Fear (17 page)

‘But look, the worst is over, old pal. We’ll soon be back in civilian life, and we’ll return to what we were doing before.’

‘No, it won’t be like before. That’s not possible. The war has diminished me. You knew me at university, you know my fellow students had me marked out as someone who would stand out in our generation, our teachers had faith in me, and men of distinction had already honoured me. I dreamed of a glittering career as a leader of men, at least an intellectual leader, but I also believed that my body was capable of serving my ideas. Now I’ve seen that my body is just an old rag, a straw in the wind; it’s a deserter and it’s taken me with it . . . A chap who shakes with fear cannot be a leader.’

‘But we have all shaken with fear!’

‘Not all. You remember Morlaix, that dolt who spent his life in bars with dubious women, who got ill at the very thought of opening a book, and whom we held in utter contempt? He’s already a sub-lieutenant. He was completely in control at the front, incredibly plucky. To give you some idea – at the time when the trenches still weren’t continuous, in a new sector, we were coming back with provisions through a foggy night. You couldn’t see more than three metres ahead. So of course we get lost and we end up floundering around in some kind of swamp, going around in circles like we were blindfolded, hampered by the supplies we were carrying and unarmed. Morlaix decides what to do: “Go straight ahead, we’ll see where we get!” So we march on and on, in silence . . . A shout makes us freeze: “Wer da?” We’ve walked straight into the German sentries. Now, listen to this, Morlaix has a pack full of hard-boiled eggs. Quick as a flash he chucks three of them ahead of him. Hearing them land, in the dark, the Boche thought they were grenades and fled. I could never keep my cool like that . . .’

‘You have other qualities. The fact that a brute may be briefly useful on a battlefield doesn’t prove anything against the life of the mind, quite the contrary. A man who creates is worth more than a man who kills.’

‘I can’t accept that a man can be incomplete, that he can show himself inferior in certain aspects of the game. In the war, I was a disaster. I cannot forget it.’

‘You did no more and no less than everyone else. Stop punishing yourself.’

‘I’m ashamed to think of it! I’ve writhed in humiliation at all the times I’ve sobbed in fear, at the tears I’ve shed, a weakling’s tears. Don’t you see, I’ve betrayed all the beliefs of my youth, Nietzsche, strength . . . ah, sweet god . . . Now I am good for emptying chamber pots and I will never be more than a clerk.’

It was a strange case of depression and I think his physical illness played a large part in it.

I saw him do something shocking. It was at the time when Diuré was suffering so badly with his thigh. One day, on the pretext of relieving his pain, Charlet had insisted he change his dressing. Diuré finally agreed. The procedure completed, I saw Charlet take the bowl behind the wash-hand basins, take out a soiled piece of gauze and carefully put it inside a tin box that he slipped into his pocket. Intrigued, I called him over a moment later and asked:

‘What’s this then, you doing bacteriology now?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What did you put in your box just then?’

He looked anxious.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

Then, after a moment’s thought:

‘I can tell you and I know you won’t talk about it. You remember Richerand, who was in the School of Chemistry?’

‘A little chap, wasn’t he, rather unprepossessing?’

‘The same. I met up with him at the front. We were good friends and promised to help each other whatever happened. The promise helped sustain us a little. He didn’t let me down. He stuck by me when I was wounded. It was he who bound up my wound and transported me to the first-aid post, through an artillery barrage, with the help of another soldier whom he had persuaded to come with him. There they were able to stop the bleeding, and so Richerand probably saved my life. I am all the more grateful to him for his devotion because I know he’s very sensitive: a heap of nerves who has suffered a great deal in this war . . . He has just written to me (he’s at Vieil Armand[
24
]): “All we do is attack. Save me!” Which I know is his way of saying, I’ve reached my limit, I’ve given up hope.’

‘And so?’

‘So . . . How do you think I can help him from here? I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday and it’s urgent . . .’

He leaned over and whispered:

‘I’m going to send it to him . . .’

‘What “it”?’

‘Phlegmonic pus. If he injects himself with it, he has a chance of being evacuated.’

We remained silent for a long time. I said:

‘Do you realise what you are doing?’

He let his arms fall and murmured:

‘I have no choice!’

I risked the supreme argument:

‘One man leaves the front, another takes his place. By saving Richerand you are condemning someone else.’

He hadn’t considered this. He looked at me reflectively.

‘Too bad! Richerand is my friend. Do you want me to sit back and let him die? In a moment of depression he may do something foolish. I have no choice.’

He left me abruptly, one hand in his pocket, clutching the box.

The idea of denouncing him never crossed my mind, any more than it would with our comrades. Between us there is strict solidarity: we all have to do our jobs in the trenches but we consider that everyone is free to try and escape the front, and how this is done is none of our business; we congratulate those who succeed. Could I even judge Charlet? I thought of all those soldiers I had seen with the eyes of condemned men, suddenly overcome by a fatal presentiment. A man in the grip of such an obsession can no longer look after himself, fight to stay alive; he goes to his death like a sleepwalker . . . Could I judge Charlet? Where we had come from, you don’t judge. You submit. To submit is to risk your life; not to submit is also to risk it. Charlet’s gesture? Simply this: here is where our utter misery has taken us, this is what men are forced to resort to when their strength fails. We cannot blame: we know too well that weakness lies in wait for all of us.

It is hard to guess the age of Mademoiselle Nancey. Probably between thirty-five and forty. Sour face, thin lips, cold eyes and sharp voice; she lacks everything a man might seek in a woman, offers no physical feature that might stick in your memory. She is irritable, quick-witted, born to give orders, at no time could such a woman have possessed that hesitant grace, those little hints of consent that in most women can attract and keep a man. You can tell that she has never felt her heart heavy with longing and the sudden, irrational urge to offer it timidly. She is one of those women in whom love’s safety valve doesn’t work and so her energy must turn to other activity for release: cerebral tasks, the tasks of men. The hospital provides an excellent outlet for this energy. The indefatigable Mademoiselle Nancey does great service there, giving strong leadership to her little troop of nurses, never panicking at the sight of wounds, never moved by cries of pain.

In the mornings she leads the doctor on his rounds – a decent old civilian doctor, who signs the necessary papers, checks our condition, and asks his colleagues to assist in the most serious cases. He looks distractedly at the patients and asks:

‘How’s this one doing, mademoiselle?’

‘He’s coming along, doctor. It takes time.’

Without asking to verify this, he moves on to the next one:

‘Number 12, doctor, that’s the arm. We’re carrying on with the irrigation. But number 23 is worrying us and is in pain. You should see him.’

And sometimes she says:

‘Number 16 has healed up. We can discharge him.’

She prepares the paperwork, the doctor checks it, and the man has no choice but to go. The bonus period, those precious extra weeks that a patient who has recovered may still enjoy here, in complete safety, depends entirely on her. And bad luck for anyone who has crossed her! For having done just that, Boutroux (a thigh) left overnight, even though the scab on his extensive wound was only recent, still soft and swollen with pus. The idiot had come back drunk after an evening’s outing, and caused a scandal. His vulgarity had been noted: he was a marked man. And so the very next morning, despite his incomplete recovery, out he went. His misbehaviour had cut his period of freedom by at least three weeks: time enough to get killed twenty times over.

The threat of this terrible punishment, premature departure, keeps the lid on everyone who might be tempted to give in to their instincts. We know from the press that the offensives in Artois and Champagne have failed utterly, that the bloody battles at Hartmannswillerkopf, which fill the news reports, will not be decisive. The war cannot enter a new phase before the spring. So it is important for us to gain time. Mademoiselle Nancey can choose to give or deny us this time, time which could save our lives. It adds to her prestige.

The basic rule is thus ‘keep a low profile’. Among those closest to being fit for service, quite a few try to get in her good books by using whatever simple means they have. They offer themselves as drudges, sparing the nurses the most onerous tasks. Others go to Mass, while bragging that this assiduous churchgoing has nothing to do with their religious sentiments. (Others, it should be said, go to Mass out of conviction and no one mocks them for it.) I have the impression they are making a mistake. I don’t believe for one minute that Mademoiselle Nancey will fall for their false piety and do them any favours.

As I’ve said, Mademoiselle Nancey and I are on very good terms. Better than that, we are flirting, a respectful kind of flirtation. She favours me with special attention, seeks my advice on various plans, asks my opinion on the news.

There is another little thing. Right in front of my bed there is a chest on legs, a sort of storage box. Whenever Mademoiselle Nancey comes by for a chat, she jumps up and sit herself down on this chest, obviously pleased to show how nimble she is. This sudden movement pushes her skirt up high, revealing a little glimpse of thigh above her dark stockings. (Her legs are muscular, but rather pretty: one of her best features, as she surely knows.) On one occasion my gaze alighted on this thigh and she caught my eye. I turned away in embarrassment. But I noticed after that she always sat down with the same revealing movement, and then stared at me without a blush. It seemed to me that she didn’t need to uncover so much of her flesh . . . In short, I had been allowed to share the secret of this sturdy leg and its white skin. Henceforth it would be imprudent not to look at it – discreetly, but with feeling. To show that I was aware of it, that I appreciated it.

I am sure that, with the very best intentions, that is what it was. I recall the words of someone with experience: ‘Women all have the same female pretentions and even the most virtuous among them like to convince themselves that they can tempt a man.’ Yes, Mademoiselle Nancey sought to put a price on her virtue. Why refuse her this little pleasure which didn’t threaten mine?

That leg is my guarantee of extra time in hospital. I can lie back and watch others sweep the floors.

It was bound to happen. I’m surprised that the changes in his behaviour which were definitely abnormal didn’t alert me sooner. A young man, however much he’s exhausted and demoralised, should quickly recover, but Charlet only got more depressed and gloomy.

His clenched fingers, facial tics and jerky movements, all indicated the state of his nerves when he entered the ward earlier on. Nonetheless, he began his duties as usual, though without greeting me.

At about one o’clock he suddenly loomed up in front of me. His face was terrifying, the colour of clay, plastered with brown, his eyes were red. He stuck his arm under my nose:

‘Go on, smell it! Smell it!’

‘Come on, what is this?’

He thrust his arm at me violently and I recoiled.

‘Haha! You can smell it, can’t you? You can smell the stink?’

He was staring at me with wild, burning eyes and I couldn’t look away. Bringing his face right up to mine, he uttered these unbelievable words:

‘
I am a piece of shit.
’

‘Charlet, come on now, you’re crazy!’

‘Smell it!’

Even more than his fury, it was the spittle dribbling from his mouth that frightened me. Luckily, someone called out for him:

‘Psst, Caca, over here!’

He leapt up and headed for Peignard, gesticulating wildly.

‘My name is Shit, do you hear, and I will not tolerate your insolence!’

I realised then that he had gone completely off his head, and I feared for the safety of all these vulnerable, wounded men: Peignard with his foot, Diuré with his tubes, the unfortunate Breton. I called out to some of the more able-bodied patients to surround him while we got help. Now completely out of control, he tried to escape, shouting:

‘I am your master, you degenerates! All men depend on me! I am the Truth, the ruler of the world!’

Finally three burly young men arrived from downstairs and took him away.

Charlet!

Here is the last vision I have of him in civilian life. One night in the early summer of 1914, under the chestnut trees in the square where we’d all meet every evening. White swans glided silently over the dark, silken surface of the pools by the fountains, the water dappled with light from a brightly illuminated café terrace. A distant orchestra lulled us with its gentle rhythms. And there was Charlet, bare-headed, slim and elegant, sure of himself, even a little spoiled by his precocious success, standing and reciting his own poems. I can still hear his intonation and remember one passage:

Tonight the air is heavy with the scent of the woodland grove

Where she sleeps so calmly, beneath a ray of moonlight
,

Her body so white wrapped in the rich brown sash

Of her hair, where I whisper my secrets

The imperious Empress of my heart.