The prisoners look at ETIENNE and he whispers with them.
ETIENNE: The accused Férol says that he is innocent and begs for the mercy of the Court. The accused Langlois says that he is innocent. He asks the Court to take cognizance of his decorations. The accused Didier says that he is innocent, that he is married and has four children, and begs for the mercy of the Court.
PRESIDENT: Very well. The accused will be escorted back to the guard-room. The hearing is closed. The Court will now retire to deliberate.
A small group of men were lined up in the courtyard outside the coach house of the château. The sun had dropped behind the buildings and the pigeons were making their pleasant liquid sounds under eaves which were in shadow. Three men, hatless and unarmed, stood in a line at attention. Behind them the guard was at the present arms. Facing them was the prosecutor, flanked by the clerk of the court martial and the sergeant-major. Captain Ibels was reading from a piece of paper.
“In the name of the French people.
“On this day the Summary Court Martial of the Château de l’Aigle, deliberating behind closed doors,
“The President put the following question:
“‘Are the soldiers Férol, Langlois, and Didier, of the 181st Regiment of the line, guilty of having shown cowardice in the face of the enemy during the attack by that regiment on the part of the enemy line known as the Pimple?’
“The votes having been taken, in accordance with the law, separately and beginning with the lowest in rank, the President of the Court recording his opinion last,
“The Court Martial declares unanimously to the question: ‘Yes, the accused are guilty.’
“Following which, and on the motion of the government prosecutor, the President put the question of the penalty to be inflicted to a vote, the votes being taken in accordance with the law, separately and beginning with the lowest in rank, the President of the Court recording his opinion last,
“The Summary Court Martial, therefore, by a vote of two to one, condemns the soldiers Férol, Langlois, and Didier to the penalty of death by shooting as provided for by the Code of Military Justice,
“Instructs the government prosecutor to read this judgment without delay to the accused in the presence of the assembled guard under arms.
“(Signed) Labouchère, President of the Court
“Tanon, Judge
“Marignan, Judge.”
Regimental Sergeant-Major Boulanger had had some arrangements to make, some orders to give. He had made his arrangements with competence and now, in his office, he was giving his orders with precision to a selected group of First Battalion N.C.O.’s.
“As you know,” he said, “the court martial found the accused guilty and sentenced them to be shot. The executions will take place at eight o’clock in the morning, sharp. The colonel insists that everything must go off without a hitch and with the least possible delay. It is not to be hurried, but there mustn’t be any fumbling around. I have been put in charge and made personally responsible for any lack of order or for any mistakes. You can take it from me that I shall pass on any blame, and with interest, to any of you who fail in your duties. These duties, incidentally, are simple enough. Get your note-books out and see that you put down what I say to you.
“Sergeant Gounod, you are appointed to command the prisoners’ escort from the guard-house to the execution posts. You will have a guard of twelve men under arms, rifles loaded, bayonets fixed, four men to each prisoner. The four men are to be individually assigned to each prisoner and held responsible for that one prisoner alone in case trouble starts. At any sign of trouble the prisoners are to be instantly covered. If the trouble does not subside at once, the prisoner is to be shot on the spot. If any concerted action gets under way, they are all to be shot or bayoneted. But every effort must be made to get them under control without resorting to shooting. Is that clear?
“No, the prisoners’ hands will not be bound until they are at the execution posts. The colonel does not wish to have any unnecessary cruelty inflicted on them. Besides, it would make it more difficult for them to walk.
“The escort is not to exchange a single word with the prisoners except words of command. You will be given a litre of cognac with which to fill your canteen. When you go to fetch the prisoners you are to give each one of them a good swig of it and a cigarette if he wants it. But see that they don’t take too much. Don’t forget that it will be on an empty stomach—a very empty stomach, if my guess is any good. Then, when the detachment reaches the corner of the wood where it turns onto the parade ground, you are to give them each another swig. That will be their last. Is that clear?
“As soon as this meeting is over, Sergeant Gounod will go to the guard-room and, timing himself carefully, he will walk up to the parade ground at a pace a little slower than the usual marching time. You are to make a note of the exact amount of time it took you to reach the centre of the field near its western edge by the trees. That time, plus eight minutes, is to be deducted from eight o’clock, and that will be the time the escort is to leave with the prisoners from the guard-house. Have you got that all clearly in your mind?
“All right. The quartermaster-sergeant will detail a fatigue of two parties, one to rig up the execution posts at spots which I shall show him, the other to dig the grave, one grave large enough for the three bodies, in the woods behind the execution posts. These same parties are to remain under orders until the business is over. The quartermaster-sergeant will see to it that he has a knife, rope, and blindfolds. The rope is for binding the condemned men to the posts. Their hands are to be tied behind them, then their bodies bound to the posts, and tightly enough to prevent them from falling if they faint or if their knees give way. Number 3 Company will supply this detail.
“Now, as to the firing-squads. Orders are that they are to be formed of the new-class soldiers only. No, I don’t know why, but I suppose it is to impress them with a sense of discipline and perhaps to avoid any trouble which might arise from some oldtimer’s refusing to fire at a comrade. Yes, I know the regulations say the firing-squads should be from a different regiment or at least from one of the other battalions. But orders are orders, and these come from Division. They know what they’re doing, and if they don’t it isn’t our worry. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Furthermore, the colonel wants it so arranged that the squads shall not be from the same companies as the man they are going to execute. Number 1 Company will, therefore, supply the squad for Langlois; Number 4 Company for Didier; Number 2 Company for Férol. Twelve men and a sergeant to each squad, and they are to march separately to the field and to stand apart at the farther end. I will put them into position as soon as the time has come.
“The whole regiment is to be on the field at seven-fifteen, lined up in parade formation at the eastern end. At seven-thirty I shall take over the parade and move the regiment into three-sided hollow square.
“At seven-forty-five the officers will come on the field and take their posts. I shall turn the parade over to the commanding officer.
“As soon as the condemned men have come onto the field and are being bound to the posts, I shall move the firing-squads into position and then report to the commanding officer that all is ready. At his order, the band will ruffle the drums, and then the adjutant will read out the sentence of the court martial. At the end of the reading the drums will be ruffled again. A warrant-officer will give the order to fire. I don’t know yet whether the regiment will have to march past the dead bodies or not.
“Any questions . . . ?
“No, there will be no military degradation ceremony. It was apparently overlooked in the orders from Division and the colonel is going to take advantage of the oversight. Any other questions . . . ?
“All right, dismiss!”
“In the name of the French people . . .” said Langlois.
“He should have said ‘in the name of the French butchers,’” said Didier.
“To think,” said Langlois,
“that, after all, we are the people of France, you and me and Férol, and millions just like us.”
“Don’t take it so seriously,” said Férol. “This is the third court martial I’ve been up against and nothing ever came of any of them except a bit of prison. And prison isn’t at all a bad place to be in, especially during a war. We’re safe, we get our three squares a day, and nobody bothers us. All we have to do is to sit and wait. A fatigue or two now and then maybe. I tell you, after Algerian clinks, this is luxury. The way you fellows talk, you’d think the end of the world had come.”
“Well, it has for us,” said Didier, “only you don’t know it.”
“How do you know it?” Férol asked.
“I read the signs. First, Langlois here is drawn by lot. When they start drawing lots you might as well start drawing your will. Second, Roget picking me. Clever little bastard, all right, to put me out of the way so neatly. You know, I’ve never had any wish to kill a man, except in the war of course, but I’d give a lot to have Roget cringing at the point of my revolver. And d’you know what I’d do? I’d fill it with five blanks and the last one would be a live round. I’d fire each one of those blanks at him at intervals, and make him die five deaths before the real one. . . .”
“Say, now that’s a clever idea,” said Férol, his eyes gleaming with admiration. “How’d you think of it? I must remember it for when I get out. There’s a beast of a . . .”
“But can’t you get it through your fat head, Férol, that you’re not going to get out this time,” said Langlois.
“Oh, you’re a crêpe-hanger!”
“Well, didn’t that court martial, if you can call it a court martial—didn’t it convince you that you haven’t a chance?”
“To tell you the truth, boys, I didn’t pay much attention to it. I was figuring out if I could make a jump for it out that window which was near me. I’d just about made up my mind to take the chance. The captain was making his speech. I looked around the room to see if anybody was watching. And, Name of God, when I looked back again one of the guards had moved nearer to the window and he had his pig’s eyes on me.”
“You’re crazy,” said Didier. Langlois accepted this dismissal of Férol as being adequate and he and Didier fell to talking between themselves.
They were apprehensive, deeply so, but, as yet, they were not really afraid. They had relaxed from the strain of the court-martial proceedings, made more than ever an inimical performance by the stiffness of the court, the overwhelming number of officers’ uniforms, and the long, slim, gleaming fixed bayonets of the guards. Most of their bodily secretions were functioning normally again and saliva once more moistened mouths which had been dry.
They outdid each other with arguments to prove that death was certain, though at the same time they were convinced that it was life that was certain. They were responding to that curious instinct which impels men to talk themselves out of a situation by talking themselves into it. They heaped hopelessness upon hopelessness and they felt that they were doing their cause some good thereby. They talked for an hour or more in a vain effort to free themselves from the contradictoriness of their feelings. They knew they were going to die and, at the same time, they didn’t believe it. Or, they believed they were going to be executed and yet the idea that such a thing could happen to them was unthinkable.
This state of contradictory and tangled feeling received a clarification shortly after nightfall which swept away almost the whole of their laboriously constructed edifice of immunity and left them suddenly and shockingly in possession of what remained, namely, hopelessness. The clarification came in the form of a visit from Sergeant Picard, the priest.
“My sons,” he said to them, “you are soldiers and I therefore do not need to beat about the bush. I bring you bad news. You must prepare yourselves for the worst. The colonel told me to tell you so. He has been in telephone communication with Army Headquarters. The Army Commander was out to dinner and couldn’t be reached. The colonel talked to the chief of staff, but he said he had no authority to intervene in such a matter. The colonel pleaded with him, and then the line became disconnected. Dax tried to get him back, but when he got Army Headquarters again and said who he was, they kept him waiting for some time and then told him the chief of staff had gone out and couldn’t be found. He says you will understand that they don’t want to be found. It’s the same way at Division.
“My sons, there is nothing for me to say to you just now. But there is something I can do, and I have done it. I have brought you paper and pencil. If any of you cannot write, I am at your service. It will be the same as if it were in a confessional.... Very well, then, here are the writing materials. I shall be back later. You can write your letters without fear of the censor for I shall see that they reach your families. The church, as well as the state, you know, has its means of communication.”
“Sergeant,” said Langlois, “how much time have we got?”
“Not very much, my poor fellow, but I think at least until after it is daylight.”
“Why do you think that? Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure, because the whole regiment has been ordered to parade. They wouldn’t be parading in the dark. Besides, the firing . . .” Picard checked himself suddenly and was relieved to hear Didier cover the gaucherie with a question.
“Will it hurt very much, sergeant?”
“I don’t think you’ll ever feel it. Your pain will be now, and not of the body. The—er—that will come as a welcome end to your anguish. I’ll be back to help you through these hours, if I can.”
“Sergeant,” said Férol, “bring us some cigarettes, will you? And don’t forget some matches too.”
Sergeant Picard went out.
“Not one of them called me ‘father,’” he said to himself. “Later, perhaps . . .”
Didier sat on the boards and worked over his letter to his wife. Words came slower for him at first from a pencil than they did from his tongue.
He began at the beginning and told her the story of the patrol, of his arrangement with Roget, of the attack on the Pimple, and of all that followed thereafter with such bewildering rapidity. He became so engrossed in the recital of the military events of his story that, at times, he slipped into the style of a formal report. It was his defence he was writing, the one he had been deprived of. Now and then the injustice of the whole thing would overwhelm him and his words came in rushes of indignation, almost hysterical in their striving to convey his sense of outrage. This was followed by a calmer interval of grief; nor was it an inarticulate one, either, merely because he expressed it in terms of his love for the odds and ends in his pockets, those odds and ends which a wife sent to her husband at the front. He gave detailed instructions about exactly how he wanted his children brought up, what trades they were to go in. In the next sentence he left all that to his wife. He spoke with dignity and with pride about his own life and work. He had always been a man of character and he wanted his wife to preserve his reputation among his friends and acquaintances, more for his children’s sake than for his own. He assured her he had never been a coward. He was simply being shot as an example. He had never had any luck and he was resigned to his fate. After all, France was already full of fatherless children and widows. He promised her he would face the firing-squad like a brave soldier. Neither she nor the children need ever hang their heads in shame for him. He returned to the objects in his pockets which he had spread before him, the tobacco pouch, a letter, a lock of hair, all from his beloved Annette. Then, suddenly overcome, he ended his letter abruptly:
“How I love you, my God! And how I weep!”
And Didier wept, silently, turning his face away so the others would not see.
Langlois’s letter:
At the front.
My darling wife,
How can I begin to tell you of what has happened to me? It is too cruel, but when you read this letter I shall be dead, fallen under the bullet of a French firing-squad. I
am bewildered and so lonely. You must forgive my incoherence. Thoughts and feelings rush in upon me so fast they carry me away.
If Sergeant Picard or Captain Etienne should ever come to you, you can believe them. They were friends, and Picard is the priest who promises to see that you will get this letter. Colonel Dax, too, I think was a friend, though a remote one. They will tell you how it was done. Briefly, this is what happened. We failed to take our objectives in an attack this morning. It seems ages ago now. It was not our fault. No human being could have advanced through that fire. Somebody wanted some examples made, and I am one of them. There are two others besides myself. We have been court-martialled and we’re going to be shot in the morning. We were charged with cowardice and the court martial was a steam-roller. I was not a coward, I swear it to you. But they want examples. I don’t say I wasn’t afraid. There’s no man who hasn’t been afraid.
Oh, my darling, dearest one. Words, words, how pitifully they fail me. The president of the court was a Colonel Labouchère, and his name sounds like what he was, a butcher, though I suppose he thought he was doing his duty.
The speed of time appals me. At any moment now I may hear the tread of the guards come to take us out. No, that is not true. It is still night and they won’t shoot us till daylight. They’ve got to have light to take aim by. It is so difficult to remain honest, especially in a time of crisis. What I mean is that I feel as if they might come at any minute. In truth, I have some hours left to live. They will go so slowly, they will go so fast. Already I feel numb inside, as if my intestines were filled with lead. They will be, soon enough. Forgive the cheap and cruel sarcasm. Perhaps in writing to you I may get some control over myself. I shall try not to inflict the pain of my heart on yours for, by the time you learn of it, mine will be all over. I never knew that time could exert such a terrific pressure.
What will become of you, my dearest, what will become of that new life which must already be stirring within your body, that body that I loved so much and that I’ll never see again? But it is not of your body that I think now. Already half disembodied myself, I have lost all capacity for sensuality. On the other hand, my mind feels intensified to a point which is nearer to bursting. My yearning for you is an anguish which I can hardly bear. Every fibre of me is straining to you in a pitiful, hopeless attempt to bring you to me so that we might comfort each other. But I am alone, and my only means of communication is to leave you this sorrowful letter to read after I am gone.
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