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

end of the week. We can have them when we like, with their rifles slung. If one can wait a few days longer, there will be no desire to forsake the life of the trenches. One is so comfortable there, with water and gas laid on, and shower-baths at every step. The only drawback is that it is rather too hot in winter. As for the Austrians, they gave in a long time since and are only pretending.’ For fifteen months now it’s been like that, and you can hear the editor saying to his scribes, ‘Now, boys, get into it! Find some way of brushing that up again for me in five secs, and make it spin out all over those four damned white sheets that we’ve got to mucky.’”

“Ah, yes!” says Fouillade.

“Look here, corporal; you’re making fun of it—isn’t it true what I said?”

“There’s a little truth in it, but you’re too slashing on the poor boys, and you’d be the first to make a song about it if you had to go without papers. Oui, when the paper-man’s going by, why do you all shout, ‘Here, here’?”

“And what good can you get out of them all?” cries Papa Blaire. “Read ‘em by the tubful if you like, but do the same as me—don’t believe ‘em!”

“Oui, oui, that’s enough about them. Turn the page over, donkey-nose.”

The conversation is breaking up; interest in it follows suit and is scattered. Four poilus join in a game of manille, that will last until night blacks out the cards. Volpatte is trying to catch a leaf of cigarette paper that has escaped his fingers and goes hopping and dodging in the wind along the wall of the trench like a fragile butterfly.

Cocon and Tirette are recalling their memories of barrack-life. The impressions left upon their minds by those years of military training are ineffaceable. Into that fund of abundant souvenirs, of abiding color and instant service, they have been wont to dip for their subjects of conversation for ten, fifteen, or twenty years. So that they still frequent it, even after a year and a half of actual war in all its forms.

I can hear some of the talk and guess the rest of it. For it is everlastingly the same sort of tale that they get out of their military past;—the narrator once shut up a bad-tempered N.C.O. with words of extreme appropriateness and daring. He wasn’t afraid, he spoke out loud and strong! Some scraps of it reach my ears—

“Alors, d’you think I flinched when Nenoeil said that to me? Not a bit, my boy. All the pals kept their jaws shut but me; I spoke up, ‘Mon adjudant,’ I says, ‘it’s possible, but—’” A sentence follows that I cannot secure—“Oh, tu sais, just like that, I said it. He didn’t get shirty; ‘Good, that’s good,’ he says as he hops it, and afterwards he was as good as all that, with me.”

“Just like me, with Dodore, ‘jutant of the 13th, when I was on leave—a mongrel. Now he’s at the Pantheon, as caretaker. He’d got it in for me, so—”

So each unpacks his own little load of historical anecdote. They are all alike, and not one of them but says, “As for me, I am not like the others.”

*

The post-orderly! He is a tall and broad man with fat calves; comfortable looking, and as neat and tidy as a policeman. He is in a bad temper. There are new orders, and now he has to go every day as far as Battalion Headquarters. He abuses the order as if it had been directed exclusively against himself; and he continues to complain even while he calls up the corporals for the post and maintains his customary chat en passant with this man and that. And in spite of his spleen he does not keep to himself all the information with which he comes provided. While removing the string from the letter-packets he dispenses his verbal news, and announces first, that according to rumor, there is a very explicit ban on the wearing of hoods.

“Hear that?” says Tirette to Tirloir. “Got to chuck your fine hood away!”

“Not likely! I’m not on. That’s nothing to do with me,” replies the hooded one, whose pride no less than his comfort is at stake.

“Order of the General Commanding the Army.”

“Then let the General give an order that it’s not to rain any more. I want to know nothing about it.”

The majority of Orders, even when less peculiar than this one, are always received in this way—and then carried out.

“There’s a reported order as well,” says the man of letters, “that beards have got to be trimmed and hair got to be clipped close.”

“Talk on, my lad,” says Barque, on whose head the threatened order directly falls; “you didn’t see me! You can draw the curtains!”

“I’m telling you. Do it or don’t do it—doesn’t matter a damn to me.”

Besides what is real and written, there is bigger news, but still more dubious and imaginative—the division is going to be relieved, and sent either to rest—real rest, for six weeks—or to Morocco, or perhaps to Egypt.

Divers exclamations. They listen, and let themselves be tempted by the fascination of the new, the wonderful.

But some one questions the post-orderly: “Who told you that?”

“The adjutant commanding the Territorial detachment that fatigues for the H.Q. of the A.C.”

“For the what?”

“For Headquarters of the Army Corps, and he’s not the only one that says it. There’s—you know him—I’ve forgotten his name—he’s like Galle, but he isn’t Galle—there’s some one in his family who is Some One. Anyway, he knows all about it.”

“Then what?” With hungry eyes they form a circle around the story-teller.

“Egypt, you say, we shall go to? Don’t know it. I know there were Pharaohs there at the time when I was a kid and went to school, but since—”

“To Egypt!” The idea finds unconscious anchorage in their minds.

“Ah, non,” says Blaire, “for I get sea-sick. Still, it doesn’t last, sea-sickness. Oui, but what would my good lady say?”

“What about it? She’ll get used to it. You see niggers, and streets full of big birds, like we see sparrows here.”

“But haven’t we to go to Alsace?”

“Yes,” says the post-orderly, “there are some who think so at the Pay-office.”

“That’d do me well enough.”

But common sense and acquired experience regain the upper hand and put the visions to flight. We have been told so often that we were going a long way off, so often have we believed it, so often been undeceived! So, as if at a moment arranged, we wake up.

“It’s all my eye—they’ve done it on us too often. Wait before believing—and don’t count a crumb’s worth on it.”

We reoccupy our corner. Here and there a man bears in his hand the light momentous burden of a letter.

“Ah,” says Tirloir, “I must be writing. Can’t go eight days without writing.”

“Me too,” says Eudore, “I must write to my p’tit’ femme.”

“Is she all right, Mariette?”

“Oui, oui, don’t fret about Mariette.”

A few have already settled themselves for correspondence. Barque is standing up. He stoops over a sheet of paper flattened on a note-book upon a jutting crag in the trench wall. Apparently in the grip of an inspiration, he writes on and on, with his eyes in bondage and the concentrated expression of a horseman at full gallop.

When once Lamuse—who lacks imagination—has sat down, placed his little writing-block on the padded summit of his knees, and moistened his copying-ink pencil, he passes the time in reading again the last letters received, in wondering what he can say that he has not already said, and in fostering a grim determination to say something else.

A sentimental gentleness seems to have overspread little Eudore, who is curled up in a sort of niche in the ground. He is lost in meditation, pencil in hand, eyes on paper. Dreaming, he looks and stares and sees. It is another sky that lends him light, another to which his vision reaches. He has gone home.

In this time of letter-writing, the men reveal the most and the best that they ever were. Several others surrender to the past, and its first expression is to talk once more of fleshly comforts.

Through their outer crust of coarseness and concealment, other hearts venture upon murmured memories, and the rekindling of bygone brightness: the summer morning, when the green freshness of the garden steals in upon the purity of the country bedroom; or when the wind in the wheat of the level lands sets it slowly stirring or deeply waving, and shakes the square of oats hard by into quick little feminine tremors; or the winter evening, with women and their gentleness around the shaded luster of the lamp.

But Papa Blaire resumes work upon the ring he has begun. He has threaded the still formless disc of aluminium over a bit of rounded wood, and rubs it with the file. As he applies himself to the job, two wrinkles of mighty meditation deepen upon his forehead. Anon he stops, straightens himself, and looks tenderly at the trifle, as though she also were looking at it.

“You know,” he said to me once, speaking of another ring, “it’s not a question of doing it well or not well. The point is that I’ve done it for my wife, d’you see? When I had nothing to do but scratch myself, I used to have a look at this photo”—he showed me a photograph of a big, chubby-faced woman—“and then it was quite easy to set about this damned ring. You might say that we’ve made it together, see? The proof of that is that it was company for me, and that I said Adieu to it when I sent it off to Mother Blaire.”

He is making another just now, and this one will have copper in it, too. He works eagerly. His heart would fain express itself to the best advantage in this the sort of penmanship upon which he is so tenaciously bent.

As they stoop reverently, in their naked earth-holes, over the slender rudimentary trinkets—so tiny that the great hide-bound hands hold them with difficulty or let them fall—these men seem still more wild, more primitive, and more human, than at all other times.

You are set thinking of the first inventor, the father of all craftsmen, who sought to invest enduring materials with the shapes of what he saw and the spirit of what he felt.

*

“People coming along,” announces Biquet the mobile, who acts as hall-porter to our section of the trench—“buckets of ‘em.” Immediately an adjutant appears, with straps round his belly and his chin, and brandishing his sword-scabbard.

“Out of the way, you! Out of the way, I tell you! You loafers there, out of it! Let me see you quit, hey!” We make way indolently. Those at the sides push back into the earth by slow degrees.

It is a company of Territorials, deputed to our sector for the fortification of the second line and the upkeep of its communication trenches. They come into view—miserable bundles of implements, and dragging their feet.

We watch them, one by one, as they come up, pass, and disappear. They are stunted and elderly, with dusty faces, or big and broken-winded, tightly enfolded in greatcoats stained and over-worn, that yawn at the toothless gaps where the buttons are missing.

Tirette and Barque,