One of Ours - Willa Cather (great book club books .TXT) 📗

to say anything to the curé. One day, when she was with her Bavarian in the wood, she snatched up his revolver from the ground and shot herself. She was a Frenchwoman at heart, their hostess said.

“And the Bavarian?” Claude asked David later. The story had become so complicated he could not follow it.

“He justified her, and promptly. He took the same pistol and shot himself through the temples. His orderly, stationed at the edge of the thicket to keep watch, heard the first shot and ran toward them. He saw the officer take up the smoking pistol and turn it on himself. But the Kommandant couldn’t believe that one of his officers had so much feeling. He held an enquête, dragged the girl’s mother and uncle into court, and tried to establish that they were in conspiracy with her to seduce and murder a German officer. The orderly was made to tell the whole story; how and where they began to meet. Though he wasn’t very delicate about the details he divulged, he stuck to his statement that he saw Lieutenant Müller shoot himself with his own hand, and the Kommandant failed to prove his case. The old curé had known nothing of all this until he heard it aired in the military court. Marie Louise had lived in his house since she was a child, and was like his daughter. He had a stroke or something, and has been like this ever since. The girl’s friends forgave her, and when she was buried off alone by the hedge, they began to take flowers to her grave. The Kommandant put up an affiche on the hedge, forbidding anyone to decorate the grave. Apparently, nothing during the German occupation stirred up more feeling than poor Marie Louise.”

It would stir anybody, Claude reflected. There was her lonely little grave, the shadow of the privet hedge falling across it. There, at the foot of the curé’s garden, was the German cemetery, with heavy cement crosses⁠—some of them with long inscriptions; lines from their poets, and couplets from old hymns. Lieutenant Müller was there somewhere, probably. Strange, how their story stood out in a world of suffering. That was a kind of misery he hadn’t happened to think of before; but the same thing must have occurred again and again in the occupied territory. He would never forget the curé’s hands, his dim, suffering eyes.

Claude recognized David crossing the pavement in front of the church, and went back to meet him.

“Hello! I mistook you for Hicks at first. I thought he might be out here.” David sat down on the steps and lit a cigarette.

“So did I. I came out to look for him.”

“Oh, I expect he’s found some shoulder to cry on. Do you realize, Claude, you and I are the only men in the Company who haven’t got engaged? Some of the married men have got engaged twice. It’s a good thing we’re pulling out, or we’d have banns and a bunch of christenings to look after.”

“All the same,” murmured Claude, “I like the women of this country, as far as I’ve seen them.” While they sat smoking in silence, his mind went back to the quiet scene he had watched on the steps of that other church, on his first night in France; the country girl in the moonlight, bending over her sick soldier.

When they walked back across the square, over the crackling leaves, the dance was breaking up. Oscar was playing “Home, Sweet Home,” for the last waltz.

“Le dernier baiser,” said David. “Well, tomorrow we’ll be gone, and the chances are we won’t come back this way.”

XVIII

“With us it’s always a feast or a famine,” the men groaned, when they sat down by the road to munch dry biscuit at noon. They had covered eighteen miles that morning, and had still seven more to go. They were ordered to do the twenty-five miles in eight hours. Nobody had fallen out yet, but some of the boys looked pretty well wilted. Nifty Jones said he was done for. Sergeant Hicks was expostulating with the fainthearted. He knew that if one man fell out, a dozen would.

“If I can do it, you can. It’s worse on a fat man like me. This is no march to make a fuss about. Why, at Arras I talked with a little Tommy from one of those Pal Battalions that got slaughtered on the Somme. His battalion marched twenty-five miles in six hours, in the heat of July, into certain death. They were all kids out of school, not a man of them over five-foot-three, called them the ‘Bantams.’ You’ve got to hand it to them, fellows.”

“I’ll hand anything to anybody, but I can’t go no farther on these,” Jones muttered, nursing his sore feet.

“Oh, you! We’re going to heave you onto the only horse in the Company. The officers, they can walk!”

When they got into Battalion lines there was food ready for them, but very few wanted it. They drank and lay down in the bushes. Claude went at once to Headquarters and found Barclay Owens, of the Engineers, with the Colonel, who was smoking and studying his maps as usual.

“Glad to see you, Wheeler. Your men ought to be in good shape, after a week’s rest. Let them sleep now. We’ve got to move out of here before midnight, to relieve two Texas battalions at Moltke trench. They’ve taken the trench with heavy casualties and are beat out; couldn’t hold it in case of counterattack. As it’s an important point, the enemy will try to recover it. I want to get into position before daylight, so he won’t know fresh troops are coming in. As ranking officer, you are in charge of the Company.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“I’m sure you will. Two machine gun teams are going up with us, and some time tomorrow a Missouri battalion comes up to