Under Fire - Henri Barbusse (best book series to read txt) 📗

insists obstinately on keeping his weapons and bundles.

We stroll back, finding diversion—as always—in walking without ranks. It is so uncommon that one finds it surprising and profitable. So it is a breach of liberty which soon enlivens all four of us. We are in the country as though for the pleasure of it.

“We are pedestrians!” says Volpatte proudly. When we reach the turning at the top of the hill, he relapses upon rosy visions: “Old man, it’s a good wound, after all. I shall be sent back, no mistake about it.”

His eyes wink and sparkle in the huge white clump that dithers on his shoulders—a clump reddish on each side, where the ears were.

From the depth where the village lies we hear ten o’clock strike. “To hell with the time,” says Volpatte “it doesn’t matter to me any more what time it is.”

He becomes loquacious. It is a low fever that inspires his dissertation, and condenses it to the slow swing of our walk, in which his step is already jaunty.

“They’ll stick a red label on my greatcoat, you’ll see, and take me to the rear. I shall be bossed this time by a very polite sort of chap, who’ll say to me, ‘That’s one side, now turn the other way—so, my poor fellow.’ Then the ambulance, and then the sick-train, with the pretty little ways of the Red Cross ladies all the way along, like they did to Crapelet Jules, then the base hospital. Beds with white sheets, a stove that snores in the middle of us all, people with the special job of looking after you, and that you watch doing it, regulation slippers—sloppy and comfortable—and a chamber-cupboard. Furniture! And it’s in those big hospitals that you’re all right for grub! I shall have good feeds, and baths. I shall take all I can get hold of. And there’ll be presents—that you can enjoy without having to fight the others for them and get yourself into a bloody mess. I shall have my two hands on the counterpane, and they’ll do damn well nothing, like things to look at—like toys, what? And under the sheets my legs’ll be white-hot all the way through, and my trotters’ll be expanding like bunches of violets.”

Volpatte pauses, fumbles about, and pulls out of his pocket, along with his famous pair of Soissons scissors, something that he shows to me: “Tiens, have you seen this?”

It is a photograph of his wife and two children. He has already shown it to me many a time. I look at it and express appreciation.

“I shall go on sick-leave,” says Volpatte, “and while my ears are sticking themselves on again, the wife and the little ones will look at me, and I shall look at them. And while they’re growing again like lettuces, my friends, the war, it’ll make progress—the Russians—one doesn’t know, what?” He is thinking aloud, lulling himself with happy anticipations, already alone with his private festival in the midst of us.

“Robber!” Feuillade shouts at him. “You’ve too much luck, by God!”

How could we not envy him? He would be going away for one, two, or three months; and all that time, instead of our wretched privations, he would be transformed into a man of means!

“At the beginning,” says Farfadet, “it sounded comic when I heard them wish for a ‘good wound.’ But all the same, and whatever can be said about it, I understand now that it’s the only thing a poor soldier can hope for if he isn’t daft.”

*

We were drawing near to the village and passing round the wood. At its corner, the sudden shape of a woman arose against the sportive sunbeams that outlined her with light. Alertly erect she stood, before the faintly violet background of the wood’s marge and the crosshatched trees. She was slender, her head all afire with fair hair, and in her pale face we could see the night-dark caverns of great eyes. The resplendent being gazed fixedly upon us, trembling, then plunged abruptly into the undergrowth and disappeared like a torch.

The apparition and its flight so impressed Volpatte that he lost the thread of his discourse.

“She’s something like, that woman there!”

“No,” said Fouillade, who had misunderstood, “she’s called Eudoxie. I knew her because I’ve seen her before. A refugee. I don’t know where she comes from, but she’s at Gamblin, in a family there.”

“She’s thin and beautiful,” Volpatte certified; “one would like to make her a little present—she’s good enough to eat—tender as a chicken. And look at the eyes she’s got!”

“She’s queer,” says Fouillade. “You don’t know when you’ve got her. You see her here, there, with her fair hair on top, then—off! Nobody about. And you know, she doesn’t know what danger is; marching about, sometimes, almost in the front line, and she’s been seen knocking about in No Man’s Land. She’s queer.”

“Look! There she is again. The spook! She’s keeping an eye on us. What’s she after?”

The shadow-figure, traced in lines of light, this time adorned the other end of the spinney’s edge.

“To hell with women,” Volpatte declared, whom the idea of his deliverance has completely recaptured.

“There’s one in the squad, anyway, that wants her pretty badly. See—when you speak of the wolf—”

“You see its tail—”

“Not yet, but almost—look!” From some bushes on our right we saw the red snout of Lamuse appear peeping, like a wild boar’s.

He was on the woman’s trail. He had seen the alluring vision, dropped to the crouch of a setting dog, and made his spring. But in that spring he fell upon us.

Recognizing Volpatte and Fouillade, big Lamuse gave shouts of delight. At once he had no other thought than to get possession of the bags, rifles, and haversacks—“Give me all of it—I’m resting—come on, give it up.”

He must carry everything. Farfadet and I willingly gave up Volpatte’s equipment; and Fouillade, now at the end of his strength, agreed to surrender his pouches and his rifle.

Lamuse became a moving heap. Under the huge burden he disappeared, bent double, and made progress only with shortened steps.

But we felt that he was still under the sway of a certain project, and his glances went sideways. He was seeking the woman after whom he had hurled himself. Every time he halted, the better to trim some detail of the load, or puffingly to mop the greasy flow of perspiration, he furtively surveyed all the corners of the horizon and scrutinized the edges of the wood. He did not see her again.

I did see her again, and got a distinct impression this time that it was one of us she was after. She half arose on our left from the green shadows of the undergrowth. Steadying herself with one hand on a branch, she leaned forward and revealed the night-dark eyes and pale face, which showed—so brightly lighted was one whole side of it—like a crescent moon.

I saw that she was smiling. And following the course of the look that smiled, I saw Farfadet a little way behind us, and he was smiling too. Then she slipped away into the dark foliage, carrying the twin smile with her.

Thus was the understanding revealed to me between this lissom and dainty gypsy, who was like no one at all, and Farfadet, conspicuous among us all—slender, pliant and sensitive as lilac. Evidently—!

Lamuse saw nothing, blinded and borne down as he was by the load he had taken from Farfadet and me, occupied in the poise of them, and in finding where his laden and leaden feet might tread.

But he looks unhappy; he groans. A weighty and mournful obsession is stifling him. In his harsh breathing it seems to me that I can hear his heart beating and muttering. Looking at Volpatte, hooded in bandages, and then at the strong man, muscular and full-blooded, with that profound and eternal yearning whose sharpness he alone can gauge, I say to myself that the worst wounded man is not he whom we think.

We go down at last to the village. “Let’s have a drink,” says Fouillade. “I’m going to be sent back,” says Volpatte. Lamuse puffs and groans.

Our comrades shout and come running, and we gather in the little square where the church stands with its twin towers—so thoroughly mutilated by a shell that one can no longer look it in the face.

5

Sanctuary

THE dim road which rises through the middle of the night-bound wood is so strangely full of obstructing shadows that the deep darkness of the forest itself might by some magic have overflowed upon it. It is the regiment on the march, in quest of a new home.

The weighty ranks of the shadows, burdened both high and broad, hustle each other blindly. Each wave, pushed by the following, stumbles upon the one in front, while alongside and detached are the evolutions of those less bulky ghosts, the N.C.O.‘s. A clamor of confusion, compound of exclamations, of scraps of chat, of words of command, of spasms of coughing and of song, goes up from the dense mob enclosed between the banks. To the vocal commotion is added the tramping of feet, the jingling of bayonets in their scabbards, of cans and drinking-cups, the rumbling and hammering of the sixty vehicles of the two convoys—fighting and regimental—that follow the two battalions. And such a thing is it that trudges and spreads itself over the climbing road that, in spite of the unbounded dome of night, one welters in the odor of a den of lions.

In the ranks one sees nothing. Sometimes, when one can lift his nose up, by grace of an eddy in the tide, one cannot help seeing the whiteness of a mess-tin, the blue steel of a helmet, the black steel of a rifle. Anon, by the dazzling jet of sparks that flies from a pocket flint-and-steel, or the red flame that expands upon the lilliputian stem of a match, one can see beyond the vivid near relief of hands and faces to the silhouetted and disordered groups of helmeted shoulders, swaying like surges that would storm the sable stronghold of the night. Then, all goes out, and while each tramping soldier’s legs swing to and fro, his eye is fixed inflexibly upon the conjectural situation of the back that dwells in front of him.

After several halts, when we have allowed ourselves to collapse on our haversacks at the foot of the stacked rifles—stacks that form on the call of the whistle with feverish haste and exasperating delay, through our blindness in that atmosphere of ink-dawn reveals itself, extends, and acquires the domain of Space. The walls of the Shadow crumble in vague ruin. Once more we pass under the grand panorama of the day’s unfolding upon the ever-wandering horde that we are.

We emerge at last from this night of marching, across concentric circles as it seems, of darkness less dark, then of half-shadow, then of gloomy light. Legs have a wooden stiffness, backs are benumbed, shoulders bruised. Faces are still so gray or so black, one would say they had but half rid themselves of the night. Now, indeed, one never throws it off altogether.

It is into new quarters that the great company is going—this time to rest. What will the place be like that we have to live in for eight days? It is called, they say—but nobody is certain of anything—Gauchin-l’Abbe. We have heard wonders about it—“It appears to be just it.”

In the ranks of the companies whose forms and features one begins to make out in the birth of morning, and to distinguish the lowered heads and yawning mouths,