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

silhouette take the vague outline of a Chinese, while his round eye rolls and turns in the shadows. He is looking at his dreams of a moment ago. Then he passes his hand over his eyes and—as if it had some connection with his dream—recalls the scene that night when we came up to the trenches—“For all that,” he says, in a voice weighty with slumber and reflection, “there were some half-seas-over that night! Ah, what a night! All those troops, companies and whole regiments, yelling and surging all the way up the road! In the thinnest of the dark you could see the jumble of poilus that went on and up—like the sea itself, you’d say—and carrying on across all the convoys of artillery and ambulance wagons that we met that night. I’ve never seen so many, so many convoys in the night, never!” Then he deals himself a thump on the chest, settles down again in self-possession, groans, and says no more.

Blaire’s voice rises, giving expression to the haunting thought that wakes in the depths of the men: “It’s four o’clock. It’s too late for there to be anything from our side.”

One of the gamesters in the other corner yelps a question at another: “Now then? Are you going to play or aren’t you, worm-face?”

Tirette continues the story of his major: “Behold one day they’d served us at the barracks with some suetty soup. Old man, a disease, it was! So a chap asks to speak to the captain, and holds his mess-tin up to his nose.”

“Numskull!” some one shouts in the other corner. “Why didn’t you trump, then?”

“‘Ah, damn it,’ said the captain, ‘take it away from my nose, it positively stinks.’”

“It wasn’t my game,” quavers a discontented but unconvinced voice.

“And the captain, he makes a report to the major. But behold the major, mad as the devil, he butts in shaking the paper in his paw: ‘What’s this?’ he says. ‘Where’s the soup that has caused this rebellion, that I may taste it?’ They bring him some in a clean mess-tin and he sniffs it. ‘What now!’ he says, ‘it smells good. They damned well shan’t have it then, rich soup like this!’”

“Not your game! And he was leading, too! Bungler! It’s unlucky, you know.”

“Then at five o’clock as we were coming out of barracks, our two marvels butt in again and plank themselves in front of the swaddies coming out, trying to spot some little thing not quite so, and he said, ‘Ah, my bucks, you thought you’d score off me by complaining of this excellent soup that I have consumed myself along with my partner here; just wait and see if I don’t get even with you. Hey, you with the long hair, the tall artist, come here a minute!’ And all the time the beast was jawing, his bag-o’bones-as straight and thin as a post—went ‘oui, oui’ with her head.”

“That depends; if he hadn’t a trump, it’s another matter.”

“But all of a sudden we see her go white as a sheet, she puts her fist on her tummy and she shakes like all that, and then suddenly, in front of all the fellows that filled the square, she drops her umbrella and starts spewing!”

“Hey, listen!” says Paradis, sharply, “they’re shouting in the trench. Don’t you hear? Isn’t it ‘alarm!’ they’re shouting?”

“Alarm? Are you mad?”

The words were hardly said when a shadow comes in through the low doorway of our dug-out and cries—“Alarm, 22nd! Stand to arms!”

A moment of silence and then several exclamations. “I knew it,” murmurs Paradis between his teeth, and he goes on his knees towards the opening into the molehill that shelters us. Speech then ceases and we seem to be struck dumb. Stooping or kneeling we bestir ourselves; we buckle on our waist-belts; shadowy arms dart from one side to another; pockets are rummaged. And we issue forth pell-mell, dragging our knapsacks behind us by the straps, our blankets and pouches.

Outside we are deafened. The roar of gunfire has increased a hundredfold, to left, to right, and in front of us. Our batteries give voice without ceasing.

“Do you think they’re attacking?” ventures a man. “How should I know?” replies another voice with irritated brevity.

Our jaws are set and we swallow our thoughts, hurrying, bustling, colliding, and grumbling without words.

A command goes forth—“Shoulder your packs.”—“There’s a counter-command—” shouts an officer who runs down the trench with great strides, working his elbows, and the rest of his sentence disappears with him. A counter-command! A visible tremor has run through the files, a start which uplifts our heads and holds us all in extreme expectation.

But no; the counter-order only concerns the knapsacks. No pack; but the blanket rolled round the body, and the trenching-tool at the waist. We unbuckle our blankets, tear them open and roll them up. Still no word is spoken; each has a steadfast eye and the mouth forcefully shut. The corporals and sergeants go here and there, feverishly spurring the silent haste in which the men are bowed: “Now then, hurry up! Come, come, what the hell are you doing? Will you hurry, yes or no?”

A detachment of soldiers with a badge of crossed axes on their sleeves clear themselves a fairway and swiftly delve holes in the wall of the trench. We watch them sideways as we don our equipment.

“What are they doing, those chaps?”—“It’s to climb up by.”

We are ready. The men marshal themselves, still silently, their blankets crosswise, the helmet-strap on the chin, leaning on their rifles. I look at their pale, contracted, and reflective faces. They are not soldiers, they are men. They are not adventurers, or warriors, or made for human slaughter, neither butchers nor cattle. They are laborers and artisans whom one recognizes in their uniforms. They are civilians uprooted, and they are ready. They await the signal for death or murder; but you may see, looking at their faces between the vertical gleams of their bayonets, that they are simply men.

Each one knows that he is going to take his head, his chest, his belly, his whole body, and all naked, up to the rifles pointed forward, to the shells, to the bombs piled and ready, and above all to the methodical and almost infallible machine-guns—to all that is waiting for him yonder and is now so frightfully silent—before he reaches the other soldiers that he must kill. They are not careless of their lives, like brigands, nor blinded by passion like savages. In spite of the doctrines with which they have been cultivated they are not inflamed. They are above instinctive excesses. They are not drunk, either physically or morally. It is in full consciousness, as in full health and full strength, that they are massed there to hurl themselves once more into that sort of madman’s part imposed on all men by the madness of the human race. One sees the thought and the fear and the farewell that there is in their silence, their stillness, in the mask of tranquillity which unnaturally grips their faces. They are not the kind of hero one thinks of, but their sacrifice has greater worth than they who have not seen them will ever be able to understand.

They are waiting; a waiting that extends and seems eternal. Now and then one or another starts a little when a bullet, fired from the other side, skims the forward embankment that shields us and plunges into the flabby flesh of the rear wall.

The end of the day is spreading a sublime but melancholy light on that strong unbroken mass of beings of whom some only will live to see the night. It is raining—there is always rain in my memories of all the tragedies of the great war. The evening is making ready, along with a vague and chilling menace; it is about to set for men that snare that is as wide as the world.

*

New orders are peddled from mouth to mouth. Bombs strung on wire hoops are distributed—“Let each man take two bombs!”

The major goes by. He is restrained in his gestures, in undress, girded, undecorated. We hear him say, “There’s something good, mes enfants, the Boches are clearing out. You’ll get along all right, eh?”

News passes among us like a breeze. “The Moroccans and the 21st Company are in front of us. The attack is launched on our right.”

The corporals are summoned to the captain, and return with armsful of steel things. Bertrand is fingering me; he hooks something on to a button of my greatcoat. It is a kitchen knife. “I’m putting this on to your coat,” he says.

“Me too!” says Pepin.

“No,” says Bertrand, “it’s forbidden to take volunteers for these things.”

“Be damned to you!” growls Pepin.

We wait, in the great rainy and shot-hammered space that has no other boundary than the distant and tremendous cannonade. Bertrand has finished his distribution and returns. Several soldiers have sat down, and some of them are yawning.

The cyclist Billette slips through in front of us, carrying an officer’s waterproof on his arm and obviously averting his face. “Hullo, aren’t you going too?” Cocon cries to him.

“No, I’m not going,” says the other. “I’m in the 17th. The Fifth Battalion’s not attacking!”

“Ah, they’ve always got the luck, the Fifth. They’ve never got to fight like we have!” Billette is already in the distance, and a few grimaces follow his disappearance.

A man arrives running, and speaks to Bertrand, and then Bertrand turns to us—

“Up you go,” he says, “it’s our turn.”

All move at once. We put our feet on the steps made by the sappers, raise ourselves, elbow to elbow, beyond the shelter of the trench, and climb on to the parapet.

*

Bertrand is out on the sloping ground. He covers us with a quick glance, and when we are all there he says, “Allons, forward!”

Our voices have a curious resonance. The start has been made very quickly, unexpectedly almost, as in a dream. There is no whistling sound in the air. Among the vast uproar of the guns we discern very clearly this surprising silence of bullets around us—

We descend over the rough and slippery ground with involuntary gestures, helping ourselves sometimes with the rifle. Mechanically the eye fastens on some detail of the declivity, of the ruined ground, on the sparse and shattered stakes pricking up, at the wreckage in the holes. It is unbelievable that we are upright in full daylight on this slope where several survivors remember sliding along in the darkness with such care, and where the others have only hazarded furtive glances through the loopholes. No, there is no firing against us. The wide exodus of the battalion out of the ground seems to have passed unnoticed! This truce is full of an increasing menace, increasing. The pale light confuses us.

On all sides the slope is covered by men who, like us, are bent on the descent. On the right the outline is defined of a company that is reaching the ravine by Trench 97—an old German work in ruins. We cross our wire by openings. Still no one fires on us. Some awkward ones who have made false steps are getting up again. We form up on the farther side of the entanglements and then set ourselves to topple down the slope rather faster—there is an instinctive acceleration in the movement. Several bullets arrive at last among us. Bertrand shouts to us to reserve our bombs and wait till the last moment.