t you read?” said Jonnart with a harshness which was really nothing more than his vexation with himself.
“Luckily for me, I can,” said Fasquelle. “From where I stand the number’s eighty-nine, not sixty-eight.”
“But you can see the sixty-eight is right on the line, can’t you, whereas the other way the eighty-nine isn’t?”
“Are you going to have me court-martialled because of a line, sergeant-major?” Fasquelle was still speaking quietly.
“Well, no. No, I’m not,” said Jonnart. “The thing to do then, obviously, is for you to draw against the man who’s got eighty-nine. Who’s got eighty-nine? Poujade. Come up here, Poujade. You’ve got to draw against Fasquelle.”
“Nothing doing,” said Poujade. “The number’s clearly sixty-eight. And my number’s a long way from it.”
“The number,” said Fasquelle, “is not clearly sixty-eight.”
“Anyway,” said Poujade, “I refuse to draw against you. I refuse to be forced into a one-out-of-two chance after having already taken a one-out-of-a-hundred-and-eleven chance.”
“Don’t let me hear any more talk about refusing,” said Jonnart.
“Well, you’re going to,” said Poujade, “if you try to put a one-out-of-two draw on me when I’m entitled to one out of over a hundred. Furthermore, the number’s clearly sixty-eight, and the draw has been made. I drew the same as everybody else did and without any fuss about it. It’s a question of my life, sergeant-major, and I’m going to have my rights.”
Jonnart was nonplussed and angry with himself for having failed to foresee the possibility of this sort of thing. He was convinced the number was sixty-eight, but still he didn’t want to send a man to the execution post on a mere conviction. He wanted to do so even less because Fasquelle’s behavior about the matter had earned his approval. An idea suddenly came to him.
“Darde, open all the numbers in your cap and get me eighty-nine.”
The impasse remained, however. Number eighty-nine, when found, was so written that it didn’t rest on a line whichever side up it was held. It could have been either eighty-nine or sixty-eight.
“The only thing for it,” said Jonnart, “is to make the draw again . . .”
Instantly a chorus of protests broke out.
“How many times, Name of God!”
“We’ve drawn once . . .”
“That was final.”
“Let those two fight it out.”
“It’s an outrage.”
“I took my chance with the rest, and I won’t draw again.”
“Silence, all of you!” Jonnart roared. “You’ll do as you’re told. No more observations, or I’ll draw some extra numbers. The draw will be made again. You’ll keep your same numbers, but I’ll fix the others so there won’t be any confusion this time.”
Jonnart went over Darde’s slips one by one, picking each up and looking at it from top and bottom. When he was through, he had underlined the following pairs of numbers thus:
There were other numbers containing ones, such as eighteen and eighty-one, which might have been subject to the same confusion of inversion had not Darde been a Frenchman. Because he was French, and because he had printed the figures, the sergeant had made his ones with two distinct strokes and there was no doubt about which side up the numbers should be read.
“All right. Attention, men! We’re ready. And there won’t be any mistake this time. Darde, mix the slips again. All the numbers that might be confused are underlined. The line shows that the number is to be read with the line at the bottom.”
“Please, sergeant,” said a voice, “my pal and me would like to swap numbers . . .”
“No,” said Jonnart.
“What’s the idea?” said Darde.
“Well, we sort of figured our numbers had been good to us once and we didn’t want to ask too much of them again. . . .”
“If they’ve been good to you once,” said Jonnart, “you’d better stick to them. Ready, Darde?”
Darde turned his back to the men again, again placed his hand behind him and felt the cap come up and the papers close over his hand. His fingers again felt for a piece of paper, caught a small wad of them, released them all except one which he withdrew and held at arm’s length over his head. Jonnart took it.
“Number seventy-six.”
The crowd parted to let the owner of number seventy-six through, but there was no need, for Langlois had been standing near the table all the time.
The guard-room had been set up in one of the outbuildings of the château, in the coach house, to be exact. The coach house itself served for the guard while the harness room, leading off it, had been converted into a prison by the simple means of constructing a low, sloping, and man-length pallet of boards along one of the walls. This was so that the prisoners would not have to sleep on the cement floor, and it was the only furniture the place contained except for a urine bucket near the door.
Férol was the first of the three men to be let into the clink. One glance showed him which was the best place in the room, the corner near the window and farthest from the door, and he went straight to it and took possession. Férol made himself at home in a place in which he felt quite at home. He had been in many clinks in various parts of the world, and this was by no means the worst of them. He took off his tunic and his boots, unbuttoned his trousers, and stretched himself out on the bare boards, resting his head on his tunic which he had folded into a wad for a pillow. In a few moments he was asleep.
Within the next half hour Didier and Langlois had each in turn been escorted into the guard-room. They woke Férol up, and it was the first time the three men had spoken to each other. They exchanged names and established the fact that none of them had any cigarettes.
“What are you here for?” Didier asked Férol.
“How should I know? This is my headquarters. I’m always here. And, sooner or later, I always find out why. Either of you got a pack of cards?”
“What are you here for?” Langlois asked Didier.
“It’s a long story and I’ll save it for later,” said Didier. “There’s a little bastard of a lieutenant who’s out for my hide, that’s all. I know this is his work, all right. And you, what about you?”
“Well, I’m here for the same thing you two are, though you don’t know it. There ought to be a fourth showing up soon. Then we could play bridge, if we had some cards . . .”
“Bridge, what’s that?” said Férol.
“It’s a game,” said Langlois.
“But what’s this game, that’s what I’d like to know,” said Didier.
“Oh, this game,” said Langlois, “this game’s much simpler than bridge.”
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“Well, what is it, if you know what you’re talking about?”
“It’s just this. We’re here under charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy and we’re going before a court martial this afternoon, a summary court martial,” said Langlois.
“How d’you know?” said Didier.
“Because I heard the order read out.”
“And what did the order say? Come on, loosen up, will you.”
“Just what I told you. Each company commander was to select and arrest a man to go before a summary court martial on charges of cowardice in the face of the enemy.”
“But what cowardice? Whose cowardice? I don’t understand.”
“This morning,” said Langlois. “Because the attack failed, I suppose. The staff wants to make some examples, and we’re the examples.”
“Why us?” said Férol.
“I don’t know why you,” said Langlois, “but I know why me. Because our company drew lots and I drew the wrong number. Wrong for me, that is, right for all the others.”
“Jesus!” said Didier. “Drew lots, eh? That looks serious.”
“Yes,” said Férol, “that looks like something, all right. But my company didn’t draw lots. The sergeant just comes up to me and says, ‘Come with me.’ As soon as we’re out of the camp he tells me I’m under arrest. Just as if that was a novelty for me. . . .”
“That’s just the way they did with me,” said Didier. “They didn’t draw lots in my company either. Ah, now I begin to see it. Select and arrest a man, you say the order said? The dirty, stinking little bastard! Talk about cowards! But I’ll tell the court martial a thing or two. I won’t let the little swine get away with . . .”
The door of the clink was suddenly thrown open and the sergeant of the guard entered. “Prisoners, attention!” he ordered. “Up on your feet, there. Snap to it!”
An officer, a captain, walked in and the sergeant went out, closing and locking the door after him. The captain looked at a piece of paper he was carrying.
“Private Didier?”
“Here, sir.”
“Langlois?”
“Here, sir.”
“Férol?”
“Here, sir.”
“At ease, men. Sit down, if you wish. This is serious and I haven’t got much time, so listen to me carefully. . . .”
Paths of Glory Page 17