Under Fire, Henri Barbusse [free novel reading sites TXT] 📗

of them! D’you hear? It’s always too many, I say, because it is so.”

“Too many? What do you know about it, vilain? These departments and committees, do you know what they are?”

“I don’t know what they are,” Volpatte set off again, “but I know—”

“Don’t you think they need a crowd to keep all the army’s affairs going?”

“I don’t care a damn, but—”

“But you wish it was you, eh?” chaffed the invisible neighbor, who concealed in the depth of the hood on which the reservoirs of space were emptying either a supreme indifference or a cruel desire to take a rise out of Volpatte.

“I can’t help it,” said the other, simply.

“There’s those that can help it for you,” interposed the shrill voice of Barque; “I knew one of ‘em—”

“I, too, I’ve seen ‘em!” Volpatte yelled with a desperate effort through the storm. “Tiens! not far from the front, don’t know where exactly, where there’s an ambulance clearing-station and a sous-intendance—I met the reptile there.”

The wind, as it passed over us, tossed him the question, “What was it?”

At that moment there was a lull, and the weather allowed Volpatte to talk after a fashion. He said: “He took me round all the jumble of the depot as if it was. a fair, although he was one of the sights of the place. He led me along the passages and into the dining-rooms of houses and supplementary barracks. He half opened doors with labels on them, and said, ‘Look here, and here too—look!’ I went inspecting with him, but he didn’t go back, like I did, to the trenches, don’t fret yourself, and he wasn’t coming back from them either. don’t worry! The reptile, the first time I saw him he was walking nice and leisurely in the yard—‘I’m in the Expenses Department,’ he says. We talked a bit, and the next day he got an orderly job so as to dodge getting sent away, seeing it was his turn to go since the beginning of the war.

“On the step of the door where he’d laid all night on a feather bed, he was polishing the pumps of his monkey master—beautiful yellow pumps—rubbing ‘em with paste, fairly glazing ‘em, my boy. I stopped to watch him, and the chap told me all about himself. Mon vieux, I don’t remember much more of the stuffing that came out of his crafty skull than I remember of the History of France and the dates we whined at school. Never, I tell you, bad be been sent to the front, although he was Class 1903, [note 1] and a lusty devil at that, he was. Danger and dog-tiredness and all the ugliness of war—not for him, but for the others, oui. He knew damned well that if he set foot in the firing-line, the line would see that the beast got it, so he ran like hell from it, and stopped where he was. He said they’d tried all ways to get him, but he’d given the slip to all the captains, all the colonels, all the majors, and they were all damnably mad with him. He told me about it. How did he work it? He’d sit down all of a sudden, put on a stupid look, do the scrim-shanker stunt, and flop like a bundle of dirty linen. ‘I’ve got a sort of general fatigue,’ he’d blubber. They didn’t know how to take him, and after a bit they just let him drop—everybody was fit to spew on him. And he changed his tricks according to the circumstances, d’you catch on? Sometimes he had something wrong with his foot—he was damned clever with his feet. And then he contrived things, and he knew one head from another, and how to take his opportunities. He knew what’s what, he did. You could see him go and slip in like a pretty poilu among the depot chaps, where the soft jobs were, and stay there; and then he’d put himself out no end to be useful to the pals. He’d get up at three o’clock in the morning to make the juice, go and fetch the water while the others were getting their grub. At last, he’d wormed himself in everywhere, he came to be one of the family, the rotter, the carrion. He did it so he wouldn’t have to do it. He seemed to me like an individual that would have earned five quid honestly with the same work and bother that he puts into forging a one-pound note. But there, he’ll get his skin out of it all right, he will. At the front he’d be lost sight of in the throng of it, but he’s not so stupid. Be damned to them, he says, that take their grub on the ground, and be damned to them still more when they’re under it. When we’ve all done with fighting, he’ll go back home and he’ll say to his friends and neighbors, ‘Here I am safe and sound,’ and his pals’ll be glad, because be’s a good sort, with engaging manners, contemptible creature that he is, and—and this is the most stupid thing of all—but he takes you in and you swallow him whole, the son of a bug.

“And then, those sort of beings, don’t you believe there’s only one of them. There are barrels of ‘em in every depot, that hang on and writhe when their time comes to go, and they say, ‘I’m not going,’ and they don’t go, and they never succeed in driving them as far as the front.”

“Nothing new in all that,” said Barque, “we know it, we know it!”

“Then there are the offices,” Volpatte went on, engrossed in his story of travel; “whole houses and streets and districts. I saw that my little corner in the rear was only a speck, and I had full view of them. Non, I’d never have believed there’d be so many men on chairs while war was going on—”

A hand protruded from the rank and made trial of space—“No more sauce falling”—“Then we’re going out, bet your life on it.” So “March!” was the cry.

The storm held its peace. We filed off in the long narrow swamp stagnating in the bottom of the trench where the moment before it had shaken under slabs of rain. Volpatte’s grumbling began again amidst our sorry stroll and the eddies of floundering feet. I listened to him as I watched the shoulders of a poverty-stricken overcoat swaying in front of me, drenched through and through. This time Volpatte was on the track of the police—

“The farther you go from the front the more you see of them.”

“Their battlefield is not the same as ours.”

Tulacque had an ancient grudge against them. “Look,” he said, “how the bobbies spread themselves about to get good lodgings and good food, and then, after the drinking regulations, they dropped on the secret wine-sellers. You saw them lying in wait, with a corner of an eye on the shop-doors, to see if there weren’t any poilus slipping quietly out, two-faced that they are, leering to left and to right and licking their mustaches.”

“There are good ones among ‘em. I knew one in my country, the Cote d’Or, where I—”

“Shut up!” was Tulacque’s peremptory interruption; “they’re all alike. There isn’t one that can put another right.”

“Yes, they’re lucky,” said Volpatte, “but do you think they’re contented? Not a bit; they grouse. At least,” he corrected himself, “there was one I met, and he was a grouser. He was devilish bothered by the drill-manual. ‘It isn’t worth while to learn the drill instruction,’ he said, ‘they’re always changing it. F’r instance, take the department of military police; well, as soon as you’ve got the gist of it, it’s something else. Ah, when will this war be over?’ he says.”

“They do what they’re told to do, those chaps,” ventured Eudore.

“Surely. It isn’t their fault at all. It doesn’t alter the fact that these professional soldiers, pensioned and decorated in the time when we’re only civvies, will have made war in a damned funny way.”

“That reminds me of a forester that I saw as well,” said Volpatte, “who played hell about the fatigues they put him to. ‘It’s disgusting,’ the fellow said to me, ‘what they do with us. We’re old non-coms., soldiers that have done four years of service at least. We’re paid on the higher scale, it’s true, but what of that? We are Officials, and yet they humiliate us. At H.Q. they set us to cleaning, and carrying the dung away. The civilians see the treatment they inflict on us, and they look down on us. And if you look like grousing, they’ll actually talk about sending you off to the trenches, like foot-soldiers! What’s going to become of our prestige? When we go back to the parishes as rangers after the war—if we do come back from it—the people of the villages and forests will say, “Ah, it was you that was sweeping the streets at X—!” To get back our prestige, compromised by human injustice and ingratitude, I know well,’ he says, ‘that we shall have to make complaints, and make complaints and make ‘em with all our might, to the rich and to the influential!’ he says.”

“I knew a gendarme who was all right,” said Lamuse. “‘The police are temperate enough in general,’ he says, ‘but there are always dirty devils everywhere, pas? The civilian is really afraid of the gendarme,’ says he, ‘and that’s a fact; and so, I admit it, there are some who take advantage of it, and those ones—the tag-rag of the gendarmerie—know where to get a glass or two. If I was Chief or Brigadier, I’d screw ‘em down; not half I wouldn’t,’ he says; ‘for public opinion,’ he says again. ‘lays the blame on the whole force when a single one with a grievance makes a complaint.’”

“As for me,” says Paradis, “one of the worst days of my life was once when I saluted a gendarme, taking him for a lieutenant, with his white stripes. Fortunately—I don’t say it to console myself, but because it’s probably true—fortunately, I don’t think he saw me.”

A silence. “Oui, ‘vidently,” the men murmured; “but what about it? No need to worry.”

*

A little later, when we were seated along a wall, with our backs to the stones, and our feet plunged and planted in the ground, Volpatte continued unloading his impressions.

“I went into a big room that was a Depot office—bookkeeping department, I believe. It swarmed with tables, and people in it like in a market. Clouds of talk. All along the walls on each side and in the middle, personages sitting in front of their spread-out goods like waste-paper merchants. I put in a request to be put back into my regiment, and they said to me, ‘Take your damned hook, and get busy with it.’ I lit on a sergeant, a little chap with airs, spick as a daisy, with a gold-rimmed spy-glass—eye-glasses with a tape on them. He was young, but being a re-enlisted soldier, he had the right not to go to the front. I said to him, ‘Sergeant!’ But he didn’t hear me, being busy slanging a secretary—it’s unfortunate, mon garcon,’ he was saying; ‘I’ve told you twenty times that you must send one notice of it to be carried out by the Squadron Commander, Provost of the C.A., and one by way of advice, without signature, but making mention of the signature, to the Provost of the Force Publique d’Amiens and of the centers of the district, of which you have