Fear (18 page)

And now, at twenty-two, he is insane. And his madness has taken the lowest form imaginable.

They change our dressings every morning. My turn usually comes around nine o’clock. A nurse approaches with her therapeutic kit and a brave smile (which costs her nothing). She takes hold of me, undoes the safety pins, unwinds the bandages, and takes off the sticky gauze, giving it little tugs that pull at the lips of my wounds. They in turn pass on the message to the rest of my body, which objects to such a sharp and sudden separation and makes me squeal with pain, something I find deeply embarrassing. The wounds are washed with permanganate and then treated with either tincture of iodine or a silver nitrate pencil. There’s nothing to choose between them: both give me the same pleasant sensation of a red-hot iron being thrust into my flesh, and I am always surprised not to smell burning or see smoke rising. The large number of wounds prolongs my agony. While other wounds are still being cleaned, various points on my body, already soaked in iodine, feel like they’ve been placed on a grill, and I writhe about like a heretic struggling not to abjure his faith. My faith, in this case, being my wish to maintain my decorum despite the pain. The worst is kept for last: the wound in my thorax just below my shoulder blade. When I feel the iodine approaching, I tense up, holding my breath, as if a shell was falling. But it is only a pink hand which pauses and then with cruel suddenness pushes the wad of cotton into the gash in my back so that it impregnates me with its brown saliva, right to my lungs, or so it feels. I receive my final thrust to the heart.

I then spend a good hour cooking on a low flame.

Some days when I know I’m about to flinch, I resist. I camouflage my squeals with curses. And I have a very good mind to give this nurse a slap. How can a woman be so calm while making me suffer!

It’s the bad moment of the day; it spoils my rest and blights my morning awakenings, which it follows closely. But once the pain has stopped, it feels like ages till the next treatment. The hours pass until I reach a peak of peace and calm, which then diminishes until the next morning.

Going to hospital
, little more than a year ago, was a dreaded phrase. More than suffering, it suggested the ignominious idea of failure. The middle classes did not go to public hospitals; those places were reserved for workers, child-mothers, and those unfortunates who had wasted their inheritance, ‘squandered the lot’, and thus deserved the worst punishments, those, in short, who had gone to rack and ruin. Families would warn their wastrel offspring, their prodigal sons, that ‘You’ll end up in hospital!’, that is, poor, alone and ashamed. Seeing the forbidding exteriors of these institutions, their gloomy corridors, the miserable huddles of mourners that sometimes emerged, used to make me think vaguely of leper colonies.

But now a hospital is the promised land, the greatest hope for millions of men. And for all the pain and suffering and harrowing sights it can contain, it is still the greatest happiness that a soldier can imagine. Once when someone was carried from an ambulance through the doors to this place his heart would sink, he’d feel afraid. Today, the man brought in on a stretcher knows that the admission note he gets from reception is a passport to life.

And if some senior doctor, blessed with divine powers, walked through the ward and told each patient he would heal his shattered limbs, saying ‘Leave thy bed and walk!’, the chances are that Peignard, Mouchetier and all the others who have been torn apart, after weighing up all the risks that a new, healthy body would entail, and remembering the icy sweat of terror that tortures strong, healthy men, would answer: ‘No miracles, please!’

In my case, having been lucky enough to hit the battlefield jackpot with a ‘lucky wound’, my stay in hospital is rather like spending the winter in the Midi. After I’ve paid my debt of pain every morning (the cost of my board and lodging), I really do feel as if I’m on holiday, and the presence of young, graceful nurses, along with the attentions of Mademoiselle Nancey, complete the illusion. What do I need to do, apart from eat, smoke and read? When I tire of reading, I let myself slip into that state of extreme lassitude that comes from excessive rest, I rest from the rest . . . I plump up my weakness like cushions and lie back in comfort. I bask in the pleasure of not having to do anything, of my right – which I owe to a grenade – to be feeble. And I don’t mind the shivers of the mild fever that comes with a long stay in bed.

And so, in my weak state, my eyes closed, I dream. But I don’t dream of the future, which is very uncertain. Safe in the dark behind my lowered eyelids, I can listen to the great rumble of war, echoing in the depths of my ears, like the roar of the waves you can hear in a seashell. Despite myself, I think of the surprising chain of events that has brought me here, and it still amazes me.

7. CONVALESCENCE

MY WOUNDS HAVE HEALED
and the moment has come when I must take my leave of the nurses in ward 11 at Saint-Gilbert where I have spent the best days of my life as a soldier. Mademoiselle Nancey entreated me to keep in touch: ‘Don’t forget to write to us. We like to know what happens to our patients after they leave us. And should misfortune strike you a second time, you know where we are.’ With uncharacteristic gravity, Nègre said simply: ‘Do your best to save your skin!’

We hear the familiar sound of the letterbox on the path opening and closing, and then a key turns in the door. Our father has come home for supper. Wiping his feet on the mat, as always, he asks my sister:

‘Is your brother back?’

I come out into the corridor.

‘There you are!’ he says. ‘We got your letter and we’ve been waiting for you every day.’

We embrace, somewhat ritually: a trial kiss, He must be wondering: has the war changed him? Our relationship has never been warm. My father expected better of me, and I expected better of him. I failed to pay sufficient heed to his advice, but then it seemed to me that the results he had achieved, with his much-vaunted experience, gave me the right to be wary. No doubt he loves me in his own way but unfortunately his manner of showing this when I was a child was never very convincing, and that impression stayed with me ever after. You could say we don’t understand each other. A father has to put a lot into it if he and his son are going to understand each other, to find a way across the quarter century that separates them. This did not happen. In 1914 we were more or less at loggerheads. But when war came we extended the spirit of national unity to our family. Decency demanded it, given the dangers I was going to face. And now I am back, after thirteen months’ absence and a battle wound, with the best intentions but still somewhat sceptical about the chances of finding a perfect accord.

We take our seats at the table, all in our former places, and I see that nothing here has changed. My father questions me:

‘Fully recovered then?’

‘I’m OK.’

‘Yes, you look fine. That life has done you good.’

He’s giving me a sly look and I realise, from the way he’s squeezing the piece of bread in his hand, that something is making him unhappy. I quickly learn what.

‘How did you manage not to get a single stripe?’

‘I’m not interested,’ I said, to cut it short.

‘Another one of your strange ideas!’

Whenever my father alludes to what he calls my ideas, it’s a bad sign. But he sticks to his guns and goes on:

‘Charpentier’s sons are pretty much the same age as you and one’s a sergeant and the other an adjutant. Their father is proud of them.’

‘It’s nothing to be proud of!’

‘Oh, of course, you’re above that, aren’t you! . . . Never been one to put yourself out to make anybody happy!’

My sister, fearing an argument where neither one of us gives way, butts in and changes the subject. They talk among themselves, leaving me out, about what’s happening at home, their friends, invitations, visits, whatever . . . They have the same petty concerns as they had in 1914 and when I listen I feel I only left them yesterday. They do not appear to have the slightest idea of what’s happening a few hundred kilometres away. And my father accuses me of egotism! Not that it matters. I am here for just one week – on convalescent leave, subject to immediate recall. But these people for whom I am fighting (for when all’s said and done I’m not fighting for myself!) are like strangers to me.

They are not even interested in the war. My father won’t condescend to ask me about it: that would mean admitting that a son can know more about something than his father. And that would be unimaginable for him; it is a very long time since anyone challenged his authority.

My father has arranged to meet me in the afternoon. I find him at the appointed time and I walk beside him along the crowded street where the window displays shimmering in electric light bring back scenes of pre-war life that I had forgotten. He has aged a bit since I last saw him and is now noticeably shorter than me. We are reaching that point where the father, diminished by age, shrinks, where the son gets taller and asserts himself. For a long time he seemed in my eyes to belong to the world of grown-ups, possessors of privilege, sources of all wisdom, and for a long time, too, I felt subservient to him. Today, I have a life of my own, beyond his grasp and out of his control. Faced with my growing independence, and my height, he shows a little more respect, while I more or less tolerate or ignore his unjust temper, now that I am free from him. There is a balance of forces, we treat each other cordially. But we are further apart than ever.

My father takes me to the brasserie where he meets his friends every evening. It’s in the centre of town, and in the main room the owner keeps a corner reserved for them to spend part of their afternoons. They’re in their sixties, businessmen and industrialists. Some have that troubled look that comes with ill-fortune and declining years, others on the contrary have the satisfied air of successful entrepreneurs. They’ve all known each other for nearly half their lives. This is where they enjoy their leisure, well away from worries and domestic acrimony, and live off an old fund of memories and jokes that they have dug up from their youth. They are used to each other and respect each other’s foibles, an essential condition for growing old comfortably in company.

They all look up when we arrive.

‘Let me introduce my boy who has just come out of hospital after being wounded,’ he says, shaking hands.

These important men interrupt their game of cards to greet me warmly:

‘Excellent! Bravo, young man!’

‘Congratulations on your bravery!’

‘I say, Dartemont, what a fine chap!’

Then they go quiet, not knowing what further encouragement to offer me. The war is out of fashion, people are getting used to it. Military men on leave are everywhere, giving the impression that nothing bad ever happens to them. And I am just an ordinary soldier, and my father’s business is hardly flourishing. These gentlemen have been generous to take such an interest in me.

They go back to their game: ‘Whose turn is it to cut?’ My father joins in. I stay alone at the end of a table, opposite an elderly gentleman methodically chewing gruyère and washing it down with beer. He looks at me for some time and I guess from his rather pained expression that he is trying to form a sentence. At last, with an engaging smile, he asks:

‘You have some fun out there then, eh?

I stare in shock at this bloodless old fool. But I answer quickly and pleasantly:

‘Oh, gosh, yes, I should say so, sir . . .’

He beams happily. I have the feeling he is about to exclaim: ‘Oh-ho, those good old
poilus
!’

Then I add:

‘ . . . We really enjoy ourselves:
every evening we bury our pals!
’

His smile goes into reverse and the compliment freezes on his lips. He grabs at his glass and sticks his nose in it. In shock he swallows his beer too fast and it heads straight for his lungs. This is followed by a gurgling noise and then a little jet of spume that he spouts into the air and which descends on to his stomach, in a cascade of frothy bubbles.

‘Something go down the wrong way?’ I inquire, mercilessly.

His body is convulsed with catarrhal rumblings and spluttering. Above his handkerchief I can only see his yellow eyes, streaming with tears. Behind my hypocritically concerned expression, my mind is beginning a savage, vengeful scalp dance.

We leave soon after. I know what the gruyère man will say the minute we go out the door:

‘I say, is Dartemont’s lad some kind of troublemaker? No manners at all, that boy, you know!’

‘I can’t imagine he gives Dartemont much to be happy about!’

‘Not a single stripe or medal after a whole year of war – makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’

They will shake their heads as if to say ‘everyone has his cross to bear’ and order another cold beer to buck themselves up. And then one of them will make a suggestion: ‘Are you all free this evening? I know a little place where we could have a bite of dinner and . . .’ Between men, they are proposing a little debauch for themselves. And if a pretty girl should pass by then, ho-hoh!, they’ll invite her to join them. They’re so terribly lonely right now, those little lasses. Obviously, they understand a bit about the aftermath of this carousing: the gout, the pains in the liver . . . But what the hell! Mustn’t mollycoddle yourself – everyone is suffering these days!

All’s fair in love and war, eh?

I have a week left to treat myself to some pleasure, to gorge myself on it, store it up to last me for many months. It may be my final pleasure, and perhaps these seven days will provide the last memory of my life. No time to waste, let us start the pleasure hunt, track it down, grab it.

But then, what is pleasure? Make a list of possible pleasures. Meals? No, they can only be an accompaniment to pleasure, a seasoning. The theatre? No again. Plays are empty and false given the reality that’s waiting for me. The joys of family life? A mother could perhaps understand me, make me feel I belonged, but I lost mine when I was very young. Friends? I would certainly like to see my friends again, exchange impressions as we go down our old paths. But my friends (I have three true ones) are scattered at the front; one was wounded in Champagne soon after me. The pleasures of vanity? It seems they exist. I don’t know where you find such things. In various salons no doubt, but I have no access to such places, and no desire to go there.